#will probably make a series with other servants

[marifilue]

Part 10: What Remained Of Us

Pairing: Logan Howlett x F!Mutant!Reader - Slow burn, no use of y/n.

Warnings: Violence, Angst, Mature content

Word count: 24.8k

A/N: This turned out to be longer than I intended because I really wanted to give these two a proper goodbye. Apologies for taking more time than usual, and thank you for reading this final part. I've written 92k words which is roughly 300 pages for this fic series, so enjoy! :D

What Makes Us Human Completed

<- Part 9

Einstein was right about his theory of relativity, not that you were the biggest fan of physics class back then, but sure, you caught a thing or two. The past three weeks had felt like the longest you’d ever experienced. Since that collar was... Wow, you can't believe you could say it in a past tense now. Since that collar was restraining your ability, three weeks had felt like a three goddamn shitty years.

You didn’t even feel that way when you were nothing more than a servant to the military. Back then, the concept of time blurred as you grew strangely fond of your well, forced mutation. As much as you despised the idea, you’d made peace with yourself, the ability is cool as fuck. You’ve had it for twenty eight years now yes, you counted. Twenty eight years is longer than the age you received those injections: twenty seven.

Back to that theory of relativity, one you could actually apply right now, in your daily life. You swore the clock was lying when you glanced at the table to check the time, how many hours had you spent with Logan on this bed? The two of you had agreed to clean up together after this mess—the one both of you, but particularly him, had made. Yet, you kept saying, “Five more minutes,” as you lay there, cuddled in his arms, skin to skin.

Both of your naked bodies were tucked under the warmth of the blanket. His left arm served as your human pillow, while his right hand roamed over your body, tracing circles with his fingers. Your right hand never left the toned muscles of his abs. You’d had your intrusive thoughts about licking them earlier—which he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, judging by his expression, he enjoyed it. That look on his face would never leave your mind, and it made you smiled to imagined it again, as your fingers trailed down his happy trail. Only after that blissful moment, which felt like heaven on earth, did you finally glance at the clock. It was already dark outside, but seriously—eight p.m.?

"Shit, it’s eight." Your head whipped from the clock back to Logan.

He let out a weak chuckle. "Still wanna shower?"

You shrugged, letting your palm glide over the popped veins on his bicep. Good god, he really was a sight. For a guy who’d been around since forever, he definitely hadn’t wasted a second of it achieving this every man's dream physique.

Before you could answer, not wanting to pass the chance to shower with his Greek marble statue-like figure, a muffled knock echoes from the hall. The sound is faint, making it clear it didn’t come from your room’s door, you assume it’s Logan’s room, across from yours.

You glance toward your door, pulling the blanket higher over the two of you. “Looks like you’ve got company.”

Logan continues to squeeze your waist gently, as if he could reassure you. “Probably Marie. Kid can’t breathe five minutes without seein' me.”

You let out a low chuckle, knowing that despite the joke, the two of them have grown attached to each other. You can’t help but think Marie might have a little crush on him, but you don’t really see that as a problem. She’s a teenage girl, and Logan found her during a hard time, like a savior kinda way. It’s a pretty reasonable feeling for her to have.

Still, you can see Logan loves her like she’s one of his own, like a daughter. Damn, he’d make a great father, you think to yourself.

But then, a voice pulled you out of your thoughts about Logan—a voice you’d become all too familiar with.

"Logan? I’m coming in." Ororo voice faint.

The steps faltered as the door handle jiggled, only to stop short. You glanced up at Logan, sharing a silent, mutual hope. This was kind of a fucked-up situation. Shit.

Thank god you’d insisted Logan lock the door.

"That’s new," Logan muttered, more to himself than to you.

You clutched him tighter, shrinking into his warmth as if trying to make yourself as small as possible. Other thoughts began creeping into your mind now, like how the team would react to this. You and Logan? Nobody could’ve seen this coming.

The two of you didn’t say a word—not that it felt awkward. In fact, it was comfortable, really. Such a safe feeling, one you hadn’t realized you’d been longing for all this time.

Then the silence broke with the one thing you dreaded most at that moment: a knock. And it wasn’t just any knock—it was on your door now.

Shit, shit, shit.

You straightened up immediately, your body tensing as if facing an active threat. Ororo called your name, her voice loud and clear.

Instinctively, you whispered to Logan, "Go! To the bathroom, now." He half-frowned in response, clearly taken aback by the sudden secret-affair role he didn’t remember signing up for.

"Why?" he asked, with the audacity to question you in this situation. You shot him a look.

"It’s Ororo!" you whispered harshly, your tone low but not lacking bite. "The door opens straight this way—she’s gonna see you. C’mon, chop chop, mutton chops." You chuckled softly at your own words. God, you hadn’t called him that in what felt like ages.

Another knock came, firmer this time, followed by Ororo’s voice, clearer and more insistent. "I can hear you in there. Open the door."

You didn’t miss the way he rolled his eyes, accompanied by that signature grunt of his. Was he really going to risk everything by staying in your bed for Ororo to see? Dear god, you had a reputation to uphold here.

When he didn’t move fast enough, you gave his body a shove, forcing him to get up. Standing, you pointed firmly toward the bathroom. He picks up his clothes and walked as if it was the heaviest task in the world, each step deliberate and slow.

Meanwhile, you scrambled to pick up your panties from the end of the bed and your shirt from the floor, throwing them on to look at least somewhat appropriate. Pacing toward the door, you took a deep breath, preparing yourself for whatever came next.

Now standing in front of your door, you glanced back at Logan—he hadn’t even reached the bathroom yet. "Close the door, c’mon, faster!" you whispered urgently, not even sure if he’d hear you. Finally, he walked into the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

Your focus shifted back to the door. With a sigh, you unlocked it and opened it halfway.

Ororo’s expression immediately shifted from irritated to slightly shocked. She lets out a small gasps, her jaw dropping before she quickly covered it with her palm.

You raised your eyebrows, smiling awkwardly. "Ro?" you asked, clearly puzzled by her sudden reaction.

She scoffed, then broke into the widest smile you’d ever seen. "The collar!"

The realization hit you as your hand instinctively went to your neck, your fingers brushing against bare skin. It was a feeling you hadn’t taken the time to savor, too busy savoring Logan earlier.

"Yeah, Hank figured it out," you said softly, a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips.

Ororo stepped forward, her joy radiating as she wrapped her arms around your neck. Dear god, you hoped she wouldn’t mind the sweat on you, or the lingering smell. You returned the hug, wrapping your arms around her back.

As she briefly opened her eyes, her gaze landed on the mess of your bed. Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, but she said nothing. It definitely wasn’t her business—but judging by the faint shift in her expression, she could’ve guessed.

She pulled back, flashing another wide smile, her shining teeth on full display. "I thought Hank was messing with me," she said, her hands lingering on your shoulders before letting go completely.

"He did a really great job. I couldn’t be more thankful," you replied, smiling.

Ororo’s gaze softened briefly before she glanced around the room. "Where’s Logan, by the way?"

Panic hit you like a freight train, and without thinking, you blurted, "I haven’t seen him all day."

The lie spilled out so suddenly that it caught even you off guard. Ororo furrowed her brows, her head tilting slightly. "That’s strange. Hank told me he gave the chip to Logan to unlock your collar," she explained, her eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.

You clicked your tongue, realizing you’d been caught red-handed. "Right, of course," you stammered, quickly pointing a finger at Ororo. "Sorry, I just woke up. He did bring the chip to unlock the collar, but then he left."

You were doubling down now, lying even more. Ororo’s expression tightened—she wasn’t buying it.

"Alright then," she said, clearly unconvinced but choosing not to press further. "Anyway, the Professor left for another conference. Scott thought it’d be great for us to hang out—just at the bar down the street. I’m heading there with Jean and Hank. You wanna come? We can ask Logan to look after the kids. It’s Friday night, after all."

Your response came a little too cheerful, the faux excitement evident even to yourself. "That would be great!" you chirped.

"I know, right? We'll just have to find Logan first" she said, her tone bright.

You chuckled nervously. "But I can’t," you said, shaking your head.

Ororo blinked, taken aback. "Why? Come on, you deserve it."

You nodded with a soft smile. "Yeah, don't worry about me you guys have fun. I’ll stay and look after the kids. Besides, Logan’s nowhere to be found, and I’m just feelin a bit tired, s’all." You placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, hoping to ease her concern.

Though your excuse was flimsy, Ororo relented with a sigh. "Fine, but I’ll bring you something, don’t worry."

You smiled again, leaning slightly toward the door, hoping she’d leave soon. "I’m counting on it," you said with a light chuckle.

As Ororo turned back and disappeared down the hallway toward the stairs, you finally closed the door and leaned against it.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you glanced at the bathroom door. You’d just hidden Logan—from Ororo—in your room.

You walked toward the bathroom door, reaching for the handle. When you pressed it, it didn’t click open—Logan had locked it from the inside.

"Logan?" you called, but there was no answer.

"They’re going out to the bar. You can join them if you want to," you said, raising your voice slightly toward the door. What the hell was he doing in there? You knocked again, this time with a little more force, guessing he hadn’t heard you the first time—but that didn’t seem possible.

"Logan? Open the door," you said, your tone firmer now.

Inside the small bathroom, Logan was already pulling on the jeans he’d picked up from the floor earlier. His shirt rested by the sink, forgotten for the moment as he stared at his own reflection—specifically, his eyes. What the hell was going on with him?

It wasn’t exactly the first time a woman had hidden him. Hell, once, he’d even been stashed in a wardrobe. He had a reputation for getting involved with women already in relationships. He’d even eyed Jean a few times when he first settled into the mansion.

But it had always been just a stupid fling to him—something meaningless. He didn’t care. He never did. At least, not until now. What had changed?

You?

Seriously?

He frowned, running a hand through his hair, trying to shake the thought loose. He felt embarrassed.

You weren’t even in a relationship—there was supposedly no reason for you to hide him. At least, not in his logic. Why’d you have to hide him like that? Were you embarrassed?

It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. You were both adults, and so was Ororo. It wasn’t something to be ashamed of... right? Still, the knot in his chest refused to loosen.

Then a thought hit him, one so obvious it almost made him feel stupid for not realizing it sooner. He didn’t actually know if you were in a relationship or not.

The realization stopped him cold. He’d never asked. You’d never mentioned anything. For all he knew, there could be someone else in your life.

The idea gnawed at him, an unexpected twist of jealousy and unease stirring in his gut. Should he ask? Right now, while you were still outside the door knocking and calling his name?

Hell yes, he should. At least then, he’d know.

But then again, did he really want to hear the answer? What if it was something he didn’t want to deal with? What if it changed everything?

He let out a frustrated grunt, running a hand through his hair. His reflection in the mirror stared back, eyes conflicted and filled with questions he didn’t have answers to.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath. His attention shifted when something on the floor caught his eye.

A delicate gold necklace with a red heart-shaped pendant lay near his feet, gleaming faintly in the light. His brow furrowed as he crouched to pick it up, holding it carefully between his fingers. For a moment, he studied it, his thumb brushing over the smooth surface of the pendant.

The knock on the door snapped him out of his thoughts. Without a second glance, Logan slid the necklace into the pocket of his jeans and turned toward the door.

"Logan?" you called again, your voice edged with concern. "What are you doing?"

He ran a hand over his face, sighing deeply before finally making a move toward the door.

The door suddenly creaked open, and there he was, standing in the doorway, shirtless displaying full muscles, jeans hanging low on his hips. Logan’s expression was unreadable, though the faint furrow of his brow hinted at something simmering beneath the surface.

His eyes locked on yours with an intensity that made you freeze mid-knock, your hand still hovering in the air. You opened your mouth to ask what was going on, but he beat you to it.

“You seein' someone?” he asked, his tone gruff, low, and uncharacteristically direct.

The question knocked the air right out of you. For a moment, you just stared at him, trying to process what he’d just said—and why the hell he was asking.

“What?” you managed, blinking.

“You heard me.” His eyes searched yours, his jaw set tight. “You got someone in your life or not?”

It wasn’t the question itself that unsettled you, honestly? A reasonable one to ask someone you just had sex with, well. But it was the way he asked it. His voice carried something raw, like he wasn’t just casually curious. Like the answer mattered to him in a way that didn’t quite make sense.

Your lips parted to respond, but no words came out. Instead, you studied his face, the lines around his mouth, the tension in his shoulders. Something had clearly gotten to him, but the reasons behind it were a mystery you couldn’t crack. Was this about Ororo catching him here? Or… was it about something else entirely?

“I don’t… I don’t have anyone,” you finally said, your voice slower, more deliberate. “Why suddenly ask?”

He didn’t flinch, but the shift in his posture was subtle. He leaned against the doorframe, one arm braced against it, his knuckles white. His eyes narrowed slightly, though not in anger.

“I don’t get it,” he said, his tone clipped. “You hid me in here. Why?”

Your heart skipped a beat. The way he phrased it, the accusation buried in his words, made your stomach twist. “I didn’t want Ororo to see you because I didn’t feel like explaining. S'all.”

“Explaining what?” he shot back, his voice sharper now.

“That you were in my room!” you snapped, frustration spilling over. “Do you have any idea how that would’ve looked?”

“And why do you care if it would look like anything?” he asked, stepping closer. “Why do you care so damn much what she thinks?”

You took a step back, suddenly feeling cornered even though he hadn’t raised his voice. His presence was overwhelming, and his words, his questions—they all felt like a trap you hadn’t prepared for.

“I don’t know,” you said, throwing up your hands. “I just didn’t want her to think… I don’t know! That we’re… involved or something. God, this is ridiculous. What is wrong with you?”

His jaw tightened, his eyes dark and stormy as they bore into yours. For a moment, you thought he might actually say something real, something honest. But instead, he straightened up, stepping back toward the bathroom.

“Doesn’t matter,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, but still laced with tension. “Forget I asked.”

“Forget you—Logan, what the hell?” you demanded, but he was already turning away.

“Drop it,” he said firmly, grabbing his shirt from the sink and pulling it over his head in one swift motion.

You stood there, stunned, as he brushed past you and headed toward the door. You should’ve let him go. You should’ve let it slide. But something about the way he asked—that vulnerability buried beneath all the bravado—stuck with you.

“Logan,” you called, your voice softer now, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even turn around.

The door slammed shut behind Logan, the sound echoing in the quiet room and leaving you rooted to the spot, staring at the space he’d just occupied. Your heart pounded in your chest, not from fear or shock, but from sheer frustration.

What the fuck was that?

You try to make sense of the whirlwind that had just stormed through your room. He had the audacity to grill you about your personal life, and then shut down without so much as an explanation? It was infuriating. But then again, wasn’t that just Logan? Always halfway out the door before you could get a real answer, always keeping people at arm’s length.

Fine. Let him brood. You weren’t going to waste your energy trying to figure him out.

The clock on your nightstand read 8:12 PM. Scott, Ororo, Jean, and Hank had definitely left for the bar, excited for a rare night out. You’ve waved Ororo off, claiming you weren’t in the mood. Now, standing alone in your room, you regretted it. At least at the bar, you’d have a distraction.

Instead, you were here, stewing over Logan.

With a heavy sigh, you pushed yourself to move. Stressing around mulling over his cryptic nonsense wasn’t going to get you anywhere. You grabbed a fresh change of clothes and headed for the bathroom, letting the sound of running water drown out your thoughts. By the time you’d finished cleaning up and pulling yourself together, it was close to nine.

You sit down on the edge of the windowsill, propping one foot up as you tighten the final knot of your shoelace. The sunlight filters through the glass, casting soft patterns on the floor. As you lean back slightly, adjusting the fit of your shoe, your gaze falls on the unlocked collar resting nearby.

For a moment, you just stare at it, the light glinting off its cold, unyielding surface. A wave of melancholy washes over you, pulling you into a haze of memories you’d rather forget. Slowly, you reach out and trace your fingertips along the thick metal, its weight almost tangible even without wearing it.

A short, bitter chuckle escapes your lips, breaking the silence. Without warning, you grab the collar and slam it against the concrete edge of the windowsill. The sharp clang echoes through the room, and with enough force, the metal bends slightly. You strike it again and again, as if each blow might break more than just steel.

When the anger subsides, you toss the collar onto the floor, standing over it for a moment. Then, with a final stomp, you turn away, leaving it behind as you step out the door.

You wandered the halls of the mansion, your footsteps light on the wooden floors. Few of the kids were settled for the night, and the usual buzz of activity had quieted down. As you passed the TV room, you caught sight of Logan sitting on the couch, surrounded by a few of the younger kids.

They were watching some old action movie, the screen’s glow casting sharp shadows across Logan’s face. He looked calm, almost relaxed, the gruff tension from earlier smoothed over like it had never existed. He didn’t even glance your way until you moved to leave, your quiet presence catching his attention at the last second.

Finding your usual corner, you pulled a book from the shelf and settled into one of the chairs. You let the silence wrap around you, doing your best to push Logan—and all the tangled emotions he seemed to stir—out of your mind.

His eyes was on you as you turned and walked away and you didn’t stop.

Instead, you headed to the library. The heavy wooden doors creaked slightly as you pushed them open, the familiar scent of books and aged paper washing over you. The quiet here was different—soothing, intentional. You let out a long breath as you stepped inside, your tension easing slightly as the door clicked shut behind you.

As you turned the pages of your chosen book tonight, seated in the most comfortable chair the library had to offer, a loud commotion broke your concentration. The rhythmic patter of children’s hurried footsteps echoed through the halls, accompanied by frantic voices. Your immersion in the world of Wuthering Heights shattered, pulling you back into reality. It was nearly ten o’clock—far past curfew. What on earth was going on?

Curiosity pricked at you, and with a reluctant sigh, you closed the book, setting it carefully on the side table. Rising from your chair, you walked toward the source of the noise.

Outside the library, the chaos unfolded before your eyes. A crowd of panicked children filled the hallway, their anxiety palpable. The swarm of them seemed to converge at the backyard door, spilling out onto the cobblestone path illuminated by faint outdoor lights. From afar, you caught sight of Logan kneeling infront of a boy.

“Back to your rooms, everyone,” you called out, your voice firm but calm. Some of the older teenagers lingered, their curiosity outweighing their obedience. Turning to one of them, you asked, “What happened?”

“I heard there’s a student missing,” a teenage girl replied, her voice trembling.

Your brow furrowed at her words. Missing? Anxiety crept into your chest as you shifted your gaze back to Logan, still kneeling in the yard. Urging the gawking children to disperse, you repeated, “Come on, everyone, back to your rooms. Curfew’s long past.”

As the reluctant crowd thinned, you made your way outside, stepping onto the cool cobblestone steps. Logan’s voice carried through the crisp night air as he spoke to the young boy.

“Listen, Carter, I need you to tell me anything you saw. Did you see a logo? A picture? Maybe a name?”

The small frame of the boy trembling however he chimed in, “I saw a letter. It was on their phone.”

You stepped closer, careful not to interrupt, though Logan briefly glanced over his shoulder, his eyes locking with yours for just a moment before returning to the boy.

“Phone?” he repeated.

“Yeah, it was black and had... like, a long antenna,” the boy explained innocently.

“A handy talk,” Logan muttered, lowering his head slightly as if trying to piece it together. “What letter did you see?” he asked, shifting his attention back to the boy.

“Sac, I can read,” he replied with the same innocent tone.

Logan frowned, a slight furrow in his brow as he repeated the word back to her, confused. “Sak?”

The boy nodded eagerly, as if confirming his guess. “Yeah, Sac.”

Logan shook his head, his confusion growing. “How do you spell it?”

Before the boy could respond, something clicked in your brain. The pieces fell into place, and you couldn’t stop yourself from stepping in.

“S-A-C,” you said, spelling it out clearly, each letter cutting through the tension.

The little boy's eyes lit up as he pointed his small finger at you. “That’s right!” he said brightly.

Logan’s expression darkened, the weight of the realization settling over him. He glanced back at you, his jaw tightening.

“SAC, Special Activities Center,” he repeated, this time with understanding—and dread.

The word hit you like a cold slap. You folded your arms against the chill, the night air biting through your sweater.

“Thanks, Carter. You head back inside now.” Logan stand on his feet as he pat the child gently, sending him towards the mansion's backdoor.

Once he scurried off, you stepped closer to him, your voice low but urgent. “What's going on?”

Logan rose to his feet, brushing his hands on his jeans. “That's Carter he's Maya and Ellie friends.”

Your stomach dropped. “Maya? Where’s Maya?”

Logan hesitated, taking a deep breath. “The three of them were playing hide-and-seek out here earlier. Maya wandered out here to find them... she finds Ellie first, then Carter saw two people in black clothes take them two.”

“SAC take them?” you repeated, the weight of the revelation sinking in. “They're connected with the CIA. The fuck do they want?”

Logan’s jaw tightened. “I don’t know. But if they’re involved, this isn’t just about them mutants children—it’s about all of us. They’re watching, and now they’re making their move.”

You didn’t respond immediately, your thoughts racing as dread settled heavily over you both. The children inside weren’t safe, not anymore. The larger force at play had finally made its presence known, and the mansion, once a sanctuary, had turned into a trap.

“Shit” you said finally, meeting Logan’s grim gaze. “We need to find them.”

His nod was slight, but the determination in his expression was unmistakable. “We will.”

The team gathered in the common room for a late midnight meeting no one would expected, their exhaustion palpable. Scott slumped in his chair, the scent of alcohol faint but unmistakable, while Ororo leaned heavily against the armrest, her eyes half-lidded with fatigue. Jean sat cross-legged, her fingers massaging her temples, and Hank rubbed his eyes behind his glasses.

The situation frustrated you as bad as it already was. Fuck this. If it weren’t for the team’s fun night out, all of you would be out there looking for the poor little girls. You thought about doing it alone—after all, you were the only adult who wasn’t drunk or exhausted. Wait... there’s still Logan.

Fuck him. You're not going anywhere with him. The two of you still hadn’t addressed whatever the hell was going on between you.

If you waited until morning, they’d sure as hell be hungover or nowhere near the appropriate condition for a mission like this. And knowing these people all too damn well, they wouldn’t let you sneak into a CIA headquarters alone.

But you’d do it anyway.

You’d have to sneak your way out of this. Screw them. They’d be thankful as fuck when you took matters into your own hands.

“We have to address this in the morning,” Jean said, her voice steady but weary. “The professor will know the best approach.”

Of course, one of them would eventually say it. You had guessed it would be Scott, but maybe Jean read his mind first—like she’s probably doing to you right now. Fuck, I should clear my mind, you thought to yourself.

Hank sighed, his fingers tapping the edge of the table. “I’ve done some preliminary research, but it’s just theories right now. The CIA base we suspect isn’t far from here, and given Killebrew’s ties to the military, this might all be connected. If I’m right, they’ve been operating covertly, experimenting on mutants in ways we haven’t fully grasped yet.”

Ororo straightened, her brow furrowed. “That’s not something we can charge into without a solid plan. It’s dangerous.”

Scott waved a hand, his tone slurred but determined. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now, we all need rest.”

Jean nodded, glancing around the room. “Agreed. Maya and Ellie will need us at our best when we go after her.”

One by one, the team dispersed, their heavy steps echoing down the mansion’s halls. But you couldn’t shake the weight in your chest. The image of those girls—scared, alone, possibly suffering—played on a loop in your mind. By two in the morning, sleep had become impossible as you kept staring at the ceilings with eyes wide open, contemplating your plan which you came with none.

"Fuck this." You quickly changed into black cargo pants and a tight black long-sleeve shirt that pressed against your figure.

As you stood by the sink, you splashed cold water on your face, trying to steady your nerves for what was to come. But when you reached for the towel, your eyes flicked to the small accessory holder where you usually kept your mother's necklace.

It wasn’t there.

A knot of anxiety tightened in your chest. You leaned closer, scanning the sink area. It had to be somewhere nearby. Maybe it had just fallen off? You crouched down, searching the floor around the sink, your fingers brushing across the tiles in frantic movements. Nothing.

“Come on,” you muttered under your breath, your heart pounding as you pulled open the cabinet doors beneath the sink. Still nothing.

You swallowed hard, the realization sinking in that you might have lost or misplaced it. The thought made your stomach churn—it wasn’t just any necklace; it was your mother’s.

But you didn’t have time to dwell on it. Maya and Ellie needed you, and every second you spent searching was a second wasted. Clenching your fists, you forced yourself to push the worry aside.

You turned back to the mirror, taking a final glance at yourself. Tight black long-sleeve shirt, black cargo pants. "I look like a goddamn ninja," you muttered, trying to inject a bit of humor to steady your nerves.

The necklace would have to wait. Right now, you had to focus.

You grabbed your gear quietly, careful not to wake anyone. The mansion was still, the night cold against your skin as you descended the stairs with heavy black boots. You had just reached the kitchen when you froze.

Logan stood by the counter, cigarette in hand, the faint glow of its tip casting shadows on his rugged features. He didn’t look surprised to see you.

“Figured you’d try somethin’ stupid,” he said, his voice a gravelly rumble.

You adjusted the strap on your gear, feigning nonchalance. “I need to get some air.”

Logan chuckled dryly, taking a drag of his cigarette. “Air. Right. All geared up for a midnight stroll?” You frowned but didn’t reply, moving to the sink to double-check your supplies.

“You think sneakin’ out alone is a smart play?” he pressed, stepping closer. “What, you gonna take on the CIA single-handed?”

“I'll take my chances, better than doing nothing.” you snapped, spinning around to face him. “They're out there, and every second we waste, they could be hurting.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “And every second you’re out there without backup, you’re walkin’ straight into their hands. You heard what Hank said—Killebrew’s probably involved. You really think they won’t have another collar?”

You hesitated but clenched your fists. “I won't let such fear stop me. I won’t leave Maya and Ellie to them, Logan. I don’t care what’s waiting for me out there. It’s not like they can kill me.”

Logan’s jaw tightened as he stubbed out his cigarette in his palm. You could never get tired from the sight of him rolling his eyes at the slight burn sensation on his skin that amused you—well, more than amused in different circumstances, really.

If only he hadn’t been so confusing earlier tonight.

His voice dropped, low and dangerous. “It ain’t about killin’ you. It’s about breaking you. They don’t need you dead—they just need you broken enough to get what they want.”

The weight of his words pressed down on you, but the image of the girls wouldn’t let you relent. “If you’re trying to scare me, it’s not working. I’m leaving.”

Logan’s nostrils flared, and for a moment, you thought he’d let you go. But then he stepped back, grabbing his jacket. “You’re a stubborn pain in the ass, you know that?” You blinked as he shrugged into his jacket.

“If you’re hellbent on gettin’ yourself killed, I’m not lettin’ you go alone,” he growled.

Despite the tension, a flicker of gratitude warmed your chest. He might be impossible, but at least you wouldn’t face this alone.

Logan gripped the steering wheel tighter as the car cruised down the empty highway, the hum of the engine the only sound between you. You stared out the passenger window, the dark road illuminated by the occasional passing streetlight. The silence was unbearable, heavy with unspoken tension, until you reached out and turned on the radio.

Bye Bye Bye blasted through the speakers, the upbeat rhythm shattering the quiet.

Logan groaned audibly, his hand darting out to switch it off within seconds.

'Don’t wanna be a fool for.....'

The music cut off abruptly, leaving an awkward void. You furrowed your brows and glanced at him, annoyed, but said nothing. He didn’t either, his jaw tightening as he kept his eyes firmly on the road.

This is gonna be a hell of a ride.

Minutes ticked by in agonizing silence, the clock on the dashboard glowing faintly. You stifled a yawn, the lack of sleep catching up to you. Logan glanced in your direction briefly, his expression unreadable, before returning his focus to the road.

“Sleepy already?” he finally asked, his tone gruff but quieter than usual.

You blinked at the window, counting the sparse cars around you. “Oh, so you talk,” you shot back coldly, not bothering to look at him.

Logan sighed heavily, side-eyeing you before speaking again. “I don’t know whaddya want me to say,” he muttered, his tone carrying a hint of frustration.

Your patience snapped. “Fuck you, Logan. You’re the one pretending like nothing happened between us.”

His eyes flicked toward you briefly before returning to the road, his knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. “I thought that’s what you wanted.” he said, his voice steady but edged with tension.

“No! I don’t want that! Why are you acting like an asshole?” you snapped, shifting in your seat to face him fully.

Logan kept his focus ahead, his jaw ticking. The tension in his shoulders was palpable, but he didn’t raise his voice. “What do you want then?” he asked gruffly.

You opened your mouth to answer, ready to unleash everything bottled inside, but second thoughts hit you like a brick wall. Your throat tightened, and instead of speaking, you clamped your mouth shut and pulled your knees up, hugging them to your chest. Your gaze drifted back to the window, the darkened landscape blurring as tears threatened to sting your eyes.

Logan glanced at you from the corner of his eye, guilt flickering across his face, though he quickly masked it. “That’s what I thought,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible but just loud enough for you to catch.

You swallowed hard, your nails digging into the fabric as you tried to steady your breathing. There was so much you wanted to say, so much that needed to be addressed, but this wasn’t the time. Maya and Ellie needed saving, and there was no room for emotions to get in the way.

You sat there, curled up in the passenger seat, clutching your knees tightly as the car glided through the quiet, empty highway. The faint hum of the engine filled the air between you, a stark contrast to the chaos in your chest. The longer the silence stretched, the heavier it felt, suffocating in a way words never could.

“M’sorry,” you whispered finally, the words escaping your lips before you could stop them. You didn’t even know what you were apologizing for exactly, but it felt like the right thing to say.

Logan glanced your way, his brow furrowing. You didn’t meet his gaze, your focus glued to the closed window, your reflection staring back at him. The image unsettled him—the way you sat curled into yourself, dressed in black like you were trying to look intimidating, but failing miserably with your chin resting atop your knees. You looked small, vulnerable, as though you were trying to shield yourself from something unseen.

He clenched his jaw, guilt gnawing at him as he returned his eyes to the road.

Logan took a deep breath, his knuckles tightening on the wheel. What the hell was he supposed to say now? Did you even realize how much he cared for you? How deeply?

Hell, he was out here driving through the freezing cold at two in the goddamn morning. Sure, finding that poor, innocent girl was the priority—but you were the real reason he’d agreed to this. He already knew how reckless and half-baked this plan was, especially with just the two of you. The team is going to be furious, he could already imagine the earful Scott would give him in this situation.

But he couldn’t fight you on it, he knew you too damn well. It was either he came along, or you’d go alone—and the thought of you facing this without him was something he couldn’t bear. Hell, he wouldn’t allow it.

If he had to, Logan would tear the whole goddamn world apart just to stand beside you. Whether to be an acquaintance, a friend, a partner, whatever you’d let him be. He would never leave you to deal with this on your own, not as long as he was still breathing.

“Don’t,” Logan muttered, his voice gruff as if the word was dragged out of him.

You blinked, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, unsure of what he meant.

“I’m sorry,” he growled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I was being a dick.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, surprised. Then, without warning, a small chuckle escaped you.

Logan’s head snapped toward you, confusion written all over his face. “What’s so funny?”

You bit your cheek, trying to hold back your laughter, but it only made it worse. Finally, you shook your head, letting out a soft laugh. “I just... I didn’t think you’d fall for it.”

Logan’s frown deepened, his confusion growing. “Fall for what?”

You shifted in your seat, lowering your legs and leaning back like you didn’t have a care in the world. “It’s okay. Now we’re both sorry.” You grinned at him mischievously. “I just didn’t expect you’d actually admit that you’re a dick.”

His expression darkened further, and he shot you a flat look. “Oh, fuck off.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at his reaction, the sound bubbling out of you as his frown became more pronounced. “You’re a horrible person,” he muttered, though there was a faint hint of amusement in his voice.

“I know,” you said smugly, leaning back even further and resting your arm behind your head, clearly enjoying your victory.

But your moment of triumph didn’t last long. Logan’s eyes glinted with a mischievous edge as his foot suddenly slammed on the brakes.

The car jerked to a halt, and you—without your seatbelt fastened—were flung forward, hitting the dashboard with a loud thud.

“Ugh!” you grunted in pain, your hand rubbing to your forehead as you turned to glare at him. “What the fuck, Logan?!”

He was still in his seat, untouched thanks to his seatbelt “Sorry,” he said mockingly, his tone laced with sarcasm. “There was a cat crossing the street.”

He didn’t even try to hide his smug grin, leaning back in his seat like he didn’t just commit attempted murder. “Next time, buckle up, tough guy,” he said, his tone dry, but the amusement in his eyes betrayed him.

Your jaw tightened as you fastened your seatbelt with an angry click, not that you should even care because crashing would literally kill none of you, really. But you wouldn't take the chance to be a part of his petty joke again. “You’re so petty,” you muttered, slumping back into your seat, arms crossed.

Logan let out a low chuckle, shaking his head slightly. “I know.” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

You rolled your eyes, muttering under your breath as the car resumed its journey. The tension that had once suffocated the air now felt lighter, though your annoyance with him lingered.

You’d get him back. Somehow.

Logan parked the car a few hundred meters away from the high-security compound, the faint glow of cameras scanning the area. The building stood tall in front of you, a modern fortress with high, wire-topped fences and armed guards at every corner. This wasn’t going to be easy.

You both exited the car in silence, you popped the trunk, revealing your gear neatly packed. You reached for the heavy black duffel bag, pulling it out and unzipping it with quick hands. The bag was full of weapons built for efficiency and speed, the kind you knew you could rely on in a tight spot.

You grabbed the Heckler & Koch MP5, its compact frame sitting comfortably in your hands. The submachine gun was built for quick action, a weapon perfect for close-quarters combat. It was lightweight but packed a punch, with its 9mm rounds designed for high velocity and rapid fire. You checked the magazine, making sure it was fully loaded, before slinging the strap over your shoulder. The weapon's compact size made it ideal for maneuvering through tight spaces, and the sound of the safety clicking off was a sound you were all too familiar with.

You ran your fingers over the soft, rubberized grip, knowing you could rely on it when things went south. The bag also held extra mags, each one loaded with 9mm rounds, quick to reload and ready for action. You gave a quick glance at Logan, his eyes now locked on you again, but you didn’t let the moment last too long, the weight of the gun a comforting reminder of your readiness.

He gave a low grunt. “This is a bad idea.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” you muttered, adjusting your gloves. The plan was simple: Get in, find Maya, get out. No alarms. No mess. The problem was, nothing ever went according to plan.

Logan took the lead, moving with his usual predatory grace. The two of you made your way through the shadows, careful not to alert the guards. The compound was surrounded by tall, overgrown hedges, giving you some cover as you approached the back entrance. You crept toward a side gate, its lock weak enough for Logan to pry open with ease.

"You always make it look easy," you whispered, impressed despite yourself.

He grinned, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You slipped through the gap, your footsteps silent on the cold concrete as you moved deeper into the facility. The perimeter was quiet, but the tension in the air was suffocating. Logan led the way, his keen senses constantly scanning the area. Every creak of a door, every flicker of a light, had you on edge.

You reached the back of the building, a narrow, unlit hallway leading inside. Logan paused, giving you a sharp glance. “Ready?”

“No shit,” you said, determination hardening your voice. You weren’t backing out now, no matter what.

He pulled open the door and ushering you inside. The air was cool and sterile, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the cement floors. You crept down the hall, moving in sync with Logan, every step calculated.

At the end of the hallway, you spotted a guarded door—high-security, with a keypad and a camera positioned just above it. Without hesitation, Logan stepped forward, grabbing the guard’s arm from the shadowed corner and pulling him into the darkness. He was out before he could make a sound, leaving behind nothing but a faint smell of burning skin.

You shuddered slightly but stayed focused. This was just part of the plan. Getting in and out.

Logan keyed in the code he'd swiped off the unconscious guard’s wristwatch, the door clicking open with a soft beep. He held it open, letting you slip inside first. The room was dark and cold, filled with computers and high-tech equipment. At the far end, a small holding cell, barely visible in the gloom, had a single figure slumped against the wall.

“Maya,” you whispered urgently, your voice cracking.

She looked up slowly, her face pale, her eyes wide with fear. But when she saw you, her lips trembled, and for a moment, you could see the faintest glimmer of hope. "You came..."

You rushed to her side, kneeling beside her, gently brushing a strand of her hair away to get a better look at her face. She was bruised and battered, her small frame trembling, but nothing seemed life-threatening. Still, the sight of her like this ignited a fierce protectiveness in your chest.

“Where’s Ellie?” you asked, your voice soft but urgent.

Maya flinched at the question, her lips quivering. “I-I don’t know,” she stuttered, her voice barely above a whisper. “We... we were playing together, and then—” Her words broke off, her small body trembling as tears welled up in her eyes.

“It’s okay, Maya,” you said quickly, your tone firm but comforting. “We’re getting you out of here. You’re safe now.”

Logan moved around, his sharp eyes scanning the room for any signs of further threats. “We don’t have time for this,” he muttered, already heading toward the door. “We need to move. Get her to safety first.”

You hesitated, your instincts screaming to keep looking for Ellie, but Logan’s tone left no room for argument. He glanced back at you, his voice low but commanding. “We’ll come back for her. Right now, we’ve gotta get Maya out before we’re cornered.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and reached down to help Maya to her feet. Her legs wobbled, and she winced at the effort, but she clung to you tightly. “We’re getting you out,” you reassured her again, though the knot in your stomach didn’t loosen.

As you moved toward the door, the beeping of the security alarm behind you confirmed the worst. Logan’s eyes flicked to you, his expression grim. “Move it,” he said sharply.

Grabbing Maya’s hand, you pulled her along, your heart pounding as you navigated through the dim hallway. Logan led the way, his senses on high alert. You reached the stairwell, but your stomach sank as you saw more guards below.

Logan growled low under his breath, his fists clenching. “Stay behind me,” he said, his voice quiet but firm.

Without hesitation, Logan leaped into action, taking down the first guard with brutal efficiency. You followed closely, keeping Maya tucked safely behind you, your body positioned as a shield.

Your MP5 hung at your side, a secondary measure tonight. Every movement was calculated, every glance behind ensuring Maya’s safety. No harm would come to her—not a single scratch.

Logan cleared the path with a relentless fury, and together, you pushed forward, determined to get Maya out of this nightmare and to safety. Only then would you think about going back for Ellie.

You would have the time of your life alongside Logan taking these guards down, but tonight your MP5 was nothing more than a safety measure, secondary to your true focus. Your attention was entirely on Maya, making yourself her shield, her protection. No harm would come to her—not a single scratch, not the faintest injury. You positioned yourself between her and the chaos outside, every move calculated to ensure her safety above all else.

Logan’s claws came out, the metallic sound cutting through the air. With every strike, another guard fell. You couldn’t help but watch in awe at the way he moved—fierce, unstoppable. He cleared a path toward the exit, but it wasn’t without cost. You could hear the distant sound of reinforcements arriving, the compound now fully alerted to your presence.

"Shit," you muttered under your breath. There was no turning back now.

But you didn’t need to. Maya was free. That was all that mattered.

As you reached the exit, the lights behind you began to flash. You could hear the sirens, feel the pressure of the situation mounting. But Logan was already pushing you forward, his voice low and gruff. "Keep moving. I’ll cover you."

You barely had time to process what was happening before you burst through the door, the cold air hitting your face like a slap. The car was still a few hundred meters away, but there was no time to hesitate. Without a word, you crouched and scooped Maya into your arms. She instinctively clung to you, her small arms wrapping tightly around your neck, her feet curling against your stomach to secure herself. Her muffled cries broke your focus, soft and trembling as she buried her face into your shoulder, her fingers gripping your shirt like a lifeline.

You ran as fast as you could, every step echoing in the silence of the night, Logan keeping pace just behind you. The weight of Maya in your arms was nothing compared to the drive to get her to safety. You could feel her little hand clutching you tighter with every sound of pursuit behind you, her breath hitching against your collarbone.

You reached the car first, yanking the back door open and rushing Maya inside. Her tiny arms loosened around your neck as you gently set her on the seat, her tear-streaked face burying deeper into your shoulder for a moment. You whispered, "Stay here, sweet girl," before pulling back just enough to slam the door shut. You didn’t waste time sliding into the passenger seat as Logan bolted into the driver’s seat beside you.

The engine roared to life as Logan turned the wheel sharply, tires screeching against the cold pavement. The car bolted forward, but the horror started almost immediately. Gunfire erupted behind you, bullets slamming into the rear of the vehicle with sharp metallic thuds.

"Get down!" you yelled instinctively, your voice sharp and commanding. Maya screamed, a high-pitched cry that sent a pang through your chest. "Maya, keep your head down, baby. Stay as low as you can," you urged, already crawling from the passenger seat to shield her in the back.

The gunfire intensified, the attackers closing in. Logan growled under his breath as he adjusted the rearview mirror. “They’re catching up. Bikes.”

You twisted, catching sight of two motorcycles weaving in and out of the shadows. Their riders aimed and fired, their bullets shattering both side windows. Glass shards rained into the car, cutting into the chaos.

Logan flinched, jerking slightly as a bullet grazed his arm, tearing through his jacket. He hissed but kept his focus on the road. “Damn it,” he muttered, his grip tightening on the wheel.

Another bullet grazed your shoulder, burning through your jacket. The sharp sting was brief, dulled by your healing factor, but it still sent a jolt of frustration through you. "Logan, they’re on both sides!"

One biker closed in on Logan’s side, leveling his weapon for a clean shot. Logan swerved sharply, slamming the car into the bike, but the rider steadied himself. Without hesitation, Logan growled, "Hold on," and yanked the car door open.

In one fluid motion, Logan leaned out, his left arm shooting forward to grab the man by the neck. The rider’s eyes widened in shock as Logan yanked him clean off the bike, slamming him to the ground with brutal force.

On the right, another rider closed in, aiming for the car. You didn’t hesitate. The MP5 was already in your hands, and with a calculated burst of fire, you hit his front tire. The bike wobbled violently before tipping, sending the rider skidding across the asphalt.

"Fuck!" Logan snarled as another shot blew out the rear tire. The car lurched violently, metal screeching against the road as it ground to a halt. Logan slammed the wheel in frustration, his chest heaving. "Get her up. Now!"

You scrambled to Maya, pulling her carefully into your arms. She was trembling but responsive. “Come on, baby,” you murmured, trying to steady your voice.

By the time you turned, Logan was already at one of the fallen bikes, inspecting it for damage. "This’ll do," he muttered, hauling the machine upright. He swung onto the seat, revving the engine.

Then you saw it. Maya’s head lolled against your chest, and the dark stain on her shirt caught your attention. Blood seeped from a cut on her neck, spreading too quickly. Your stomach clenched.

"Logan!" you shouted, your voice cracking. "She’s bleeding bad!"

Logan’s head whipped around, his expression hardening. “Get on.” His voice left no room for argument.

Clutching Maya’s fragile body, you climbed onto the bike behind Logan, holding her close. Logan revved the engine, and the bike sped off into the night. You pressed Maya’s small frame against yours, one hand trying desperately to stem the bleeding at her neck.

“Stay with me, baby,” you whispered into her hair, your voice breaking as the cold wind whipped past. “Please, Maya, just hold on.”

4:27 a.m. You stood frozen, staring at Maya’s unconscious form in the medbay. The room felt distant, the sterile white lights blurring everything into a haze. Hank and Jean had been woken up barely ten minutes ago by Logan, and now they were rushing back and forth in their white coats, their voices low but urgent.

You should’ve felt bad for pulling them into this mess, dragging them out of bed at this hour. But even that guilt was nothing compared to the pit of self-loathing eating away at you. This was your fault. Maya’s condition, her pale face, her blood staining your hands was because of you. Reckless. Stupid. You didn’t fucking think before-

"Hey," Logan’s voice broke through the storm in your head, soft but steady.

You didn’t look at him, didn’t respond. You barely even registered his presence, the sound of Jean’s voice faintly breaking through your fog. She was explaining something to Hank, something about Maya losing too much blood, needing to confirm her blood type. But the words barely landed.

You clenched your arms tighter across your chest, folding into yourself. The weight of everything—Maya’s fragile state, your own failures was suffocating. Logan stepped closer, watching you carefully. His hand reached out, resting gently on your shoulder, his thumb brushing against you in a calming rhythm.

The small, unexpected gesture made you shiver. The knot in your chest tightened, and you felt the sting of tears threatening to spill. Slowly, your head dipped, your defenses crumbling under the weight of it all. You couldn’t stop the overwhelming tide of emotions crashing down on you.

"Go clean up. Let Hank and Jean do what they need to." he suggested.

A word didn’t even leave your lips. You felt lost, unmoored in a storm of emotions that you couldn’t navigate. You didn’t know what to do, how to move, how to think. You needed guidance, even if it was something as small and straightforward as Logan telling you to clean up. His words cut through the fog, and for a fleeting moment, you felt a sense of obedience—a familiar pull to follow orders. That was what you were good at, after all. What you were once best at: following orders.

Your eyes flicked up to Logan, searching for...something. His palm remained steady on your shoulder, grounding you, his thumb moving in a small, repetitive motion that somehow kept you from spiraling. His gaze met yours with the quiet reassurance there was enough to steady your nod.

You stepped away, walking out of the medbay, his hand falling from your shoulder as you moved. The absence of his touch left a strange void, but you pushed forward, heading toward the stairs. Logan followed silently a few steps behind, his heavy footsteps echoing softly against the walls. He didn’t push you, didn’t fill the space with meaningless words, but his presence lingered with constant, quiet support.

You climbed the stairs mechanically, every step feeling heavier than the last. The exhaustion, the guilt, the overwhelming swirl of emotions, they pressed down on you, threatening to crush you with each passing second. As much as Logan worried about Maya, you both knew there was nothing more either of you could do. It was Hank and Jean’s turn now. That truth didn’t make the wait any easier.

When you reached your room, you stopped in the doorway, gripping the frame as if it could hold you upright. Logan paused behind you, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. He watched you closely, his sharp gaze catching every tremble in your hands, every shaky breath.

Your fingers fumbled with the straps of your gear, but they wouldn’t cooperate. Frustration bubbled up, and you let out a low growl as you yanked the vest off and dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor. Bloodstains smeared across the fabric caught your eye, and your chest tightened at the sight.

Logan pushed off the wall and stepped inside, crouching down to pick up the discarded vest. He set it aside carefully, his movements slow and deliberate, as though giving you the time and space to process.

“I'll stay here,” he said again, his voice quieter this time, almost gentle.

You nodded again, your movements sluggish, and turned toward the bathroom. The weight of the day settled on your shoulders, dragging your steps, but you kept moving.

You stepped into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you, you turned around to lock it immediately. The smell hit immediately—dried blood, sweat, and the lingering metallic tang of Maya’s injury. It clung to you like guilt, heavy and suffocating.

With trembling hands, you stripped off your clothes, dropping them into a heap on the floor. The fabric stuck to your skin in places where blood had dried, and the motion sent a fresh wave of nausea rolling through you.

Standing at the sink, you turned on the faucet, the rush of water almost deafening in the quiet. You scrubbed your hands, desperate to rid yourself of the blood staining your skin. Maya’s blood. It was there, literal-fucking-ly on your hands, and no matter how hard you scrubbed, it felt like it wouldn’t come off. Your breaths grew erratic as the image of her unconscious face looped endlessly in your mind.

You turned the faucet off abruptly, the silence that followed almost unbearable. Moving to the shower, you twisted the knob to the hottest setting, steam immediately rising to fill the small space. You stepped in, holding your hands under the boiling stream, watching as the dried blood finally washed away, swirling down the drain.

The searing heat burned your skin, but the pain felt satisfying—a punishment you thought you deserved. It wasn’t enough to hurt you, not with your healing ability, but it gave you a brief, fleeting sense of control.

The water cascaded over you, from the top of your head to your toes, scalding and relentless. You gritted your teeth as the heat bit into your skin, but the pain wasn’t what broke you. The weight of everything did.

Your legs gave out, and you slid down onto the cold tiles, your back pressed against the wall. Hugging your knees to your chest, you buried your face in them, letting the boiling water pour over you as sobs wracked your body. It wasn’t the pain that made you cry—you weren’t even sure what it was anymore. You just needed to let it out, to feel something other than the crushing guilt.

Outside, Logan sat by your windowsill, his arms crossed as he stared into the night. His nose twitched as a faint scent wafted through the air—burned flesh. He furrowed his brow, his senses sharpening as the smell lingered. It didn’t fade. If anything, it grew stronger.

Concern etched into his features, he pushed off the sill and headed toward your bathroom door. The scent was unmistakable now, and worry gnawed at the edges of his composure. He knocked gently.

“Hey,” he called, his voice calm but firm. “You okay in there?”

No response.

He tried again, calling your name louder this time. “I’m gonna break this door if you don’t answer.”

Still nothing.

Logan muttered a curse under his breath, his patience snapping as the smell of burning flesh only intensified. With a heavy thud, he slammed his shoulder into the door. The wooden frame groaned but held. Another slam, then another, until the lock finally gave way, the door flying open to release a rush of hot steam that hit him like a wall.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, waving a hand in front of his face in a futile attempt to clear the air. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on you, curled up on the shower floor, water pouring over your trembling, bare figure.

“Shit,” he whispered under his breath, his jaw tightening as the scene before him sank in.

The scalding water hissed against his arm skin as he reached for the shower handle, shutting it off with a groan. His own flesh burned at the contact, but it healed almost instantly. He turned his focus to you, crouching beside your slumped form, his heart breaking at the sight of your vulnerability.

Grabbing a towel from a nearby rack, he opened it wide and carefully wrapped it around you. His movements were gentle, deliberate, as though afraid he might break you further. His voice was soft when he finally spoke.

“Hey,” he murmured, his hand brushing against your damp hair. “C’mon, darlin’. Let’s get you out of here.”

You didn’t respond at first, your head lifting only slightly as you noticed his presence. His face was etched with worry, his sharp features softened by the sorrow in his eyes. His hand came up to cup the side of your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly over your tear-streaked cheek.

You swallowed hard, your voice caught in your throat. The overwhelming emotions left you unable to speak, and all you could do was stare at him, your swollen eyes searching for something—comfort, reassurance, anything.

Logan shifted to sit beside you, his broad shoulder brushing against yours. He opened his arms, a silent invitation. Without thinking, you leaned into him, tucking your head against his chest as his arms enveloped you. The dampness of your hair soaked into his shirt, but he couldn't care less. His chin rested atop your head, his steady presence anchoring you as you sobbed quietly, the tears flowing freely now.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through his chest. “I’ve got you.”

Logan stayed there, holding you as though his presence alone could shield you from whatever storm was raging inside. His arms tightened just enough to remind you he was there—not pushing, not forcing, just being. His thumb drew absent circles against your arm, a silent comfort that kept you tethered to the moment.

Minutes passed, or maybe hours; time seemed to lose meaning. The bathroom remained cloaked in a haze of steam, the air thick and humid, but neither of you moved. The water had long since stopped running, leaving only the faint drip-drip of the showerhead to break the silence. Logan didn't rush you; he seemed to know you needed this space, this moment to fall apart without judgment.

Eventually, your sobs quieted, leaving you drained and trembling in his arms. Your head stayed tucked against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was grounding, a lifeline you hadn't known you needed. You felt small, raw, like a wound left open, but for the first time in hours, the suffocating weight of guilt started to ease—just a little.

Logan broke the silence first, his voice a low murmur. "I know you think this is all on you, but it’s not."

You wanted to say something, anything, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, you nodded faintly, your face brushing against the damp fabric of his shirt. He took the gesture for what it was, a small step forward, and didn’t press for more.

After a moment, he shifted slightly, one arm still wrapped around you as the other reached for the towel. He adjusted it, making sure it covered you properly before pulling back just enough to look at you. His piercing gaze softened when it met yours, his eyes filled with an understanding you hadn’t expected.

“You’re freezing,” he said, his brows knitting together. “Let’s get you outta here, yeah?”

You blinked, realizing for the first time that your body was shaking—not from cold, but from the aftermath of everything you’d been holding in. Still, you nodded again, letting him help you to your feet. His hand stayed steady on your arm as he guided you out of the shower, careful not to let you slip on the wet tiles.

He grabbed another towel, wrapping it around your hair with surprising gentleness. The care in his actions almost undid you again, but you swallowed hard, forcing yourself to hold it together.

“I’ll grab you some clothes,” he said quietly, motioning toward your dresser. “Just sit tight.”

You sank onto the edge of your bed, the towel still wrapped tightly around you as you watched him move. His presence filled the room—not in an overbearing way, but in a way that made you feel less...alone. He returned a moment later with a fresh set of clothes, setting them down beside you.

“You good to change?” he asked, his voice soft but firm, like he was giving you the option to say no.

You nodded, and he took that as his cue to turn away, suddenly finding your window so interesting to glance at. Giving you privacy while still staying within arm’s reach. His respect for your boundaries didn’t go unnoticed, and it made your chest ache in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Once dressed, you hesitated for a moment before speaking, your voice hoarse from crying. “Logan?”

He turned back to you immediately, his eyes meeting yours.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words trembling with guilt. “For dragging you into all of this. You didn’t deserve it.”

His expression softened, a mix of concern and frustration flickering in his gaze. “Don’t start with that,” he said firmly but not unkindly. “You didn’t drag me anywhere. I’m here because I wanna be. Got it?”

You nodded slowly, the weight of his words settling over you like a fragile reassurance. Your eyes flicked to the clock by your nightstand—5:03 a.m. The realization made your stomach twist, the hours slipping away faster than you could think.

“I need to check on Maya's condition,” you said suddenly, your voice steadier but still strained.

Logan’s hand, still resting lightly on your shoulder, gave a gentle squeeze. “Alright,” he said. “Let’s go.”

The hallway leading to the med bay felt like it stretched on forever, each step dragging like a weight tethered to your ankles. Logan walked beside you, silent but present, his steady pace offering a grounding presence you barely noticed through the storm raging in your chest. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, an unbearable mockery of normalcy as dread curled in your gut.

When you reached the med bay door, it opened with a quiet hiss, and the world seemed to tilt. The room was unnaturally quiet, the air heavy, oppressive. Jean stood by the bed where Maya lay, her figure tense, arms crossed tightly over her chest. A bag of blood hung from a metal stand, but the tube dangled loose, disconnected. Hank sat slumped in a chair nearby, his head bowed low, the white of his coat streaked with red that had long since dried. He didn’t even look up when you entered.

Jean turned as the door clicked shut behind you, her gaze snapping to meet yours. Her expression was grave, her face drawn and heavy with something unspeakable. The weight of her silence crushed you instantly.

“What’s going on?” you demanded, your voice trembling as you crossed the room in hurried strides, your pulse roaring in your ears. The question tasted bitter on your tongue, dread bubbling up in your chest. You didn’t want to know the answer, not really. You clung desperately to the fragile hope that what you feared wasn’t true.

Jean didn’t answer. Her lips parted, but no words came, only a flicker of helplessness in her eyes that made your stomach plummet. You turned your attention to Hank, sitting motionless, his large hands limp in his lap. Still, no response. It was the silence that told you everything. The kind of silence that only follows the unspeakable.

Your breath quickened as your eyes fell on Maya’s still form on the bed. You reached out, your fingers trembling as they brushed against her cold skin. The moment you touched her, you recoiled. No. This can’t be real.

“Maya,” you whispered, your voice cracking. The panic rose inside you, but you fought to keep it in check. You pressed your fingers to her neck, hoping against hope for a pulse, for any sign of life. There was nothing. The stillness suffocated you. “No, no, no—this can’t be happening.”

You couldn’t stop the tears that welled in your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You blinked rapidly, your chest tight, trying to hold it all in. Your knees buckled slightly, and you steadied yourself by gripping the bed rail. Your breath came in shallow bursts, but you forced yourself not to break down completely. Not here, not now.

“What happened?” The question slipped out of you in a broken, quiet voice, and you turned to Hank and Jean, your eyes searching for an answer they couldn’t give.

Jean’s gaze dropped to the floor, her voice soft but heavy. “She was gone before we could stop the bleeding,” she said, and her words cut deeper than anything else in the room.

“No.” You shook your head violently, your hands gripping the bed rail as if it could anchor you. “You’re lying. She’s not—she’s not gone. She can’t be. It’s my fault. I should’ve—” Your voice broke, your chest heaving as the truth slammed into you like a freight train.

Logan’s hand was on your shoulder then, warm and steady. “They've tried their best” he said, his voice low but certain. “So did we, so did you.”

Your tears finally slipping free, but you didn’t sob. It was quiet, contained, but the weight of them felt unbearable. You swallowed hard, wiping your face, but the tears came regardless, leaving silent trails down your cheeks. The grief sat heavily in your chest, raw and unyielding.

You looked back at Maya’s small body, your heart aching, the guilt still gnawing at you. “I should’ve—” Your voice faltered again

“Stop,” he said, his voice low and firm, cutting through the chaos in your head. “Don’t do this to yourself.”

Logan's arm rests steady by your shoulder, with a slight pressure, as if he's trying to pull you into his embrace. As inviting and comforting as it seems, you can't accept such affection from him—you simply cannot.

His heart shatters into pieces at the scene before him: the sweet girl who doesn’t deserve this, and you, torturing yourself with it. He can feel the guilt radiating from your very core, and whilst he's not a much of a believer at this very moment he wishes he could make it better, could make you feel better, if only he knew how. His vain attempt at a gentle pull to draw you closer goes unnoticed by you—or at least, that's what he thinks.

You felt worthless, an absolute failure. You thought you are a failure when Maya's injured but now to cost her a life too? Is there even a word for that, something lower than a failure, a disappointment perhaps. She deserved better, if only you didn't storm in like a rookie and thought everything would go as planned, maybe she'd be alive. If only you didn't let the paranoia get the best of you, letting yourself to work as a team with the others.

You stepped back, the nauseating feeling washing over you once again—one you could never get used to. It was overwhelming. Logan’s arm fell from your shoulder, and he glanced at you immediately, searching for your eyes.

You didn’t know why, but a sudden urge to hide overwhelmed you. Embarrassment crept in like a heavy shadow. They would acknowledge your grief, yes, but they would also acknowledge the truth you couldn’t escape—that it was all because of you. Your fault. No matter how hard they tried to mask their silent judgment, it was always written plainly on their faces.

You wanted to run away from all of it. Like you always do—an avoider. “Excuse me,” you said, your voice quieter than intended, as your hand relentlessly wiped at the stupid tears streaming down your face. Your feet, weighed down by guilt, carried you out of the medbay in seconds.

Logan's confusion was palpable. He would’ve expected you to mourn in a much different way—maybe saying a final goodbye to Maya with heavy, fat tears. Instead, your reaction left him unsettled. Turning his attention back to Maya's body, he murmured softly, “M’really sorry, girl,” a quiet apology and farewell meant more for her than for himself. He tried to be tough, for his own sake and, in part, for yours.

When he looked up again, his focus shifted to you disappearing down the hallway. With a deep sigh, he turned to Jean and Hank. “I’m sorry, Jean, Hank.” he said simply, nodding at each of them before walking out with heavy, deliberate foot steps.

With your arms wrapped tightly around your body, as if they could shield you from the crushing weight of your shame, you walked briskly, desperate to disappear before anyone could see you. But your hope shattered when Logan’s voice rang out from behind, calling your name—once, twice, and then multiple times.

That didn't stopped you, why would it be. You need a time, an alone time obviously.

You kept walking, your pace quickening with every step. Logan's voice called after you, his tone growing sharper, more insistent, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Your feet moved on autopilot, carrying you toward your room as if it were the only safe harbor in a storm. You needed space—alone time, desperately—because facing anyone, even him, was unbearable right now.

Reaching your door, you fumbled with the handle, slipping inside just as Logan's footsteps came up behind you. The door clicked shut, and you locked it immediately, the sound echoing in the suffocating silence of your room.

Your legs gave out beneath you, the weight of everything dragging you down. You fell to the floor with a quiet thud, your back sliding against the door until you were sitting, knees pulled to your chest. Your hands trembled as they wrapped around your legs, holding yourself together as though you might otherwise shatter completely. The tears came fast and hot, spilling down your face in relentless waves as sobs wracked your body.

Outside, Logan stopped just short of colliding with the door. He stared at it for a moment, frustration and worry warring on his face. His hand came up, hesitating before he knocked gently, his voice barely audible over the sound of your muffled cries.

“Don’t do this to yourself,” he said, his words soft but edged with a quiet plea. “C’mon. Let me in.”

Your sobs didn’t stop. If anything, they grew louder, raw and broken, tearing through the fragile silence like jagged glass. The sound twisted something deep inside him, and Logan let out a frustrated growl under his breath. His hands curled into fists at his sides as he leaned his forehead against the door, the cool wood doing little to ground him.

He could hear every breath you took, every hitch in your voice, every agonized cry that told him exactly how much pain you were in. And it was killing him. Logan wasn’t the type to sit idly by, but now, he had no choice. You had locked him out—both literally and figuratively—and no matter how badly he wanted to rip the door off its hinges, he held himself back. Barely.

“Dammit,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. His fists uncurled, one hand coming up to press flat against the door, as if somehow that small gesture could reach you.

Inside, you heard his words, but they felt distant, like a faint echo buried beneath the tidal wave of your guilt. Your breaths came in sharp, shallow gasps, your chest heaving as the weight of everything pressed down on you. Maya’s face flashed in your mind—her lifeless body, the blood, the stillness—and a fresh wave of nausea rolled through you.

Logan's voice came again, this time firmer, though still gentle. “You’re not the reason this happened. You hear me? It wasn’t your fault.”

But you couldn’t hear him—not really. The voice in your head was louder, crueler, drowning him out with accusations and blame. It was your fault. You should’ve done better, been better. You shouldn’t have stormed into the mission so recklessly, thinking everything would go as planned. Maya was gone because of you, and nothing anyone said could change that.

Outside, Logan’s patience snapped. He slammed his palm against the door, the loud crack startling even him. “Lemme in,” he demanded, his voice rough, a thread of desperation woven through it. “Lemme in, Jesus.”

But there was no response. Only the sound of your quiet, choked cries bleeding through the door. Logan clenched his jaw, his frustration bubbling to the surface. He wanted to be angry at you, to yell at you for shutting him out, but he couldn’t. Not when he could hear the sheer agony in every sound you made.

“Shit,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. He leaned back against the door, his body a tense line of restraint. The urge to break down the barrier between you was almost overwhelming, but he stayed put, knowing you’d only push him further away if he forced his way in.

“Please,” he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur, almost a whisper. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.” His words hung heavy in the air, unanswered.

Logan’s heart twisted painfully as he realized he couldn’t reach you—not like this. You kept putting distance between yourself and everyone else, a distance that felt impossible for him to cross. He wanted nothing more than to pull you into his arms, to hold you until the storm inside you calmed, but you wouldn’t let him. And that broke something inside him more than he cared to admit.

Sliding down to sit on the floor outside your door, Logan rested his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He stayed there, silent but present, listening to your muffled cries. His claws itched to tear the door apart, but instead, he let out a quiet sigh, his voice barely audible as he spoke again.

“M'not going anywhere,” he said softly, his words meant for you and you alone. “Take all the time you need. I’ll be right here.”

•••

The sun had begun its slow ascent, casting a dark blue hue over the horizon visible through your window. The shadows of the night retreated inch by inch, but the heaviness inside you refused to dissipate. You hadn’t moved from your spot by the window, knees drawn to your chest, the tears long since dried on your cheeks. An hour had passed, maybe more, though it felt like a lifetime.

Then, Professor Xavier's calm, commanding voice broke the silence, resonating in your mind. “I need you in the meeting room.”

You inhaled deeply, trying to steady the storm inside you. Rising to your feet felt like a monumental effort, but you managed. You opened the door and froze at the sight of Logan seated by the wall just outside, his head resting against it, eyes closed but still alert. He looked up instantly, his gaze locking onto yours.

He stood quickly, his movements fluid despite the obvious exhaustion etched into his features. "Xavier?" he asked, his tone neutral but edged with concern.

“Yeah,” you croaked out, your voice raspy and weak, accompanied by a small nod. You avoided his gaze, focusing on the floor as you closed the door behind you. Without another word, you turned and began walking toward the stairs, your feet moving automatically.

But you hadn’t gone far when Logan’s hand gently caught your wrist, halting your steps. “Hey,” he said softly followed by muttering your name, his voice a plea more than a call.

You froze, your body stiffening at the contact. For a moment, you couldn’t bring yourself to turn, couldn’t bear to see the worry or frustration in his eyes. But his pull was gentle, almost reluctant, and it broke through your hesitation. Slowly, you turned to face him, your gaze falling to where his hand wrapped around your wrist.

“You don’t have to go,” he murmured, his voice quiet but firm. “I can talk to Charles.” His thumb brushed lightly against your wrist, the touch grounding in its tenderness.

“No, Logan,” you said, shaking your head, your voice steadier this time. “This is my responsibility.”

His grip loosened but didn’t fall away, his thumb still tracing soothing circles on your skin. “Alright,” he muttered, his tone almost resigned, though his words carried an undercurrent of understanding.

His voice pulled your gaze upward, and for the first time, you met his eyes fully. They were heavy with exhaustion and unspoken emotions, a reflection of everything he wasn’t saying but felt nonetheless. You swallowed hard, guilt gnawing at you as your eyes flicked from his to his lips for the briefest moment—a fleeting, subconscious act.

Realizing what you’d done, you flinched slightly, pulling your wrist free from his grasp. “I’ll be fine,” you mumbled, turning quickly and walking toward the stairs without sparing him another glance.

Behind you, Logan let out a quiet sigh, his frustration palpable. He followed a step behind, unwilling to let you face whatever awaited you alone, even if you didn’t want his company.

The room fell silent as you stepped in, Logan following close behind. All eyes turned toward you, their gazes heavy, searing into your already fragile composure. You glanced around the table, forcing yourself to take in each expression, though you couldn’t linger for long.

Scott’s face was a mask of barely restrained fury, his jaw clenched, his lips pressed into a thin line. Even behind his visor, you could feel the weight of his disappointment. It radiated off him, sharp and cutting, like a physical blow.

Beside him, Jean sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her face pale, her eyes rimmed with red. She wasn’t just mourning—she was devastated, her grief a palpable force that seemed to drain the room of warmth.

Ororo’s expression was harder to decipher. Her lips pressed together in a grim line, her eyes clouded with a mix of emotions—grief, perhaps, but also a quiet sadness that hinted at disappointment.

Hank sat hunched over, his hands clasped tightly on the table, his brow furrowed in an almost pained expression. His guilt was etched into every line of his face, though you knew this wasn’t on him. Still, it weighed on him as if it were.

Finally, your eyes landed on Charles. His face was as composed as ever, his expression neutral and unreadable. Yet the silence that lingered between you spoke volumes. There was no condemnation in his gaze, but no reassurance, either—just the quiet presence of a man who had seen too much.

The weight of their collective stares became unbearable, and you looked down, focusing on the floor as you moved to take an empty seat. Logan’s hand lightly brushed your back, a silent anchor, before he stepped around you to take the chair beside yours.

The silence in the meeting room was oppressive as Charles cleared his throat, his voice calm yet heavy with the weight of the situation.

“We’re here to discuss the unfortunate events that has occurred,” he began, his tone measured, “And to prepare for Maya’s funeral this morning.”

The mention of her name sent a fresh wave of guilt crashing over you. You stared at the table, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.

Scott, however, wasted no time, his voice sharp and biting. “She needs to explain herself.” His gaze burned into you, and though you couldn’t see his eyes behind the visor, the fury in his voice was unmistakable. “A student is dead, because she couldn’t keep her head straight.”

Logan shifted in his seat beside you, his fists curling against the table. “Ease up, Summers,” he growled, his tone low and menacing.

“No,” Scott shot back, his voice rising. “You think this is something we can just brush off? Maya’s gone, and someone needs to be held accountable!”

Logan leaned forward, his voice cold and deliberate. “Accountable? You wanna talk about accountability, Scott? Maybe we should start with who came back drunk last night.”

Scott froze, his jaw tightening as Logan’s words hit their mark.

“She was trying to do the team a favor” Logan continued, his gaze hard.

“Logan,” Charles interjected, his tone a quiet warning, but Logan ignored him, his focus locked on Scott.

“You weren’t out there,” Logan said, his voice sharp as claws. “You didn’t see what we were up against.”

Scott looked like he wanted to fire back, but Jean placed a hand on his arm, her touch calming him just enough to make him sit back.

Charles turned to you, his expression gentler. “Please, tell us what happened,” he said, his tone more of a request than a command.

Your hands tightened into fists against your knees, your voice trembling as you began.

“Logan and I got her into the car, we were already leaving from the facility and her condition was well” you said quietly, your throat tightening. “I thought we were clear, but then…” You hesitated, the memory of that moment flashing vividly in your mind.

“They catch up with bikers and started shooting, the window shattered” you continued, your voice breaking. “A bullet… or maybe a glass, it nicked through her neck.”

You couldn’t say more, your words catching as your breaths grew shallow. Logan’s hand moved, his rough palm settling atop your trembling one where it gripped your knee tightly. His warmth anchored you, his touch gentle but grounding.

“We almost got her,” Logan said, his voice low but steady, cutting through the tension in the room. His tone carried a weight of guilt, even though you knew it wasn’t his to bear. “I couldn’t drive fast enough.”

His admission hung in the air, raw and unfiltered, as if he blamed himself when the truth was far from that.

“It wasn’t his fault,” you said, your voice barely audible, but firm. “It was mine. It was my idea to move faster, to take the risk.”

Logan’s grip on your hand tightened just slightly, a silent protest against your self-blame.

The room remained quiet for a moment, the weight of your words sinking in. Even Scott, though still fuming, seemed to falter, the sharp edges of his anger dulled by the rawness of what had been said.

Charles’s gaze lingered on you and Logan, his expression unreadable but thoughtful.

Jean was the first to break the silence. “And Ellie?” she asked softly, her voice laced with concern.

The reminder hit you like a punch to the gut. Ellie. You swallowed hard, your throat dry. “We didn’t find her. She’s still out there.”

Scott’s scowl deepened. “So, we’re sitting here, wasting time when we should be focusing on finding her.”

“We will,” Charles said firmly.

Ororo looked to you, her expression thoughtful but troubled. “Why would they target children, especially girls?” she asked. “It seems deliberate.”

You took a deep breath, choosing your words carefully. “Because girls are less likely to be seen as a threat,” you said, your voice steady. “They’re easier to overlook, which makes it simpler to take them without raising alarm. And if they’re young enough, they’re more vulnerable—less likely to fight back or escape.”

You paused, glancing around the room. “But it’s not just about control. Girls are often underestimated, even when they have powerful abilities. Someone like Maya, with her supersonic scream, or Ellie, who can manipulate fire—that kind of power in someone people don’t expect to be dangerous? It’s exactly what these people want. They can groom them into weapons without the same resistance they’d face from boys or adults.”

Ororo’s expression hardened as your words sank in, the room falling silent under the weight of the revelation.

Hank nodded solemnly. “Their methods align with that theory. The equipment and resources we’ve seen point to calculated, targeted operations.”

“We need to find Ellie,” Scott said, his tone resolute. “And we need to stop SAC and Killebrew before they take anyone else.”

Logan leaned back in his chair, his hand still resting lightly atop yours. “We gotta face something bigger” he began, his voice steady but edged with tension, “This wasn’t just random. The SAC, they’re mixed up in this probably alongside with CIA and Killebrew too. This ain’t the first time we’ve crossed paths with the man, he could be deep with all this.”

Scott’s scowl deepened, and he crossed his arms. “We’ve dealt with Killebrew before,” he said sharply. “There's not enough solid proof he was behind these new experiments. Just speculation. The man's old, he's running out of time.”

“Speculation doesn’t get us anywhere,” Ororo said softly, though her tone carried a distinct edge.

Jean leaned forward, her voice low. “If Killebrew is involved, we need to connect him to SAC and whoever else is funding these operations. Otherwise, we’ll just be chasing shadows again.”

Hank adjusted his glasses and sighed. “The attack on Maya and the equipment used tell us a lot. I analyzed the bike, custom made. It’s clear their resources are not only military-grade but could also specifically designed for counter-mutant operations. This suggests direct involvement from SAC, with Killebrew’s expertise likely supporting their goals.”

“What exactly are their goals, Hank?” Charles asked, his tone even but probing.

“From what we’ve gathered so far,” Hank said, his voice growing more serious, “it’s not just containment. SAC is using Killebrew’s methods to experiment on mutants. They’re trying to weaponize abilities. Think back to the enhanced weaponry we encountered—they’re taking mutant DNA and turning it into tools for warfare.”

A heavy silence followed as the weight of Hank’s words settled over the room.

Logan broke it, his voice rough. “We need to hit their base again. There’s gotta be somethin’ there—a lead, intel, anything. Webknow what we’re walkin’ into this time.”

Scott scoffed, his frustration bubbling over. “Yeah because this time nobody's gonna be harmed” His voice was sharp, his anger directed more at the situation than any one person.

Logan’s jaw clenched, but his voice stayed level. “Can you stop being such an asshole for five fucking minutes?” he said pointedly, as Scott referencing the recklessness of his and your recent off-mission behavior.

The tension between them was palpable, but before it could escalate, Charles raised a hand. “Enough,” he said firmly. His tone left no room for argument.

Jean quickly stepped in. “Let’s focus. We can’t afford to splinter as a team.”

Hank nodded, his voice steady. “Logan’s right. Returning to their base may provide us with the evidence we need to finally pin this on Killebrew and SAC. We should move quickly before they clear out any remaining traces.”

Ororo glanced at Charles. “And Maya?”

Charles’ face softened slightly, though his voice carried the weight of leadership. “We will lay her to rest in the garden this morning. She was one of us, and she deserves to be honored as such. Afterward, we’ll plan the mission in detail.”

The group exchanged solemn glances, unified in their grief but also in their determination.

Logan gave your hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. “We’ll figure this out,” he said quietly, his gaze meeting yours for a fleeting moment.

The room fell into a heavy silence after Charles dismissed the team, his parting words lingering in the air. "Pay your respects for Maya soon. She deserves it." One by one, everyone stood, somber and weighed down by grief.

You pushed yourself to your feet, still clutching your arms around your body for some semblance of comfort. The ache in your chest was unbearable, making it hard to even look up at the others. Logan followed closely behind as you stepped toward the door. By the time you exited the room, his palm rested gently on your back.

The touch was warm, steady—an anchor in the storm you felt raging inside. A shiver ran down your spine, one you couldn’t suppress. His voice broke through the haze, low and calm, “You should eat something.”

The suggestion felt like an afterthought in your daze, but it stirred a faint awareness of the emptiness in your stomach. You were too weak to respond, too wrapped up in your own exhaustion, but Logan’s sharp ears caught the faint growl from your stomach.

His lips twitched slightly, just enough for you to catch the ghost of a smirk. “I could make omelette and potatoes,” he said casually, as though trying to lighten the mood. “Like that one time, huh?”

A faint memory surfaced—Logan fumbling in the kitchen, you relentlessly judging his cooking skills for making something so basic. You’d teased back then, earning a gruff chuckle and a sarcastic quip.

Now, despite the heaviness pressing down on you, a weak laugh escaped your lips. You glanced up at him, catching the faint amusement in his expression. His palm remained firm against your back, grounding you, while his other hand rested casually in his pocket.

But the small moment was shattered by a sharp voice from behind.

“Right, keep her tame like your little pet.” Scott’s words were venomous, startling you as you turned, not realizing he’d been walking behind you. Logan froze mid-step, his hand dropping from your back as he turned to face Scott.

“Whatddya said?” Logan’s voice was low, his tone barely controlled, carrying an edge that made you flinch.

Scott met his glare with one of his own, unflinching. “You heard me, I said keep her tame like you—”

Scott never got to finish. Logan’s fist flew faster than you could react, connecting with Scott’s jaw in a sickening crack. You flinched, your body tensing as the scene unfolded before you.

Scott staggered back, his hand shooting to his jaw as he scowled. Without hesitation, he retaliated, throwing a punch that caught Logan square on the nose. Blood trickled down, but Logan barely seemed to notice. Instead, he grabbed Scott by the jacket, pulling him close.

You swear you couldn't care less about their immature behavior, you got too much on your plate and barely enough energy to raise your voice for them to hear. “Please, just stop” you said weakly, stepping forward, but the two were frozen in place before you could intervene.

You blinked in confusion, your voice uncertain as you took a cautious step closer. “Logan?” you called, your concern palpable as you inspected their frozen forms. Logan’s hand remained clenched around Scott’s jacket, while Scott’s arm hovered mid-air, inches away from his visor.

From behind you, a familiar voice broke the tense silence, tinged with exasperation. “They’re getting too old for this,” Jean said dryly, stepping into view.

“Since when could you do that?” you asked, glancing back to see Jean emerging from the meeting room.

She shrugged, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Professor taught me a while ago.” She clicked her tongue, strolling closer to inspect the scene. “Look at them.”

Despite yourself, a weak chuckle escaped. Jean nudged you lightly with her shoulder. “It’s kind of amusing,” you admitted, your voice soft but tinged with a hint of laughter.

Jean smirked, crossing her arms. “Aren’t they?”

Charles and Hank appeared from the hallway, both glancing at the spectacle before them. Charles sighed but didn’t stop strolling, his voice calm but firm. “Jean, let the poor gentlemen go.”

Hank shook his head but said nothing, following Charles without breaking stride. Jean tilted her head slightly, and in an instant, Logan and Scott were moving again.

Logan blinked, releasing his grip on Scott’s jacket as he stepped back. Scott stopped his arm mid-motion, lowering it reluctantly as he glared at Logan.

“Not cool,” Logan muttered toward Jean, his voice rough with irritation.

Jean just smirked, her attention already shifting. Logan turned back to you, his features softening immediately. “C’mon,” he said, tilting his head and gesturing for you to follow.

You clutched your arms tighter around yourself, your exhaustion evident as you walked to his side. His palm found its place on your back again, steady and comforting.

Jean and Scott trailed behind, their voices low.

“Are they together or something?” Scott whispered, his tone both bitter and curious.

Jean gave him a look, her lips curving into a faint smile. “I don’t know.”

Scott frowned, skeptical. “What do you mean you don’t know? You’re a telepath.”

Jean rolled her eyes, her smile widening as she glanced ahead at you and Logan. “Some things are better left unanswered, Scott.”

The garden was silent except for the soft rustling of leaves in the morning breeze. The students and staff of Xavier’s School had gathered in somber rows, faces etched with grief. The small tombstone stood freshly planted in the earth, its inscription simple yet heartbreaking:

Maya Fernandez

Gone but not forgotten.

You stared at it, the weight in your chest growing heavier with each passing second. The sound of Charles’s voice delivering a eulogy barely registered, muffled as though you were underwater. You couldn’t bring yourself to look anywhere else, not even as the team began to disperse after the ceremony.

Logan stood across from you, his arms crossed tightly, his sharp eyes fixed on your still figure. He hadn’t moved since the gathering started, lingering at a respectful distance but watching you closely.

One by one, the others left the garden, the sound of footsteps fading into the background. Ororo cast a last glance in your direction, her expression heavy with sympathy before walking away. Jean lingered for a moment, exchanging a look with Logan before she too left, leaving only the two of you standing there.

Logan’s boots crunched softly against the gravel as he approached. His presence was solid, grounding, but he hesitated as he neared you. His jaw worked, as though he was trying to find words, but nothing came out.

Finally, he stood by your side, silent. His hand hovered near your back before finally resting there, his touch tentative at first, seeking permission. When you didn’t flinch or pull away, his palm slid gently to the curve of your waist. The pressure was light but steady, a silent invitation to let him be there for you.

Without looking up to him, you stepped closer, leaning into his side. The movement was instinctive, your body desperate for some kind of support as your legs threatened to give out beneath you. Logan’s arm tightened around you slightly, anchoring you to him.

Your left arm reached around his back, clutching at the fabric of his shirt like a lifeline. The closeness sent a faint shiver down his spine, but he said nothing, letting you take what you needed. Your right hand rested against his chest, your fingers brushing over the soft shirt he wore as you wiped away tears that seemed endless.

“You're always have been the resilient one,” Logan murmured, voice low and rough but carrying a gentleness.

You shook your head. “Not today.”

He exhaled deeply, his hand moving in small, soothing circles against your waist. “And that’s okay,” he said quietly.

The words, simple as they were, broke through the dam holding back your emotions. You buried your face against his chest, muffling the quiet sobs that racked your body. Logan stayed still, his broad frame solid against you, his warmth a shield against the cold weight of grief.

By the time darkness had fallen, the team was already prepared for a calculated mission to find Ellie, putting the grief of Maya aside to save, hopefully, the living one. You'd picked a twin pair of handguns—glossy black—safely secured in their holsters.

The Blackbird took off as usual, with Hank in the pilot’s seat and Ororo co-piloting. Logan, as always, secured his favorite spot next to you on the long bench in the cabin, various straps holding his broad frame in place.

However, unlike the rest of the team, Logan wasn’t dressed in the usual black suit—no tactical gear, no uniform. He just sat there in a pair of jeans and a simple black shirt alongside with black leather jacket, like he didn’t have a single care in the world.

Scott eyed him, his lips twitching in mild exasperation. "You're seriously not going to wear the team gear?" he asked, an eyebrow arched.

Logan shot him a quick glance, his usual smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Nah. Don't need it."

"Party pooper," Scott muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes.

Logan didn’t bother responding, keeping his focus on the mission ahead.

It was a smooth takeoff at first, but soon heavy clouds began shaking the Blackbird. Despite its sophisticated technology, it couldn’t fully defy nature's might. The turbulence wasn’t unfamiliar to you, but the violent tremors made even you a bit uneasy. Your mutation would protect you if anything happened, but you couldn't help wishing this particular flight would remain incident-free. After all, this plane carried the only people you truly cared about in your half-century of life.

You glanced toward the cockpit. Hank’s normally calm demeanor was strained as he gave Ororo instructions, his voice steady but clipped. Ororo nodded, adjusting the controls to lower the jet and avoid the worst of the storm. Their calm professionalism grounded you, even as the turbulence worsened.

Jean and Scott sat across from you and Logan. Scott’s expression was unreadable behind those glasses, his posture relaxed as though turbulence were just a minor inconvenience. Jean, gripping her seatbelt casually, seemed equally unbothered. Your gaze drifted left to Logan, though, and what you saw surprised you.

His eyes were shut tight, his jaw clenched, and his hands gripped the safety straps like they were his lifeline. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, and his normally robust complexion had turned pale. His lips were pressed together so hard they almost disappeared.

He was scared. That was new.

“For someone who can’t die, you kinda sucks at it,” you quipped, hoping to lighten the mood.

Logan’s eyes snapped open, meeting yours, but the stress etched into his features didn’t soften. The lines on his forehead deepened as he shook his head silently, a clear sign he wasn’t in the mood for your jokes.

Realizing you’d misread the situation, you softened your tone. “It’s just a little turbulence,” you said, trying to reassure him, but the jet betrayed you as another violent jolt rocked the cabin. Logan grunted, his grip tightening on the straps.

“Little’s a strong word,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his knuckles white from the pressure of his grip. His breathing grew short and shallow, a rhythm that immediately set off alarms in your mind.

“Logan, breathe,” you said gently, leaning closer. His eyes locked onto yours, and you exaggerated a deep, steady breath, silently urging him to follow. Slowly, he began to mimic you, his breathing evening out with each deliberate inhale and exhale. Another slight shake hit the jet, but this time he managed to stay calm, his breathing steady under your watchful gaze.

You nodded to him, and he returned the gesture before breaking eye contact, his hands finally relaxing their death grip on the straps. He let them slide down to rest on his thighs, his shoulders sagging as some tension left his body.

Then another violent jolt struck, causing Logan’s hands to clench into fists on his thighs. You caught snippets of conversation from the cockpit as Hank and Ororo discussed a change in altitude to escape the worst of the storm. Acting on instinct, you placed your hand over Logan’s right arm, the one gripping his thigh.

His gaze darted to your hand, a flicker of surprise and, perhaps, gratitude flashing across his face. Almost immediately, his grip relaxed, his arm going still under your touch. You rubbed small circles on his forearm with your thumb, a soothing motion that seemed to anchor him further.

From across the cabin, Jean caught your eye, her expression laced with quiet amusement. She smiled softly, and you pressed your lips into a thin line, feeling warmth creeping up your neck. You quickly shifted your focus back to Logan, whose arm beneath your palm now felt steadier, the tension in his body beginning to ebb away.

Jean turned slightly, nudging Scott with her shoulder. Without speaking, she sent him a telepathic message: "They’re going to end up together by the end of the week."

Scott glanced at her, raising an eyebrow in amusement. His thoughts answered hers with a teasing tone: "End of the week? Please. I give it forty-eight hours."

Jean raised an eyebrow back at him, her lips twitching in a restrained smile. "Oh yeah? Wanna bet?" The spark of challenge in her tone was unmistakable.

Scott smirked, meeting her gaze. "Sure. If I win, I’m picking the next Saturday movie night."

Jean’s nose wrinkled in mock disgust. "Ugh, not a three-hour boring war movies. Fine, but if I win, we’re going on a picnic Sunday morning. No excuses."

Scott tilted his head, feigning consideration before nodding. "Deal."

Their expressions mirrored a conspiratorial delight, both barely containing their amusement as they exchanged a subtle smile. Scott leaned back, looking smug, while Jean cast another knowing glance in your direction.

Neither you nor Logan noticed the silent exchange, too absorbed in the moment between you. Logan’s grip had relaxed completely now, and your thumb instinctively moved in small circles over his arm. Whatever storm lingered inside him seemed to settle under your touch.

Jean fought the urge to laugh, her amusement evident as she leaned slightly toward Scott. Telepathically, she added: "Better start picking your movie, Summers."

Scott's response came swiftly, with equal confidence. "Better packing that picnic basket, Grey."

The rough flight to the SAC headquarters had unsettled the team, though Logan hid it better than most. The turbulence seemed almost symbolic, foreshadowing the chaos they were about to face. When the Blackbird finally touched down, everyone was tense but laser-focused. Logan led the charge during the initial infiltration, his claws carving a silent, efficient path through the guards. Behind him, Ororo and Scott cleared the way for Hank and Jean to access the facility's systems. You followed suit, the rhythm of combat grounding you in the moment.

The team split up for efficiency. You found yourself alone, navigating the sterile hallways. The lab doors loomed ahead, and when you stepped inside, a sight far worse than you'd imagined greeted you.

Stacks of files and records lined the walls, their labels clinical and cold: Mutation Experimentation Logs, Specimen Decommission Reports. You hesitated, dread coiling in your gut. Pulling out a file at random, you scanned the contents, each word cutting deeper than the last.

The SAC wasn’t just experimenting on mutants—it was cross-breeding them with animals to create grotesque hybrids. Descriptions of failed experiments leaped off the page, detailing lives spent in agony before termination. Your breath hitched as you stumbled across a photo clipped to the file: a child, no older than ten, with reptilian scales covering half her body. The caption read: Deceased – Subject incompatible with human host.

Your hand trembled as you shut the file and grabbed another. This one bore a name you recognized—Ivan Sokolov. A pit formed in your stomach as your eyes skimmed through the familiar handwriting: Killebrew's.

"Subject terminated following loss of viability due to prolonged suppression of mutation. Will be sent to battlefield without request for funds. Further trials planned with new candidates."

The words blurred for a moment, but your gaze snapped back to a single phrase that sent a chill down your spine: "prolonged suppression of mutation."

Mutation? Ivan was a mutant?

Your breath caught, your pulse pounding as you scrambled to reread the lines, searching for anything that might explain. Ivan, your closest friend in that desolate sea of blood and cruelty, had never hinted at being anything other than human. He hadn’t had the enhanced strength or agility some mutants wore like badges. He hadn’t shown any signs of powers you could remember.

The realization struck like a thunderbolt—he never told you. Or perhaps, he couldn't. The military had kept his secret, used him just as they had used you. But why? What was his mutation? Questions clawed at your mind, unanswered and unanswerable, now that Ivan was gone.

Your vision blurred as you returned to the file, flipping through pages frantically. Buried amidst the clinical notes was a vague mention: "Unidentified genetic anomaly. Presumed linked to cognitive augmentation." Cognitive augmentation? Your chest tightened. Ivan had always been the strategist, the one who saw patterns, who seemed to anticipate moves before they happened.

The finality of Killebrew’s words—discarded like so many others—hit you with full force. He wasn’t just a casualty of war. He had been erased, his humanity stripped away in the same cruel experiments that had stolen so many others.

Ivan had been a flicker of light in your darkness, the anchor that kept you grounded when the horrors of the battlefield threatened to swallow you whole. And now, that light was snuffed out, leaving you alone with the knowledge of the secret he had carried to his grave.

Your hands shook as you shut the file. But this time, it wasn’t just grief. It was rage—cold, seething, unrelenting rage. Ivan had deserved better. They all had.

A sound behind you snapped you out of your daze. Whirling around, you saw Logan emerging from another hallway, flanked by four wide-eyed children. Their faces were pale, their thin bodies trembling with fear.

"There's more?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Another batch of kids these bastards managed to catch," Logan growled, his tone a mix of rage and quiet grief. “Still no sign of Ellie.”

Your jaw tightened. “Take them back to the jet. I'll keep looking.”

Logan's eyes narrowed. "Not alone, you're not."

“Logan,” you said firmly, your eyes locking with his. “They need you more than I do. I’ll manage.”

He stared at you for a moment, torn between arguing and trusting you. Finally, he relented. “Fine. Be careful.”

You nodded and moved past him, your steps purposeful despite the storm of emotions churning inside you.

Deeper into the facility, you found another lab, and your heart sank at the sight. Ellie sat inside a cage, her small frame curled up in a corner. A thick collar rested around her neck—the same mutation-suppressing device you knew all too well. Her tear-streaked face lifted at the sound of the door opening, and your chest tightened.

“Ellie…” you whispered, stepping closer, but your movement was halted by a voice that sent ice down your spine.

“They found a way to unlock your collar,” Killebrew said, emerging from the shadows with a smug smile. “Still playing the hero, them disgusting mutants band messed with your head.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. “Let her go.”

Killebrew ignored your demand, circling the room with calculated steps. “Do you ever stop to think, my dear? Everyone who comes near you ends up dead. Ivan. Your father. Your mother. You’re a curse.”

The mention of your parents made you freeze. “What did you say?”

He tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Your father’s betrayal was just the beginning, wasn’t it? But your mother—oh, she broke after his death. I heard she didn’t last long. A few months, maybe?”

The words sliced through you, but you refused to show weakness. “What did you do to Ivan?!” you hissed.

Killebrew chuckled, leaning casually against the workstation. “Face it—you’re nothing but a harbinger of death to those around you. Maybe your new guy can’t die this time, but I suspect something far worse than death is already creeping up on him. The big bad Wolverine with fire and flesh... Oh, they call you ‘Hollow’ now, don’t they? I have to admit, you two make such an exquisite pair.”

Rage boiled over. With a growl, you launched yourself at him. The fight was vicious, Killebrew surprisingly agile for his age. He dodged your first swing, reaching for a scalpel, but you knocked it away. As the scuffle continued, you kicked over the cage holding Ellie, breaking it open.

“Run!” you shouted at her. “Find the others!”

Ellie hesitated, her wide eyes darting between you and Killebrew. “Go!” you yelled, your voice raw. Finally, she bolted, disappearing into the hallway.

Killebrew used the distraction to strike, slamming a piece of equipment into your side. Pain flared, but you ignored it, throwing yourself back into the fight with renewed fury.

Ellie stumbled into Scott first. “I found her!” he called into the comms. “She’s alive, but we need to move. Everyone, back to the Blackbird!”

Jean and Hank joined quickly, carrying armfuls of documents. By the time they reached the jet, Logan was already there with the other children, his expression dark and searching.

“Where is she?” Logan barked, his eyes scanning the group. When no one answered, he yelled your name.

“She’ll manage,” Scott said firmly, strapping in. “We can’t risk the kids.”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his rage simmering just below the surface. “Fine,” he snapped, storming out of the jet. Jean called after him, but he ignored her, leaping down and heading back toward the facility.

“Logan, wait!” she yelled again, but he was already gone.

Scott shook his head. “Start the engines,” he ordered, leaving no room for debate. The roar of the Blackbird filled the air as Logan disappeared into the woods, determined to bring you back.

That old age isn’t lying; Killebrew is slow and can’t put up with your fight for so long. You manage to tie him to the laboratory chair with cable and some rope—god knows for what. His ridiculous face whining in pain and gray hair striking under the harsh light is absolutely amusing.

You shake your head, the view is amusing, but you can’t shake the question out of your system. What the fuck happened to Ivan? So you pull a chair and sit across from him.

“What’d you do to Ivan?” you manage to ask calmly, despite the raging storm.

“Injected him with the formula I bought from Russia. It was so expensive, he was practically a waste of funds.”

“Waste of fucking funds?!” You grunt in disgust. “Why didn’t he ever tell me? Why didn’t you?”

Killebrew shakes his head, confused. “Tell you what?!” he yells in frustration.

“That he was a mutant?! All this time, I thought he was human. Some random guy that got tangled under the filthy US government military that he probably didn’t even know half of what was going on. And I just fucking find out he’s one of your projects, just like me. Why’d you keep it from me?” you cry in frustration.

Killebrew’s brows narrow together. “Why on earth would I fucking tell you that? I’m rather surprised he didn’t tell you,” he says, leaning back with the slightest grin forming on his lips.

You shake your head. Of course, he didn’t fucking care. And here you are, thinking he kept it all away for a reason, but it’s all on Ivan. He didn’t tell you anything, and you thought you knew him, only to be proven that you didn’t know him at all, years after he was gone.

You sit in silence, letting this new fact that alters a big part of your life sink in. Your head feels heavy, and it suddenly drops as you look at the floor.

A whole year, maybe even a little more than that, you were stationed together. Sure, a year is a pretty short time to get to know someone new, but it’s a different case when the only time you didn’t see each other was a week out of that one year. You and Ivan, alongside ten other human soldiers—or at least you thought they were human because now Ivan has you questioning everything—were stationed under that sergeant whose name you can barely remember. But you remember every minute you spent with Ivan.

He told you his father was in the military. It was a common ground that instantly clicked between you two. You remembered his witty jokes: “What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this? I bet ten dollars your father served.” To which you instantly replied, “And I bet you twenty your pops also served.” That day, you lost ten dollars but also gained another ten.

He’s from Montana, he told you that. His father served in the military and wanted him to be a real man and serve their country for being so kind to them as refugees. His father used to say their family owed America their lives, which you both laughed your asses off at. Owing America your life... what a shithole nightmare of a life to live.

He left Russia when he was six and never came back. He told you that. He pretty much fucking told you everything about his life because none of the other ten soldiers were fun to talk to. You did the same thing—told him pretty much everything about your life, even the experiments Killebrew had done and how they affected you. He had shared his sincere apology to you for it, but that was all.

You two lived the same life. He never told you that part. He never told you he was also an experiment, someone whose choices were taken and rights violated?

“So, Ivan’s father also sold his son to you?” you ask, finally breaking the heavy silence and lifting your head.

“Sold? He volunteered,” Killebrew says.

Before you can speak, Killebrew opens his mouth again. “It was because of you. He adored your ability and wanted to have what you have. That one week off, when all of Sergeant Cooper’s soldiers were sent back to regroup, Ivan willingly came to me. His body just rejected it.”

Your breath comes in shallow at another heartbreaking piece of information dropped like some atomic bomb on your head. What the actual fuck? Why would he fucking do that? His blood is actually on your hands? Gosh, he’s so fucking stupid—you should never have told him about your experiment.

You’re upset, angry about his decision. You can’t wrap your head around it. Just why? You feel like throwing the chair across the room. Your hands go up to your head, massaging your temples, then rest on your thighs as you bend slightly forward in the chair.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

As you’re distracted, too busy controlling your breath, Killebrew slips himself free with a piece of broken glass hidden under his white coat sleeve. He cuts the knot on his hand and lunges at you, stabbing you in the neck with the glass.

You scream in pain as he frees himself from the other knot. Your hand instinctively covers the stab wound, carefully pulling the glass out and letting your skin knit itself back together.

He runs toward one of the lab’s drawers and opens a metal door. You try to chase him but stop in horror at the sight of what he grabs.

A mutation inhibitor collar.

“One step closer, and you won’t fucking survive this time, bitch!” he spits, holding the collar out toward you as you stand a few steps away, raising your hands smartly to avoid getting caught in that shit again.

Fuck him.

You run toward him and lunge, knocking him in the stomach until his body drops with a loud thud onto the floor. You pin him in place, and he drops the collar.

Combat isn’t your strong suit, but right now, you want nothing more than to punch him bare in the face. Your fist curls, and you land a fat punch straight to his nose. He grunts in pain and manages to grab a piece of steel, smashing it into your head.

The fight isn't over. You slam Killebrew's head into the wall with a sickening thud, his skull making contact with the concrete. Не lets out a sharp cry of pain, but you don't stop. You keep smashing his head, again and again, until there's a small pool of blood trickling from the back of his skull. He slumps against the wall, his body barely staying upright, but still conscious.

Footsteps approach. Logan walks in, his gaze immediately locking onto the scene. He stops just in time to see you standing over Killebrew, his figure now small and pitiful, sitting and leaning against the wall, panting heavily.

"Hey," Logan calls your name softly. You turn at the sound of his voice. His expression softens when he sees you, his eyes scanning you for any sign of injury. "You okay?"

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. His hand reaches for your shoulder briefly, giving you a comforting squeeze.

Logan looks down at Killebrew, who's still breathing heavily, his face twisted in pain. "Look at you two," Killebrew sneers, his voice ragged. "Gonna outlive every single person you knew on this earth, until nobody's left but the two of you. A match made in hell, an eternal damnation."

Logan glances at you, and you start walking away. He follows, his voice lowering. "Aren't you gonna finish the job?" he asks.

You shake your head. "Let him suffer."

Logan steps in front of you, halting your progress. "Woah, woah, what if someone finds him and rescues him?" He looks at you, concern flashing in his eyes.

You pause, eyes flickering to Killebrew as he struggles for breath. "If I kill him, I'm just proving his point," you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

"You're not what he created," Logan's gaze softens as he processes your words. He nods in understanding. "If he survives, he won't stop."

"I know," you sigh, running a hand through your hair. "You might think I'm crazy, but I just... I'm proving this to myself. That I'm much better than him." Your gaze falls to the floor, your emotions a mess.

Logan steps closer, his breath steady, his tone gentle. "Do you want him dead?"

"Logan, I-"

"It's a yes or no question," he says cutting you off, more firm now, his voice low but unwavering.

You take a deep breath. "Yeah." You sigh, the word heavy on your chest.

Without another word, Logan walks past you, his figure casting a shadow over Killebrew's beaten form. He kneels down in front of Killebrew and curls his fist, bringing it to the man's chest. His claws emerge with a sharp, unmistakable snikt, and without hesitation, he stabs them right into Killebrew's heart.

The life drains from Killebrew's eyes, and his body goes limp. Logan pulls his claws out, the blood dripping slowly down his wrist. He retracts them, wiping his other palm across the blood-stained hand without a care in the world.

He stands up and looks at you, your eyes flickering with something, gratitude, maybe. He approaches you, his hand warm as it rests gently on your back.

"C'mon," he says softly. "Let's get outta here."

You nod, and together, you walk away, leaving the body of Killebrew behind.

The two of you walk down a desolate road, surrounded by dense woods whose name you don't even know. Glancing at your watch, you note it's half-past midnight. You still can’t believe Logan had no better plan for getting back to the mansion than walking. It’s freezing, and the single piece of black leather you’re wearing does nothing to help. And now, left alone with Logan again, you can’t ignore the awkwardness lingering between you two.

A question drums against your skull, one you’ve yet to address properly. You cringe at the thought of saying it out loud, but it keeps circling in your mind.

What the hell are we?

Maybe drop the "hell"—just what are we? Dear god, it sounds absolutely pathetic. Maybe Logan does this often, y’know, the casual thing. You’re not against it, but the idea doesn’t sit right with you. Especially since, well… it’s Logan. He gave you the best head you’ve ever had.

Or maybe it’s better left as is. No strings, no drama. No breakups, no obligations. Nobody gets left behind because there wasn’t anything to fulfill in the first place.

The two of you keep walking down the road. A few cars pass by, and Logan halfheartedly sticks his thumb out for a ride. You quickly point out that it’s not the brightest idea.

Then, a light catches your eye—a building, glowing in the dark with a bright orange sign. "You hungry?" you ask, nudging Logan with your shoulder and nodding toward the diner across the road, about a hundred yards away.

Katz Diner, the sign reads, gleaming through the gloom of night.

"We don’t have any money," Logan says, his boots crunching against the gravel.

"You don’t have any money," you reply, reaching into the pocket of your holster and pulling out two neatly folded hundred-dollar bills.

Logan scoffs, clearly amused. "You’re carryin’ cash around on a mission?"

"What? This is a survival kit." You flash him a wide smile, and his husky chuckle follows, warm and familiar against the cold night air.

The two of you finally make it to the diner, your steps quickening as the glowing orange sign promises warmth and food. But as you reach the glass door, the truth dawns on you. A "CLOSED" sign hangs in clear view, mocking your misplaced hope. You groan, your breath fogging up the glass as you clutch yourself against the biting cold.

"Asshole," you mutter under your breath, shivering as you glare at the locked door.

Logan glances down at you, his expression unreadable except for that flicker of mischief in his eyes. Without a word, you already know what he’s about to do.

"Logan, don’t—"

Before you can finish, his fist smashes through the glass. You flinch at the sound, but Logan barely reacts, calmly reaching through the jagged shards to unlock the door. Pushing it open, he gestures for you to go in first.

"You’ll have to leave the hundred bucks on a table," he says, stepping aside with a smirk.

You roll your eyes, walking past him into the dark, empty diner.

"We’re gonna get arrested," you tease, glancing around the quiet interior. Your gaze catches a red light from CCTV camera mounted in the corner of the ceiling.

"But maybe if there’s no footage," you quip, pulling your gun from its holster.

The loud crack of the gunshot shatters the stillness, and Logan startles, snapping his head toward you. "Geez, give a guy some warning, will ya?"

"Where’s the fun in that?" you reply with a grin, holstering your weapon as you take stock of the diner.

Behind the counter, you push open the swinging door to the kitchen. A quick glance around reveals a treasure trove of ingredients—raw chicken, beef, potatoes, eggs, butter, pasta, tomatoes, sausages, bacon, and more.

"Jackpot," you mutter, pulling a few items off the shelves.

Logan steps into the kitchen, leaning against the counter as you inspect the food. "You planning to cook or hoard?"

You toss a bag of potatoes at him, which he catches with ease. "Both," you shoot back.

Within minutes, the two of you are working side by side, a light banter filling the room as you chop, stir, and fry. Logan handles the meat, seasoning and grilling the chicken and bacon with surprising skill. Meanwhile, you focus on the carbs, boiling pasta and mashing potatoes.

"You're getting better with that," you remark, watching as Logan flips the bacon in a pan.

"Had to learn," he replies with a shrug. "Ain't gonna risk the chance of you callin' my meal closer to inedible, again..."

You chuckle recalling your own joke to him "I really did hit a nerve there huh?" you tease.

Logan smirks, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "Wound still fresh"

The playful tone lingers in the air as you finish cooking, the warm scent of food filling the room. You walk from the kitchen to the table first, balancing your plate carefully, eager to sit and eat. But as you place it down, Logan appears behind you like a shadow, plate in hand, following without a word.

You turn back toward the kitchen, remembering your forgotten glass of water, and nearly crash into him. You freeze as he blocks your way, standing so close that you feel his warmth against the cold air of the diner. Startled, you glance up, and for a brief moment, his heavy, tired eyes bore into yours. It’s like he’s seeing through you, and you’re not sure if you want to look away or keep holding his gaze.

The tension breaks awkwardly as you both shift to move, but in the same direction, cutting each other off. You chuckle nervously. "You want water?"

Logan’s lips twitch into a soft smile, rare and disarming. "Yeah."

You gesture to his right, stepping aside to give him space. "Okay, I’ll go this way, you go that way," you say, slipping past him and retreating to grab two glasses.

Your breath feels shaky as you fill the glasses, your mind stuck on that split-second where he had looked at you. Only if he knew how much he was affecting you, how much you couldn’t shake the feeling of his eyes on you.

When you return, Logan is already seated, waiting. You slide the glass to his side of the table, his quiet "Thanks" breaking the silence as you take your seat.

You eat in silence at first, avoiding his gaze, your eyes fixed on your plate. The chicken looks unappetizing, under-seasoned and bland, but you tell yourself it’s fine—you’ve had worse.

Logan, on the other hand, occasionally glances up from his plate to you. His fork pauses midway to his mouth as he studies you, the way your focus stays locked on your food, the way you keep your head down.

Finally, he speaks. "Y’alright?" His voice is steady, cutting through the quiet scrape of utensils against plates.

You shrug without looking up. "Yeah."

Your gaze shifts to the window beside you, the yellow streetlight casting a faint glow against the black of night. It’s easier to stare at that than at him. After a moment, you bring your attention back to your plate, but the awkward weight of his question still lingers in the air.

Logan’s fork clinks softly as he sets it down, leaning back in the booth. His sharp eyes don’t leave you. "What’s wrong?" he asks again, his voice gentler this time, but persistent.

"Nothing," you reply quickly, a little too quickly, cutting another piece of your chicken as though focusing on the task would shield you from his gaze.

He doesn’t let it go. "Look at me," he grumbles, his tone low but firm, the kind that makes your hand freeze mid-motion.

You hesitate, but eventually tilt your head, meeting his eyes. They’re heavy with something you can’t quite put into words—concern, maybe frustration, but most of all, care.

"What’s wrong?" he repeats, this time softer, your name slipping from his lips like an anchor, grounding you.

You hate that. Hate how much his concern cuts through your walls, hate the way it makes your chest tighten. It’s unbearable, so you break the contact, dropping your gaze back to your plate.

"I don’t know," you admit, your voice small, barely above a whisper. You spear the last bite of chicken and shove it into your mouth, hoping to end the conversation.

But Logan doesn’t move. He doesn’t pick his fork back up, doesn’t shift his attention elsewhere. You can feel him watching you, his patience unnerving.

"You do," he mutters, his voice calm but resolute.

You glance up briefly, your brow furrowing. "No, I don’t," you insist, the words coming out sharper than you intended.

Logan leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. "You’re not a good liar, y’know that?"

The corner of your mouth twitches, but you don’t let the smile break through. "Guess I need more practice."

His lips quirk in a faint smile, but his eyes remain serious. "You don’t need practice. You need to talk."

You shake your head, suddenly feeling exposed under his unwavering attention. "Not now, Logan. Can we just… drop it?"

For a moment, it seems like he might push further, but then he exhales heavily, leaning back again. "Fine," he says, though his tone suggests he’s not letting it go forever.

You stood up quickly, desperate to put some space between you and Logan, the weight of everything hanging in the air. You felt a mix of frustration, confusion, and something you couldn’t quite place. But before you could walk away, his voice stopped you.

"Hey."

You froze, heart pounding, and turned to face him. His eyes were locked onto you, steady and unyielding. He reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out your mother’s necklace, holding it out to you. The sight of it hit you like a punch to the gut, and you could barely process it.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stepped closer. "Where the hell did you find that?" you demanded, your voice coming out shakier than you intended as you snatched the necklace from his arm.

"Your bathroom’s floor," Logan said, his tone almost too casual, like it was no big deal. A smirk tugged at his lips, but there was no hint of apology.

"My bathroom’s floor?" You repeated, disbelief taking over. You could feel your anger rising, the frustration bubbling up. "What the fuck, Logan? Why the hell would you put it in your pocket?!"

Logan's eyes narrowed, and he shifted, standing up from the booth in one smooth motion. He was inches from you now, his body tense with frustration. "Jesus, calm down. It’s just a necklace."

"Just a necklace?" You snapped, voice rising. "It’s my mother’s! You don’t just take things and shove them in your pocket like it doesn’t matter!"

You stood there, fury coursing through your veins, your heart pounding in your chest as Logan continued to stand in front of you. He looked almost unbothered, his stance relaxed, but his eyes—his eyes were anything but.

"You always do this," you said, stepping closer, your voice low but trembling with frustration. "You make me feel like I’m the one losing my mind while you—" you gestured sharply at him, "just stand there like nothing’s wrong!"

Logan’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into loose fists at his sides. "And you think I’m not losing my mind too? You think I don’t feel this—" he waved vaguely between you both, his voice rising, "whatever the hell this is?"

"This?" you shot back, your chest tightening. "This is you pushing and pulling untill I don’t even know where I stand with you!"

His laugh was bitter, almost a scoff. "Yeah? Well, try being on this side of it. Try waking up every day thinking—" He stopped abruptly, his words catching, and his eyes darted away.

"Thinking what?" you demanded, stepping closer. "Say it, Logan. For once, just say it!"

His head snapped back toward you, and his voice dropped, low and rough, like he was forcing the words out. "Thinking that if I get too close, I’m gonna ruin you. And if I stay away, I’ll hate myself for the rest of my goddamn life."

The air between you felt like it might break. Your pulse pounded in your ears, but you couldn’t look away from him.

"Then what do you want me to do?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Logan’s lips parted, but the words seemed to stick, his throat working as he searched for something to say.

"Stay," he murmured raw and pleading. "For once in your damn life, just stay."

You shake your head hesitantly. "Why?" Your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes stinging as you fight back tears.

Logan steps closer, the warmth of his body radiating toward you. His gaze searches your face as if memorizing every detail, etching it into his mind.

"Because we need each other," he says, his voice rough but steady. "You and I... we can be quite destructive on our own. But together—" he pauses, his jaw tightening as if the words are caught in his throat, "we cancel that out."

Your fingers tighten around the heart-shaped pendant in your hand. He reaches for you, his touch impossibly gentle, and you resist, unwilling to let go of this fragile barrier. But the tenderness in his hand disarms you, and slowly, your grip softens.

Logan carefully takes the necklace, holding it as though it’s something sacred. His gaze softens as it locks onto yours. "I've been the best version of myself when I'm with you. And I think—no, I know—you feel the same."

He steps behind you, his movements slow, deliberate, as he fastens the necklace around your neck. You close your eyes, his nearness overwhelming. The familiar scent of him—leather, smoke, and something distinctly Logan—wraps around you, grounding you and pulling you apart at the same time.

"Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll stop," he says softly.

You don’t answer. Words fail you as his fingers brush the back of your neck and lift your ponytail for adjusting the clasp. Your breath catches when his hand grazes your waist, the touch featherlight but enough to send a shiver down your spine.

His voice drops, barely audible. "Just one chance. That’s all I’m asking."

You lean into his touch despite yourself, your head tilting slightly as his breath warms the curve of your neck. When his lips hover, hesitating, your resolve weakens entirely.

"Logan..." you whisper, though you’re not sure what you’re asking for.

He exhales sharply, the sound laced with longing. His palm rests firmly on your waist, and his other hand grazes the zipper of your suit. Your heart pounds as he begins to pull it down, his touch deliberate and maddeningly slow.

Unable to take the tension any longer, you turn to face him, the suit unzipped halfway. His hands find your waist again as you rest yours on his shoulders, grounding yourself against the storm building between you.

"What do you want?" you ask, your voice trembling as his forehead touches yours, his nose brushing against you in the smallest, softest gesture.

"You," he breathes. "I want you."

His hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing your skin with a gentleness that sends heat spiraling through your chest. Before either of you can think twice, you close the gap, your lips crashing into his.

Logan kisses you back with equal intensity, his lips moving against yours in a way that feels both desperate and certain. It’s messy, passionate, and utterly consuming. When your tongue slips past his lips, he meets it eagerly, a low growl escaping his throat.

Without warning, a wild thought flickers through your mind, and you bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to hurt and leave an impression. Logan pulls back with a sharp inhale, his eyes wide with surprise.

You grin, mischief playing on your lips as you watch the small wound heal almost instantly. He licks the blood from his lip tasting the iron.

He cooed "Easy there" the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk.

You grab his wrist after he moves to wipe the blood away and bring his finger to your lips. Slowly, deliberately, you lick the crimson from his skin, your eyes never leaving his.

Logan lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle. "You’re gonna be the death of me," he growls, his voice thick with desire.

"Then I’ll make sure it’s slow and satisfying," you reply, your voice a whisper dripping with challenge.

He doesn’t give you a chance to say anything else, his lips crashing into yours again, hungrier this time. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer, and you feel his body tense against yours as if holding himself back from unraveling completely.

"Logan," you moan against his lips.

"Say it again," he murmurs, his voice raw as his lips trail down to the edge of your jaw.

Your breath stutters. "Logan..."

The way he reacts, the way his name seems to break something inside him, sends your heart spiraling.

Logan pulls back suddenly, his gaze darting to something behind the counter. His expression is unreadable as he peeks over, making you furrow your brows in confusion.

“Logan, what—?” you start, but before you can finish, a familiar tune blasts through the speakers.

'I could stay awake... just to hear you breathing... Watchin’ you smile while you are sleeping.'

Your eyes widen as you recognize the opening chords of Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing by Aerosmith fill the room.

Logan steps back toward you, a mischievous grin on his face. With a slow, deliberate motion, he extends his arm, inviting you to take it.

“What are you doing?” you ask, half-laughing, but you instinctively reach out, letting him guide your hand to his.

“Dance with me,” he says confidently, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You let out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking your head but allowing him to pull you closer.

“Didn’t take you for a sucker of romance,” you tease, laughing softly as he spins you around the empty diner.

His movements are surprisingly smooth, his hand guiding yours to his shoulder while the other stays firmly at your waist. “Yeah, well,” he smirks, “I don’t even know how to dance.”

“Sure you don’t,” you reply with a grin, noticing how effortlessly he leads.

'Every moment spent with you is a moment I treasure.....'

As the music swells, your eyes meet his, and the warmth in his gaze makes your chest tighten. This song—it hits every nerve just right. And then, as if on cue, the two of you burst out in unison:

“Don’t wanna close my eyes…”

Your voice is off-key, and so is his, but neither of you care. You’re singing with abandon, your joy filling the room.

“I don’t wanna fall asleep, ‘cause I’ll miss you, babe!”

Logan laughs, a deep, husky sound that makes your stomach flutter, and you can’t help but join in.

“And I don’t wanna miss a thing!”

You yell out the lyrics, your voices echoing through the diner. Logan suddenly lifts you off your feet, spinning you around, and you shriek with laughter, clinging to his shoulders.

“‘Cause even when I dream of you…” Logan sings the line. You laugh so hard tears prick your eyes.

“The sweetest dream will never do…”

You quiet down, your smile fading into something more genuine as he carries you in a slow, swaying circle.

“I’d still miss you, babe…”

Your chest tightens, emotion welling up as you press closer, resting your forehead against his.

“And I don’t wanna miss a thing,” you whisper, your voice shaky.

Logan’s grin softens, and he pulls you even closer. His chin rests gently on top of your head as the two of you move in slow, easy steps to the rhythm of the song. Your hand squeezes his arm, and you close your eyes, letting the moment take over.

The beat of his heart is steady beneath your ear, grounding you. His hand at your waist tightens, his touch warm and reassuring. For the first time in a long time, everything feels right—no fights, no pain, just the two of you and this perfect, fleeting moment.

'Then I kiss your eyes and thank God we’re together, And I just wanna stay with you, In this moment forever, forever and ever.'

The song continues to pour through the diner speakers as the two of you move in slow, deliberate steps. You pull your head away from Logan’s chest, your eyes flickering with unspoken gratitude. He holds your gaze, leaning in closer, and brushes his lips against yours in a soft, tender kiss.

Outside the diner, across the road, Scott and Jean stand in their gear, clearly fresh from their mission. Ellie and the children have been safely returned to the mansion, and with the tracker embedded in your suit, it wasn’t hard for them to find you and Logan in the middle of nowhere.

What they didn’t expect was… this.

Under the diner’s bright lights and with its large glass windows, you and Logan are clearly visible, completely absorbed in each other.

Scott lets out an incredulous sigh, shaking his head. “Unbelievable,” he mutters.

Jean chuckles, nudging him playfully. “Man, can’t believe we both lost this one,” Scott grumbles.

Jean smirks. “Lovebirds,” she teases, crossing her arms as they continue watching the scene unfold.

Scott huffs, stepping off the curb. “Alright, let’s break this up.”

The two of them approach the diner, standing awkwardly just outside the glass. They exchange a glance, silently debating what to do. Finally, Scott knocks loudly on the glass, startling you both mid-kiss.

You jolt, pulling away from Logan as your heart jumps into your throat. “Fucking hell,” you mutter, your face flushing as you spot Scott and Jean standing there, Scott looking thoroughly unimpressed and Jean offering a thin, awkward smile.

Logan doesn’t look even remotely phased. He’d sensed their presence long before the music even started, but he hadn’t cared. With a soft grunt, he reaches behind you and zips your black leather suit back up, taking his sweet time.

Scott and Jean step carefully through the broken glass on the diner floor, their expressions half-amused and half-annoyed.

“I had high hopes for you two,” Scott says, his tone dry as he surveys the scene.

Logan raises an eyebrow, his hand still resting on your lower back. “You’ve got a point, Summers, or are you just here to gawk?”

Jean laughs lightly, shaking her head. “Don’t mind him. He’s just sulking because he bet you’d get together in the next forty-eight hours.”

Scott scowls. “And she bet it’d take at least a week,” he grumbles, gesturing at Jean. “Turns out, we were both wrong.”

You blink in disbelief, glancing at Logan, who looks utterly amused. He lets out a low, satisfied chuckle.

“Guess you two underestimated us,” he says, flashing a smug grin before leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your lips—right in front of them.

Your cheeks warm, but you can’t help the wide smile spreading across your face as you lean into Logan’s side.

Scott groans, throwing his hands up. “Alright, get a room, you two. Your ride’s outside. Time to go home.” He turns, wrapping an arm around Jean’s shoulders as they head for the door.

'Don’t wanna close my eyes… I don’t wanna fall asleep… I don’t wanna miss a thing,'

the song continues, fading behind you as Logan intertwines his fingers with yours.

“Home,” you murmur with a soft smile, glancing up at him.

Logan’s lips press gently against your temple, his touch grounding and warm.

“Home indeed,” he echoes, voice filled with quiet contentment.

Together, you walk out of the diner, leaving the music behind and a two-hundred-dollar bill on the counter by the radio.

[pearlisedvagabond]

Two's company.

[tossawary]

One of my personal nitpicks for historical fantasy is a lack of servants, staff, subordinates, and... idk... subjects? Like, their absence is not... a total dealbreaker for me, depending on the situations the characters are in and whether or not I can just assume that other people are there in the background... but so many of the protagonists in historical fantasy stuff are higher-ranking (very often royalty), and/or have busy jobs, and/or have enormous houses that would necessitate having at least part-time staff.

Like, girl, you should have a maid! WHERE is your chaperone?! WHO is driving this carriage?! Where are your footmen? Are you trying to imply that a WEALTHY DUCHESS is taking a CAB?! You know that you probably have tenants, right? Where is your steward?! Where is your lawyer? Your accountant?! (Like, yeah, you're not going to have your lawyer living in your house, but you HAVE one, right???)

Or, man, you're supposed to be a military commander and you don't even have a single secretary?! Where is your SQUIRE?! (In the spirit of historical fiction, I am jumping wildly across time periods with every sentence here.) Man, I know you aren't looking after your own boots. Where are your GUARDS?! Who set up this tent for you?! Who is looking after your horse?! Who is making and carrying the incredibly valuable maps people are recklessly stabbing daggers into?!

SOMEONE has to be scrubbing these floors and delivering the mail and cooking the meals and doing laundry, and they're probably all DIFFERENT people! My dentist has at least three different receptionists and we can't even get ONE for our court wizard here? A sorcerer's apprentice to take notes? Someone like Sherlock Holmes could get away with just having a housekeeper and taking taxis, sure, but your character is supposed to be a KING?! Why is he answering his own front door? He's going to get assassinated. His SERVANTS should have SERVANTS.

Like, yes, I understand that a lot of servants in certain places at certain times were supposed to make their labor invisible, but there have always been servants who still had to interact directly with the masters of the house?! Yeah, there are potentially really messy ethics here, class divisions are bullshit, but I don't think that completely ignoring the reality that humans have ALWAYS been doing work for other humans is better than just including some well-paid and well-treated servants and employees? Because a complete absence of them, especially where logically for the worldbuilding there MUST be servants (and probably exploited servants, or worse, for some particular worldbuilds to work), often makes me think that your main characters just don't care enough to notice the "lower class" people or know their names.

Also, even Frodo Baggins had a gardener and Samwise Gamgee might be the best damn character in the story?! Sam saved the world?! Servants are PEOPLE. Servants are often the funniest and most interesting characters, tbh, with the most to say about a society and its workings (yes, Discworld is a very good book series, highly recommend), and also the joke of some romantic scene being carefully orchestrated by a stage crew of servants frantically diving into bushes to stay out of sight never gets old to me. Teamwork makes the dream work!

I don't want to gatekeep historical fiction, especially not historical fantasy, because the worlds don't necessarily have to conform to our own and may have magic and characters are often in very unique circumstances, but... sometimes I pick up a story and it's like... "Author, please tell me that you know there is a difference between a butler and a valet?!"

[bvidzsoo]

The trace of you

Author: bvidzsoo

Pairing: psychiatrist!Jeong Yunho x patient!female reader

ꕤ Warning: bullying, mistreatment, ptsd, mentions of insanity & abuse, mental health talks, psychiatric diagnose, unethical thoughts and actions ꕤ Word count: 25.1k ꕤ Rating: mature ꕤ Genre: dated around the late 1800's, psychiatrist x patient, lots of yearning, mutual pinning, forbidden love, inspired by Alias Grace, angst ꕤ Summary: Being caged inside your home for a wrongdoing you can't even remember seems to not have the effect people have been expecting. With the arrival of a foreign doctor with studies unheard of before, your life takes a new turn. Will Doctor Jeong prove your innocence, or will he fall into your web like everyone else? Are you sane, or is he just as insane as his patients?

A/N: Helloo, my lovelies! ^^ Wrapping up this story took way too long due to me having some unplanned health issues that are still (?) kicking my ass...anyways, keep in mind while you're reading this that there are probably historical inaccuracies to this story, especially to South Korean history that I briefly read through when constructing Yunho character's background. The dresses MC wears also aren't the most accurate, but I hope you can look past that and imagine instead whatever you'd like. I watched the mini-series Alias Grace and was rather inspired by it, so you will find similarities to it within this story. I am no medical professional, so the diagnosis MC is given might be inaccurate even though I have taken my time to research these things. Let me know if I should tag anything else as a warning, and I really hope you enjoy this story as I have tried making it a bit different. Let me know your thoughts about it, I am always excited to read your feedback! <3 Oh, and, I hope Santa brings you something sweet tonight, this is my not so small present for you all! ^^ divider

            The old clock’s ticking seemed to only get louder by the second. The sheer curtains were pulled to the side to allow more sunlight inside the tea room, the grand doors opened to let in the late fresh summer breeze. The white hydrangeas lining the paths leading towards the back garden were gorgeous and carried a strong scent with them, I could smell it from my spot on the soft faded pink cushion of the sofa brought all the way from France. The tea room had been remodelled not long ago. There was something about it that gave old cottage vibes, but it has now been upgraded to a more fashionable Parisian feel. It was pretty, with hues of light peach and a darker coral, however, I used to like more the cosy feeling of the sage green and baby blue colours that had decorated the room once. Karina liked it more this way, she had said something about the lighter colours giving the impression of a bigger room. I did not understand why the tea room was required to look grander than it already was, but I didn’t question her judgment. It was best if I didn’t, not out loud, at least.

The servants were quietly waiting outside the room as my mother paced in front of us, Karina perched on a fancy chair with an abandoned book in her hands. I knew the ticking of the old clock and the silence was driving her mad, but I remained silent as I gazed forward, eyes on the gravel path. I longed to walk in the meadow close to our house, but I wasn’t allowed to roam around on my own. Even inside my own home, I was under constant surveillance. The doctors have said it was for my own sake, but it felt like I was in a continuous cage. It was suffocative, I couldn’t sleep some nights due to it, not even after drinking Mrs. Humphrey’s delicious camomile tea. My last hope resided in summer, in the warm breeze that kissed my cold skin, everything a lush green where I looked, to keep me sane. As sane as it could, since I was deemed a madwoman long ago.

Unlike the others who hired chauffeurs and dated carriages with old horses, this doctor arrived by a fancy patent motorcar. It wasn’t him driving it, at least the servants had whispered that to each other, but his long wool coat looked expensive too. My mother finally stopped pacing and Karina sighed in irritation when there was a knock at the front door. One maid stepped forward and opened the door for the doctor, gently greeting him. I couldn’t hear his voice, I was trying to catch the song of the birds outside, but I could feel the shift in the air. It was warmer inside as if the sun had stepped through our threshold. It warmed my skin like none other. Finally, the doctor was led towards the tea room, my back to him as my lips moved in a whispered song that comforted me. If I ignored the coil of my stomach and the sheen layer of sweat over my brows, I could convince myself that I was fine. That whoever came to check on me wasn’t another vicious man eager to torture a damned soul like mine.

“My apologies, ma’am, I am unfamiliar with these roads.” The man’s voice was deep yet soft, like honey, thick but inoffensive. At least if I told myself that, it calmed my rapid heartbeat. As I continued sitting rigidly, my fingers wrung together, the tremors never disappeared. It was something natural, the other doctors have concluded, something they couldn’t fix about me. Another thing they couldn’t fix about me. It was fine, I knew I had been damned a long time ago.

“Oh, it is no issue, we are glad you made it, Doctor.” My mother’s voice was filled with deep relief as the crease between her brows finally disappeared, hands locked behind her back as she rushed towards the entrance. Karina was surprisingly silent, but her expression spoke volumes. Her eyes had widened and her mouth had parted, fingers barely clutching the book in her hands anymore. I gulped, trying to steady my irregular breathing. I knew what was coming, the same questions and objects this doctor, too, would use to check my stability. I dreaded it all, I wanted to scream and throw a vase and make it shatter against the ground, but I would only be deemed even crazier. My eyes shook when I heard footsteps approach, heavier than those of my mother or Karina, it was the man. The Doctor. He was coming further inside, I could feel his eyes trained on my nape, no doubt curious and with a glint madder in his eyes than in mine, here to dissect me, pick me apart just to never fix me. I saw polished black shoes stop before me, and the lump in my throat almost made it impossible to speak up.

“Miss Harold, my name is Doctor Jeong Yunho.” Then, unlike any other doctor had done, this one’s knees bent until he was crouching in front of me, looking at me. His eyes were round and kind, a dark brown unlike my icy ones, and they were filled with warmth and softness I hadn’t seen in any other man. His nose had a perfect slope and his fair skin was sun-kissed, the apple of his cheeks a rosy red. His lips weren’t too big but pouty and full, asking to be traced gently by soft fingertips. I shuddered, completely taken aback by his youth and beauty. The man was from faraway lands, yet judging by his speech, you couldn’t tell until you saw him. He was gorgeous, he was breathtaking, “Would you feel safe if it was just the two of us in this room?”

No, I wanted to scream. My fingers tightened against each other, I gulped and hesitantly nodded, our eyes spilling into each other’s as if a spell had them locked together. His features were serene and sincere, not a frown on his beautiful face to create creases, just a soft smile pulling at his lips. It was disarming and frightening at the same time. Then, the doctor smiled even wider as he stood back up, his height intimidating. My heart raced as I watched him, unable to take my eyes off him. And he was still looking at me as he spoke up, “If you could excuse us, I’d like to speak to Miss Harold in privacy. It won’t take long, I promise. I’m only here today to familiarise myself with her.”

“Good, yes, Doctor, whatever you need.” My mother sounded reassured as she gripped Karina’s arm, yanking her out of the tea room as she seemingly didn’t want to go. Her eyes were fixed on Doctor Jeong, and her cheeks were blushed, “Would you like a cup of tea before we leave?”

“No, but thank you, Mrs. Harold.” The doctor hummed, his voice warm, as he sat across from me. He had no leather tool bag, nothing. He only carried a ragged satchel bag, a dark green with patches made to it, and it seemed mostly empty. My heart couldn’t settle down, not yet. Maybe his tools were hidden in the pockets of his long black coat. He hadn’t taken it off, and he looked like he wasn’t planning on staying for long. I couldn’t decide whether that thought reassured or unsettled me even more. Silence stretched on as we stared at each other, my throat dry, but I made no moves to drink from my fine China cup. I gulped when the doctor finally moved, reaching inside his bag. Here it came, the torture for the next hours, he was just like all those other doctors. I could feel tears prick at my eyes and my chest felt on fire, my lungs constricting, but the world seemed to stop moving when the man finally retracted his hand from inside his ragged bag. He held no tool to harm me, instead, a slightly withering daisy was gripped daintily between his long fingers.

“I plucked this for you on my way here, Miss Harold.” The doctor spoke, leaning forward to extend his hand towards me. A daisy, from a man like him. A man who felt like the sun itself, warming my cold particles, how unusual. When I did not move to take it from him, his happy expression seemed to fall slightly. Before he could feel more disappointment, I quickly leaned forward and grabbed it from his hand. Our fingertips brushed for a second and the doctor gulped, loudly. I loved wearing my copper hair in a simple bun, lined with fresh daisies. How coincidental that I had made myself a daisy crown just this morning, and now, the doctor had brought one for me. It would’ve been endearing if it was from a suitor, but I haven’t had one since I was sent to the asylum.

“Everything has a price, Doctor, what must I offer in exchange for this?” I found my voice, less shaky than I had expected. My insides were twisting in every possible direction, my heart hammering so fast it made me feel lightheaded. I wondered whether I’d remember the doctor tomorrow morning still. It wouldn’t be the first time I experienced sudden memory loss.

The doctor frowned, sitting back on the couch stiffly, “Perhaps, your honesty? Will you answer my questions?”

“Will you measure my head and poke at my skin like all those other doctors?”

“No, I’m not here to physically evaluate you. I’m here to glance inside your mind.”

“That unsettles me more than getting cut open to determine whether my blood is still red or not.”

“Had they done that to you?”

“Yes, you should rather ask what had they not done to me, Doctor Jeong.”

The doctor gulped, his dark eyebrows pulled together now and his lips downturned. He fished for something in his pocket, and a small pair of spectacles were placed low on his nose. It made him look more mature, more serious. I wondered if he wore it so that the other doctors would take him seriously, or whether because his eyesight wasn’t the best.

“I won’t cut you open, Miss Harold, I won’t even touch you during my examinations.” My heart skipped a beat despite hammering uncomfortably against my chest, and I wondered why. His words, however, did bring a little comfort.

“How will you determine what is wrong with me, then?” I raised my eyebrows, my fingers popping when I released the tension from them. I laid my palms flatly against my sage green dress, and the doctor’s eyes fleetingly glanced at them.

“By talking, by listening to your stories and thoughts.” The doctor spoke of a practice I hadn’t heard of before, “If you trust me, that is, your secrets will be safe with me.”

“Will they be?” I smiled, a little ashen, “The committee will want to hear what I said, there are no secrets we can keep with each other, Doctor Jeong.”

The doctor hummed, an almost amused smile pulling at his lips, “My profession requires me not to disclose anything personal, so, even if the committee wants to hear it, I won’t relay our conversations word for word, Miss Harold.”

I gulped, analysing the man’s face. He looked sincere, his eyebrows didn’t twitch and he wasn’t sweating despite the coat still around him. It was summer, and it was warm outside, albeit not inside the tea room, that is why the grand doors were opened to let the warmth in. This room reflected a lot about how I felt on the inside, always cold and hollow, waiting desperate for the warm sun to fill me up with its hotness until it burned me away. I wanted to burn, I wanted to be freed of all I had to endure until now.

“You need my honesty, but are you willing to be transparent with me?” My question seemed to take the doctor off guard as his eyes momentarily widened. Then, he clasped his long fingers together and placed his arms on his thighs, leaning forward in his seat.

“As long as it helps us move forward and remains professional, I can be transparent with you, Miss Harold.”

“You must’ve read the reports about me, do you think I’m mad, Doctor Jeong?”

“Isn’t everyone a little mad, Miss Harold?”

“I don’t know, you are the doctor between the two of us, Doctor Jeong.”

“Indeed, and I claim that nobody is without faults or sins.”

“Then you must be a religious person, no?”

“My profession contradicts my beliefs, yes, but I do believe there is something stronger and greater than us, Miss Harold. If we ask for forgiveness, we shall be pardoned.”

“Father Leon would love to have you at his service, Doctor Jeong.”

The doctor chuckled, a small smile settling over his lips as I realised I hadn’t looked away from the man since he had sat down on the couch. That was news. I never looked anyone in the eyes, as I didn’t feel comfortable. I had been told by previous doctors that they could see straight to my soul, my wicked mind and rottenness in the blueness of my irises. Now I never looked long enough to let them see what was inside my eyes, but this doctor didn’t seem to be afraid of me, of what he might find inside my eyes. Could he not see the darkness of my soul? Or was his faith so strong he preferred to spot the brightness before he was proven wrong by the wicked that permeated those like myself?

“Do you believe in God?” Doctor Jeong’s voice was louder than before, more filled with emotion as if my answer was crucial to him.

“I suppose I must. Everyone says the devil was the one to make me act like this, and I wonder where had God gone to let the devil do this to me.” Doctor Jeong’s cheeks became a darker colour as he licked his lips, mouth parting, but no words left it. I hummed, placing my right hand over my left one. Doctor Jeong wore one single band of silver ring on his middle finger on his right hand. He couldn’t have been married, then, I concluded.

“Perhaps you’ll find an answer to your question once I have done my job here.” Doctor Jeong’s tone caught a solemn note, but I said nothing as he grabbed his satchel bag and adjusted the collar of his white shirt. I watched the motion, eyes glued to the fair skin of his neck even as the man stood. His ears were flushing red too, I wondered why. I suppose the summer warmth had gotten to him at last.

“You are leaving already, doctor?” I asked as I looked up, standing when I realised he was about to depart. My mother had raised me with good manners, I would have even walked him to the front door if it weren’t for Karina suddenly barging inside, her jawline set tight as she sent me a fierce look of displeasure.

“Eager to have him all to yourself, sister?” Karina’s voice dripped with venom as she rushed further inside, rudely grabbing the doctor’s arm. What if he didn’t want to be touched? Karina lacked the awareness to consider that for a second. The doctor remained silent as he looked between me and Karina, and I just chuckled, looking down to the floor.

“I already have him all to myself, no need to be eager about it too.” The forced smile on Karina’s face would’ve satisfied me, but now I wanted both her and the doctor gone from my sight. My heart was racing again and I couldn’t breathe well, the tremors of my hands would’ve made me spill my tea if I were to drink from it. Perhaps Matilda could accompany me around the gardens, I wished to become one with nature for the remainder of the day.

“I shall see you tomorrow, Miss Harold.” Doctor Jeong bowed his head slightly before he let himself be dragged away by Karina, who sent me a glare that would’ve scared anyone else but me. I let them leave as I crumbled back onto the sofa, suddenly feeling faint. I couldn’t decide whether the doctor would pick my mind apart or not, and it was scarier that I had no idea how he’d do it.

            The air felt oppressive and thick, yet I could see the doctor’s motorcar approaching in the distance. Matilda had been kind enough to accompany me on my walk around the gardens, but she had rushed me back inside the tea room when my mother sent a butler to alert us that the doctor was fast approaching. Now, sitting on a chair by the open grand doors, I could see the dark clouds gathering around in the distance. It was as if they were trying to chase the doctor away, but he kept approaching until the motorcar's engine died down and his heavy footsteps echoed around the house. There was a knock at the door as my eyes watched a small white bird on a branch of a tree, my mind absent. The heavy footsteps approached further inside, and I turned my head to look up at the doctor.

“Hello, Miss Harold.” He said with an easy smile on his lips, holding his satchel bag in both hands. He didn’t wear a coat today, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up. His nape was sweaty as the top buttons were unbuttoned. The heat had finally gotten to him, it could get rather cruel in this part of the county.

“Hello, Doctor Jeong.” The smile came easily to my face. Despite only meeting him yesterday, my heart wasn’t racing like before. Perhaps it was the absence of his leather tool bag and the fact that the man was so young and innocent-looking. Before we could proceed, however, there was a knock at the door.

“Doctor Jeong,” Karina’s unmistakable voice called out with a shake to it, “Would you like some tea before you start your…examination?”

“The heat is already killing me, but thank you.” He declined with a gentle flick of his wrist, yet Karina lingered in the doorway. She was only looking at the doctor, her favourite dress ironed out and tightly cinched at the waist. I turned in my seat and watched her with amusement. She wasn’t subtle at all.

“May I help you?” The doctor asked, sounding confused as Karina stood still and slightly jumped, looking down abashed.

“No, I’m sorry.” Then she finally departed, closing the door behind her as Doctor Jeong had asked. I slowly looked up at the handsome doctor, finding his eyes with ease as his spectacles were close to slipping off his nose again.

“Won’t you sit, Doctor?” I pointed towards the chair, which was placed a decent distance away from mine, just by the other door. The breeze had picked up into a strong wind now, it blew inside and rattled the sheer curtains. I welcomed it with closed eyes while the doctor settled in, the rustling of paper caught my attention as I slowly fluttered my eyes open once again. It was silent for a second as I looked at the doctor, who was already watching me. His pouty lips were parted and his ears seemed to be red. As my eyes travelled all over his fair skin, I noticed the glint of something silver underneath his white shirt. It appeared to be a necklace, and once he leaned forward to retrieve a pencil from his satchel bag, I spotted a silver cross hanging off it. He really was a believer, then.

“Did you want to sit here?” The doctor asked as he leaned back in his chair, crossing one long leg over the other. I hummed, clasping my hands together in my lap as the tremors slightly subsided. My heart was at ease, it finally wasn’t frantic like during breakfast and my walk in the gardens.

“Yes, I find nature most beautiful during this time,” I answered the doctor, turning my head to gaze at the white hydrangeas. Their scent was so strong I could almost taste it in my mouth.

“So, you like storms, Miss Harold?” The doctor asked and I chuckled, turning my head away when there was lightning in the distance.

“No, doctor, I’m terrified of storms.” I smiled as the doctor paused, he was jotting down my words in his notebook, I came to realise. He quirked an eyebrow, so I continued, “My father died saving me after I had fallen off the ship, the storm was terrible.”

The doctor hummed, his eyebrows slightly furrowing as he quickly noted what I had just said, “Are you afraid of water, then?”

“No,” I shook my head, our eyes meeting and staying locked as if we had been hypnotised by each other, “I’m only afraid of the destruction a storm can cause, even on land.”

“Have you seen many of those?”

“Yes, our neighbours’ barn was destroyed just last month, it was terrible.”

“Have you helped him?”

“As much as a woman can help, yes, I offered them my servants to help rebuild the barn.”

“Then you’re caring.”

“I suppose, if you say so, Doctor.”

“Do you not consider yourself a caring person, Miss Harold?” I smiled, watching the doctor’s expression even out as his pencil pressed a hole into the thin paper of his notebook.

“As a doctor, do you care for your patients?” I raised an eyebrow, genuinely curious since I hadn’t met anyone like him. If he dissected the mind, he must care for his patients, no?

“Within the limitations of my oath and law, yes, I do care for them.” Then the doctor seemed to consider his next words, licking his lips as his eyes bore into mine. They were wide and dark, and it was easy to get lost in them, “All I wish is to do is find a cure for them, to see them walk free of their shackles.”

“Can you cure madness, Doctor Jeong?” My voice sounded small, almost afraid. The doctor’s eyebrows furrowed as he averted his eyes, messily scribbling something down in his notebook. As I peeked at it, I realised the alphabet I was familiar with blended with one I did not know. Perhaps it was his mother tongue, then.

“Every person has a trigger, Miss Harold, if I find yours, I can cure it.” Then, he bit his bottom lip, and the added words were silent, “If you’ll let me.”

Silence stretched on, and I felt my heart race for the first time since I had seen the doctor today. It was unsettling, I felt my cheeks warm up. The redness from the doctor’s ears seemed to spread down towards his neck and chest, I wondered if his skin was as smooth as it looked at first glance. Then, without considering my next words, I let the truth slip past my chapped lips.

“I want to be free, sir, I don’t want to live like this for the rest of my life.” I had been young when I was convicted. My fate could have been much worse, but the men my father had been once acquittanced with owed him one, so they came to my aid. My sentence was very generous, the judge deemed me mad and unfit to be locked up in a women’s penitentiary, and instead, I was bound to constant surveillance for the rest of my life. Even when I slept, Matilda was there with me. Or my mother when the maid was too tired to continue keeping watch.

The doctor wetted his lips again, leaning slightly forward in his seat. The pencil was clutched tightly between his long fingers, and his tone had dropped lower too, “I can rid you of your burden if you’re honest with me, Miss Harold, I can set you free. But for that, you have to tell me everything that happened and made you do what you did.”

“Why won’t you say it, Doctor? Have you not read the reports? I was the talk of the whole town, still am, actually.”

“Something isn’t right about the reports, have you been truthful in your testimony?”

“Wouldn’t I be breaching the law if I wasn’t?”

“People lie all the time, Miss Harold.”

“May God forgive me for my sins, then, Doctor Jeong.”

A vein in the doctor’s forehead bulged as his jawline strained, mouth open but no words leaving his pretty lips. He huffed, then leaned back in the chair, eyebrows furrowing deeply as he wrote messily in the notebook once again. I smiled as I watched him, his black hair fell into his eyes as he looked down. His spectacles threatened to slide down his nose altogether, and I itched to fix it for him.

“Let’s start at the beginning, then, shall we?” The doctor’s tone had turned uncharacteristically soft as if he was talking to a frightened child. There was a fire in his eyes as he looked up once again and I gulped, feeling unsettled under his sudden undivided attention. His left palm pressed into the side of his thigh, his fingers tapping his black slacks rhythmically. I gulped, then nodded.

“What would you like to know about me, Doctor Jeong?”

“Tell me about your childhood. Your likes and dislikes, who is most dear to you and why. Have you loved before? Do you feel lonely now? Just tell me everything that crosses your mind.”

He wanted to know everything about me. It felt unravelling, dangerous. He had said my secrets would remain with him, would he note them down in the language only he spoke? Or would he tell the committee right after he was finished with his examination? Taking a deep breath, I turned my head to gaze outside once again, my lungs deflating as I exhaled long and loud. The lightning was closer now, the little birds were nowhere to be seen. Something coiled in my guts as my father’s face flashed behind my eyes, his warm smile and his kind tone still so present in my mind. If he were still here, perhaps nothing would’ve happened. There would be no Karina and Mr. Brooks, I wouldn’t be condemned for life.

“Much like I am afraid of storms, Doctor Jeong, I’m afraid of solace. It hadn’t always been like this, while my father was alive, I had never felt alone for even a second. He’d take me to the woods on horseback, we’d pluck flowers for my mother and he’d teach me everything he knew about the fauna and the poisonous mushrooms. He’d read stories for me before bedtime, and he had even taught me how to read. He was my favourite person, now it’s my mother and Matilda. She’s a young maid, we had found her hiding in the stable last winter. She was almost frozen to death, I thought I might be giving her a second chance at life if I took her in as my personal maid. She doesn’t speak much and I can’t tell whether she hates me or not, but I know she loves it when I take her on walks in the garden. I think she’s a little bit like me. Out there, in nature, we can both pretend to be free, just two girls roaming between flowers and giggling about the future.” The doctor’s hand seemed to be moving with my words, it was as if he tried to capture and note down everything I said. For that sole reason, I didn’t speak quickly, I let the words settle both in his mind and on his paper.

“I suppose my childhood isn’t anything special, I come from an aristocratic family, you must imagine what it was like. I was raised to have good manners and bow in front of men, but not without having an opinion and a mouth to voice them with. My father had been a fair man, he and my mother had always made every decision together, so he raised me to find a man who sees me as his equal and his other half. There had been moments when I had rebelled, I think that is only normal, but I was never a moody or explosive child. You can ask my mother about that, she’ll tell you so too.” I said as the doctor nodded along to my words, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. I took a deep breath and watched his face as I continued talking, “There was only one thing I loved as much as I loved my father, and it was ballet. But that, too, was taken away after I was admitted to the asylum. Ever since then, I haven’t touched my pointe shoes. I had even asked Matilda to hide them deep inside my closet, my heart breaks anytime I catch a glimpse of them.”

A lump formed in my throat just from speaking about it, I could feel tears in my eyes as I watched the tree branches move violently with the strong wind. The willow tree looked gorgeous in the wake of the storm, and I wished nothing but to step under it and close my eyes, let the wind destroy my bun and rip the fresh daisies out of my hair. I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the dark flashes of memories I had tried to forget so badly. The asylum was a cursed place, filled with evil people who only caused more harm. I hated it and everyone that was associated with it. I could feel the doctor’s eyes on me, and he gulped, inhaling sharply. I glanced at him, and he looked amazed for some reason.

“Can you tell me about the asylum, Miss Harold?” My muscles tensed despite the doctor’s soft tone, and my heart started racing painfully in my chest. I thought wringing my fingers tighter together would stop the tremors from worsening, but it didn’t. I felt lightheaded as my own shrill screams echoed in my ears, but I couldn’t speak. My bottom lip shook as I took a breath through my mouth, and shook my head frantically, “Alright, it’s alright, Miss Harold. We won’t speak of it, take deep breaths.”

The doctor leaned forward in his seat and I rigidly turned to face him, my eyes wide in fear as I waited for him to strike. Maybe his mask would finally slip, maybe the tools were hidden inside his satchel bag. The notebook, his scribbling, my stories…maybe they were all just distractions. And yet, the doctor’s eyes remained kind and ridden with worry as he seemed to breathe through his mouth as well, as if he was mirroring my actions. I closed my eyes as the first thunder shook the ground, and inhaled deeply, keeping the air in my lungs until I couldn’t no more. I released the shuddered breath and opened my eyes again, only to see the doctor gulp, loudly. His pupils were dilated and made his eyes seem completely black, his fair cheeks flushed deeply as his long fingers tightened around his pencil once again.

“Perhaps we should end the examination here, Doctor Jeong.” My voice was strained as I gulped around nothing, “The storm is here. You should head home before it worsens.”

As if nature had agreed with me, the air filled with electricity as lightning struck not far away, the thunder loud and following shortly after. Doctor Jeong’s jaw tightened, but he nodded, humming approvingly. He swiped his bottom lip with his thumb before he grabbed his satchel bag, adjusting his spectacles as they did slip off the slope of his nose. Thunder wracked the earth again as a colder breeze billowed past us, ruffling my dress and the hair that had fallen out of my bun. It also moved Doctor Jeong’s messy hair, jelled back and out of his eyes in an attempt to make him look classy. As the doctor stood, slipping the notebook inside his satchel bag too, I mirrored him, smoothing down my dress.

“I call what we do here sessions, Miss Harold, and not examination.” The smile was easy on his lips and I hummed, flinching when the wind slammed the grand door of the tea room against the wall. Perhaps it was time to close them, “I shall see you tomorrow?”

“Of course, Doctor Jeong, please take care on your way home.” My eyebrows furrowed in worry as Doctor Jeong nodded, opening his mouth to say something just as the door to the tea room was yanked open. The man in the doorway was unfamiliar, but he looked worried.

“Mr Jeong, we should go now if we don’t want to be stranded somewhere on the road during the storm.” He must be the doctor’s driver, then. My mother appeared behind the driver, looking as worried as if the doctor was her own child.

“We have guest rooms, Doctor, you could always stay.” My mother was a kind and loving woman, her intentions hardly questionable, “I would hate it if something were to happen to you.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Harold, but I shall be on my way.” Doctor Jeong smiled widely, then faced me once again, and bowed his head much like yesterday. Perhaps it was their custom to take farewell like that, so, I bowed back to him. The doctor’s eyes widened for a second before his smile widened just slightly, and then he and his diver were gone, my mother’s expression was worried as she watched them leave from the front porch. Big droplets of water started falling from the dark clouds, and I quickly closed the grand doors as Matilda rushed inside to assist me. The rhythmic fall of the rain was a glaring reminder of my irregularly fast heartbeat.

The eyes were windows to one’s soul, or so Yunho had been taught. He had dealt with many cases during his practice period, and now as a certified psychiatrist, he had gained even more popularity in the West. He had no choice but to move at a young age, the world was an ever-changing place. He was young and curious, he wished to explore and find people that needed his expertise. But there was something so mesmerising about her eyes which left him unravelled and flustered like nothing else. Her words dripped with honey, and Yunho could swear he heard angels singing, accompanying her soft tone whenever she told stories. He was captivated. He ached to write down every single word she uttered, he felt desperate to pick apart her brain, to look inside it, to fix her. He was desperate to understand what had triggered her manic episode, he was desperate to tell the committee that she was innocent. But he was a doctor first and foremost, and his job forbade him from any personal attachment towards his patients. But whenever he looked into her icy blue eyes, the breeze brushing the fallen copper strands of her hair against her sun-kissed cheeks, he felt his very own soul stir and reach out in desperation to connect with hers, to possess it. She was a madwoman, and he was a man desperate to stay sane in her company.

            Another thing I completely wished to be free of was dinners, where I was forced to sit with my so-called happy family. The bags under Mr Brooks's eyes had been getting darker and darker lately, and the creases in his forehead were an obvious sign that something was worrying him. But it wasn’t my place to ask questions, so I continued to silently notice the small changes in his mood and behaviour. He had stopped pampering Karina, which was completely unheard of, and she was loud and clear with her complaints. She had wanted a silk nightgown just last week, but her father had denied her of it. He didn’t mention the cause, he only said she already has more than enough nightgowns. The clinking of silverware gave me something to focus on as my eyes were cast on the brussels sprouts on my plate, pushing around it as I didn’t enjoy their bitter taste. But Mrs Humphrey had cooked dinner with love, so I didn’t want to leave anything on my plate tonight. The silence around the table was broken as my mother grabbed her glass of wine, her kind eyes settling on me.

“Y/N, my dear, how are your examinations going?” I paused, feeling everyone’s eyes in the dining room on me. I gulped down the food I had in my mouth and tapped with a napkin at my lips, letting my hands fall in my lap as I hummed. Doctor Jeong’s words rang clearly in my mind, what we were doing was called sessions.

“They are called sessions, ‘ma, and they are going well,” I spoke gently, hoping she’d find my words reassuring. I knew she was constantly worrying about me, always fussing and around thinking I wouldn’t notice. I might be absent-minded a lot these days, but I’m mostly aware of my surroundings still. Mr Brooks nodded once, looking pleased as he wolfed down the steak Mrs Humphrey had made to be spicey, just like Mr Brooks liked it.

“That is lovely to hear,” My mother beamed at me, meanwhile Karina scoffed under her breath, “Do you find communication with the doctor difficult, perhaps? Or is everything clear between you two?”

Mr. Brooks nodded along, one eyebrow raised as he watched me curiously. I adjusted myself in my chair and plastered on a little smile, “Doctor Jeong is well-versed and rather attentive. He notes down everything I say in his notebook, and meanwhile, I have noticed he scribbles along in his mother tongue as well, I find no difficulties understanding him. He’s coherent and speaks English as if he was born around here.”

“That’s a very reassuring thing to hear, my dear.” Mr Brooks spoke up with a smile, the corners of his lips tugging up. Karina’s jawline was set tight as she let her fork clamper down loudly against her plate, her eyebrows raised mockingly.

“Why are we letting her spend time alone with that doctor, again? How is that helping her?” Her tone was high-pitched, filled with blatant jealousy that Mr Brooks and my mother remained oblivious to.

“Sweetheart, we’ve discussed this already,” Mr Brooks said with a tired sigh, giving his daughter a disapproving look, “Y/N needs a new medical approach, and Doctor Jeong is the best in this field. He came all the way here from South Korea when he was still just an apprentice. I’ve read up on him, he’s solved cases of mass hysteria and other mental issues no doctor could even come close to. Let’s not have this conversation again, Karina.”

Mr Brooks was mostly calling me insane to my face, but his words held no malice and I knew his intentions were pure. I couldn’t resent him for wanting to find a cure for me, something that could finally fix me. He had no obligation to look out for me like this, I wasn’t his daughter by blood, yet he had only treated me with kindness and understanding my whole life. He was a good man, perhaps a bit too absent from the household, but I could see in his eyes that he loved my mother dearly, and that was more than enough for me to accept him into our home. He couldn’t replace my father, but he filled the void that sometimes got too much.

“I think she just needs attention,” Karina hissed under her breath as she slammed her fist on the table, making the maids behind her jump, “What are you waiting for, stupid cunts?! My glass is empty!”

“Karina,” My mother muttered, her eyebrows pulled together as she gave her a displeased look while the poor maid scurried to fill Karina’s glass with wine, “A lady shouldn’t use such vulgar language, nonetheless in front of her elders.”

“Yeah, whatever Mrs Harold.” She scoffed as she glared at the maid, taking big gulps of her wine. I watched with distaste, catching Leia’s gaze for a split second. Her eyes were tear-filled and I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from speaking up, it would only start an argument I didn’t have the mental capacity for right now. But Karina wasn’t done as her sharp gaze fell on me, her tone harsh when she spoke again, “I know you enjoy spending time with the doctor alone, it makes you fantasize, doesn’t it? You’re just playing with him like with everyone else around you, sister, aren’t you? How long do you reckon until you get him riled up enough to get underneath your skirts—”

“Karina!” Mr Brooks's voice was loud and stern, his eyes set on his daughter with disgust in them, “How dare you say such things to your sister? In front of me and her mother, nonetheless! You should be ashamed, is this who I raised you to be?!”

Karina chuckled, humourless, “Right, father, you didn’t raise me at all, perhaps that is why I am like this. Maybe you shouldn’t have admitted mother into an asylum because she didn’t know how to silence a crying baby, hm?”

The silence that settled over the table made my skin crawl. If anyone would’ve dropped a pin, everyone could’ve heard it in the dining room. I released a shaky breath, the tremors worsening as Mr Brooks seemed to be struggling with containing his rage in front of my mother. Her mouth was open and a hand pressed against it, eyes shaking with pain and incredulity as she looked between Karina and her second husband. I took a deep breath and pushed my chair back, grabbing my plate to try and stabilise myself, to stay in the present. Eyes fell on me, and before Leia could come to approach me, I shook my head with a small smile, “I’ll let Mrs Humphrey know she outdid herself once again, then I will be retreating for bed. Matilda will accompany me, sleep well tonight, mother.”

As I left the dining room, I heard Mr Brooks weakly whisper a good night, then Karina’s sobs as she raced up the stairs, slamming the door to her room loudly. The chatter and good mood died down the second the kitchen door swung open, Leia following inside after me. Mrs Humphrey looked concerned when she noticed me holding my plate and went to stand up and take it from me, but I quickly shook my head.

“No, stay seated, Mrs Humphrey, dinner is absolutely delicious.” I said with a smile, and the other servants and maids seemed to relax as well, “Would you mind…if I finished my dinner here, with you?”

“Oh, come here, my dear.” Mrs Humphrey’s frown was deep as she beckoned me over, making space for me between herself and our butler, Jesper. He was still a young boy, his eyes filled with a youthful spark, full of life and happiness. He offered me a small smile and placed mushrooms filled with cheese on my plate, knowing I loved them. I chuckled and thanked him, then looked over the table and realised I felt most comfortable when around these people. They were simple, they were happy, and they made the most of their days. They were free, away from society’s judgemental eyes, and they lacked the prejudice the other aristocrats hadn’t even tried to hide around me. I felt like I belonged at this table, and as the happy chatter picked up again and Jesper made small talk with me, with Carla eagerly interjecting sometimes, I could feel my tense muscles relax and the void in my chest disappear. For a little while only, while I was still at this table, enjoying my dinner with the people who looked at me as if I was just a human too.

            The doctor was quickly growing on me. I couldn’t trust him, not yet, it would be too soon. It’s been only a week since he started visiting me for our sessions, but I started believing that he wasn’t playing a character when around me. He was genuine, his eyes sparkled curiously with each question he asked, his frown was always worried and it downturned his pretty pouty lips, and when he smiled, something warm seemed to flood my chest. I could only compare it to the sun, for I have never felt such warmth when gazing upon a man before. Not even when suitors were lining up in front of our house, asking for a chance at marrying me. The doctor was considerate and kind, he hung on to my every word. It was his profession, I knew he was only doing his job, but I couldn’t help but imagine he was a man interested in me, his notebooks filled with poems and sketches of me. It was a far-fetched fantasy, but it managed to warm my cheeks anytime I dwelled on it.

I was out in the back garden as I found myself thinking about the doctor again, excited to see him today as well. We had left off at a rather culminating point of my story yesterday, I wondered if he was as eager as I was to hear the rest of it. Matilda wasn’t feeling well today, and as my mother was in town, Carla was the one supervising me. I didn’t mind the change, she was a chatty girl and easily kept me from detaching from reality. Here, in the garden, as I thumbed at the leaves of the flowers, Carla was still speaking about an encounter with a fairy. A supposed fairy as she believed in God and deemed the little creatures spawns of evil.

“Tell me, young miss, do you believe it was Satan sending those fairies my way?” Carla’s voice was full of wonder, “Have I done something bad to attract his attention to me?”

“I don’t believe so, Carla.” I answered her quietly, my eyes following a bee as it flew from flower to flower, “You go to church every Sunday.”

“Perhaps I should go from now on every Wednesday and Sunday, too.” Carla huffed, hands on her hips as she tried avoiding the bee that was flying towards her. I chuckled, straightening up. The scent of the hydrangeas was familiar as I closed my eyes, inhaling it deeply into my lungs so that they would stay there for a long time.

“I don’t believe fairies are inherently evil, Carla.” I mused as the breeze brushed upon my cheeks, already flushed from the great heat. My dress was thin and simple, I couldn’t wear pompous dresses during summertime, they were too hot. I would often feel lightheaded from the strong sun, the thick dresses would only make me faint. The white fabric was soft against my skin, and the white ribbons brushed against my nape as my hair was pulled into two small buns at the base of my neck. I could’ve performed on stage looking like this, but even so much as looking at my pointe shoes would’ve hurt my soul. I didn’t let the memories resurface despite the sudden melancholia that wished to break through my emotions, “Fairies are small creatures that protect nature, maybe you had done something they didn’t approve of. Did you disrespect their land, perhaps? Or did you step on a flower they had blessed before? Fairies are territorial beings, and they are also quite vengeful. But if you ask Father Leon to bless you after service, I’m sure you’ll be just fine, Carla.”

The scoff that followed my words wasn’t coming from Carla. I didn’t open my eyes as I became aware of heavier footsteps approaching, I had completely missed the engine of his motorcar. I felt Karina stop behind me, but I turned my head towards the sun, basking in it. I couldn’t touch the celestial without burning to a crisp, but perhaps the one it had sent to me in human form was really here to save me. A clear of throat made me blink my eyes open, and I turned to look over my shoulder.

“If you have nothing else but fairies to talk about, then I don’t see why Doctor Jeong should entertain your madness any longer.” Karina’s eyes narrowed at me, “You belong in an asylum, sister.”

I smiled, a little amused, as an ugly grimace appeared on Carla’s face upon Karina’s comment. The maid made to open her mouth, which would’ve landed her in trouble, but the doctor beat her to it, “Thank you for walking me here, Miss Brooks. But I’d like to be left alone with Miss Harold, now.”

“Right,” Karina muttered, shooting me a jealous stare, “She gets to have you all to herself, as always.”

Then, she turned around and raised her skirt above her ankles to storm off. Carla nodded her head and followed after Karina, not in a hurry so that the woman wouldn’t pick a fight with Carla as well. The doctor sighed, pushing his small glasses up the bridge of his nose, looking a little bit bewildered. Then, he looked at me and the crease from his forehead disappeared. I was already smiling at him, my hands behind my back to hide the bad tremors. I had felt faint all day, but the doctor was here finally and I could finally take my first breath of fresh air of the day. I couldn’t help but smile widely at him, and watch as the flush from his ears quickly travelled down to his chest. Even more buttons of his loose white shirt were undone, the silver cross sitting against his chest now glinting under the sunlight. His trousers were high-waisted and the shirt was tucked neatly into it, a leather belt pulled around his waist. And there, in his right hand, was something white. I tilted my head in wonder as I looked at it, curious about what it was. The doctor liked bringing small gifts, mostly silly, but memorable.

“Hello, Doctor Jeong,” I spoke up, and the doctor released a loud breath.

“Hello, Miss Harold.” His voice shook slightly, then his fingers tightened around the strap of his satchel bag, “Here, I have something for you.”

Then he extended his right hand out towards me, and my eyes widened in surprise. I could tell the ballerina was made out of a napkin, I hadn’t seen anything like it before. My hands shook despite trying to ease the tremors, and my fingers hesitantly curled around the present as our skin brushed together. The doctor’s cheeks flushed rapidly, and I found myself unable to look into his warm eyes. I wondered if it was the heat that made our hands so clammy. I looked at the ballerina in my hands, melancholy overtaking me once again. I longed to dance around in the garden, Mrs Humphrey and my mother as my audience now that my father was gone, but it only brought back bad memories. I was too faint to twirl around now, my legs weren’t as strong as they once used to be. I would fall even before doing my first pirouette, it was depressing.

“How are you feeling today, Miss Harold?”

“Faint, but it’s from the heat, Doctor Jeong.”

We stood unmoving, our eyes boring into each other’s. I didn’t want to move to the tea room just yet, perhaps I longed to sit under the willow tree. The doctor made no moves, and so I said nothing about heading for the house. We were in eyesight if anyone were to look through the kitchen window, and we weren’t doing anything wrong.

“Thank you for the gift, Doctor Jeong, did you make it yourself?” I asked with round eyes, unable to keep the smile off my lips. The doctor flushed darker and averted his eyes, thumbing at his wet bottom lip.

“Yes, I thought it would cheer you up. I hope I wasn’t wrong.” His tone was tender and just a little hesitant, the doctor was almost cute like this.

“It did cheer me up, sir, I was thinking about ballet just now.” I paused, and waited for the doctor to look up into my eyes, “It seems you can already read my mind, I wonder how you do that.”

The doctor smiled, his forehead exposed as his dark strands were brushed away from his eyes, “We are making progress, then, reading your mind isn’t as easy as one might think.”

“And why is that?” I asked curiously, fiddling with the napkin in my hands.

“Because it’s very complex, you like to speak in riddles, and you evade most of my questions.” Then the doctor chuckled and I bit my bottom lip, averting my eyes in embarrassment, “You’re cunning, but I’m good at catching all the little hidden messages.”

I grinned at the doctor’s words, my suspicions confirmed. I knew I could play around with him, he seemed like a very smart man. Hearing he could read between the lines was more than satisfying. My heart skipped a beat, but it didn’t start racing like before.

“Do you like hydrangeas, Doctor?”

“Their scent is too intense for my liking, but they are pretty flowers, Miss Harold.”

“They symbolise purity and gratitude, even vanity in some cases.”

“What do they mean in your case, then?”

“Gratitude, Doctor Jeong, towards you.” Our eyes met again as I looked away from the white flowers, a sudden calmness settling upon my racing thoughts, “I hope the end of my story will be satisfying to you.”

The doctor gulped, loudly, then motioned towards the house, “Would you like to continue inside? Did you remember something of importance, perhaps?”

“Can we sit under the willow tree?” I raised an eyebrow, “Mrs Humphrey can see us from the kitchen if that’s of worry to you.”

“Sure, if you’ll feel comfortable.” The doctor nodded, fishing for his notebook and pencil as I hummed, leading us down the pebbled path, the willow tree was just by the end of it. The territory the house resided on came with a small pond, I liked watching the still water while sitting by the trunk of the willow tree. The doctor followed after me quietly, and he watched me settle down into the green grass, dress splaying out around me. It had ridden slightly up, exposing my shins as I pulled them underneath myself. The doctor seemed to be frozen, eyes glued to where my legs had been just seconds ago. Then, he gulped loudly and settled down next to me. He sat a little closer compared to the usual distance between our chairs, but his presence was soothing. I smiled as I faced him, eyes falling on his long fingers as he got comfortable, opening his notebook to where we had left off yesterday.

“I don’t remember anything new, doctor, but we haven’t reached that part of the story yet.” I smiled, then turned my head to gaze out at the pond, “Would you like to hear what happens next?”

The doctor exhaled, “You told me this noble boy barged inside your house in the middle of the night? He must’ve been madly in love with you to do such a thing.”

I chuckled, eyes focusing on the dragonflies above the pond, “I suppose he was at one point, yes. But men are easily converted, I find love like my mother and father had once shared hard to find, doctor. Our love didn’t last long, but I’m getting ahead of myself. It was a cold spring evening and he had been visiting, drinking with Mr Brooks to ask for permission to marry me. My mother was present too, of course, but she couldn’t say much against Mr Brook’s words. In the end, the proposal was accepted and the man left, only to come barging inside hours later.”

“Why did he do that?”

“Because he was drunk, and because he had something to say.”

“Did you hear him out?”

I chuckled, facing the doctor. His eyes were wide as he was watching me, pencil pressing against the white paper, “Yes, I did hear him out, but his words made no sense. He said something about a lavished lifestyle and a farmhouse, and something about being happy together even in a later age, it was endearing but very inadequate.”

“So, what did you do, then?” The doctor wasn’t even writing down what I was saying, it made me chuckle. The corner of his lips lifted subconsciously, he looked amused too.

“Nothing, I just kicked him out and told him to come back when he’s sober. His drunken words meant nothing to me. I did not want to marry a man who made foolish confessions in an inebriated state of mind, besides, he was a gentleman. He should have known better than to barge inside a lady’s home well past midnight, no, Doctor Jeong?” I quirked an eyebrow, my question seemed to snap the doctor out of his staring. He cleared his throat and looked down at his notebook, pausing for a few seconds before he jotted something down. I couldn’t read it, it was in a foreign language.

“N-no—I mean, yes, Miss Harold. That was rather inappropriate of him, I must imagine the discomfort he had created for you.” He had barely finished his sentence when a giggle bubbled past my lips.

“On the contrary, Doctor Jeong.” I grinned, ducking my head down to hide my amusement as confusion crossed the doctor’s features, “It was the most fun I’ve had in a while. Mrs Humphrey, my mother, and I had stayed up for hours giggling about it afterwards. We even made jokes about it and Mrs Humphrey let us drink her very secret brew that tastes like flowers but could knock out even a sailor with just two jugs. I have no idea what it is, but it’s very strong.”

The doctor’s eyes were filled with awe as I laughed, memories of easier times never failing to bring me in a good mood. It would’ve been easier like this, if things stayed put and if Karina wouldn’t have meddled with everything. I have faced hardships before, but having the person I considered my sister to betray me had stung like none other. In the end, neither one of us got what we wanted, just a lot of animosity and a tension-filled relationship. Sometimes I wanted to ask Karina if all of it was worth it, but I knew not to entertain an already greedy person.

“And how does this memory make you feel now?” Doctor Jeong’s tone was airy, and he wasn’t looking at me as he was scribbling in his notebook. I pondered for a second before I placed my hands on the grass, gripping it tightly between my fingers. Sometimes the tremors stopped when I grabbed something too hard.

“Bittersweet, but mostly happy. I’m grateful I was able to experience all of that at least once in my lifetime, others aren’t as lucky as I am. I am well aware of that.” The doctor nodded along as I spoke, but then he paused writing and looked at me with a frown.

“And when you think of that man? How does he make you feel, Miss Harold?” I gulped, not having expected that question. But it was easy to answer, I’ve pondered many times over this specific question, there wasn’t anything the doctor could surprise me with anymore. I smiled softly but knew the doctor could feel the shift in my mood.

“Mostly angry that I wasted years on that man when I could’ve found someone more decent, more loving.” Then I shrugged and watched as the doctor licked his lips, adjusting his spectacles on his nose, “Do you believe that God has everything planned for us, Doctor?”

“Mostly, yes, but we have enough free will to change the direction of our lives.” The doctor answered, his eyebrows furrowed in thought. I hummed, plucking the grass from the ground forcefully. My knuckles ached from how hard I had gripped onto it.

“You can’t run from what is meant for you, Doctor Jeong, we would’ve never met if I wouldn’t have gone mad.” But Doctor Jeong didn’t seem to be too convinced by my words. He chewed on his bottom lip, sweat rolling down between his pecks. I gulped, then averted my eyes from his exposed fair skin, and instead focused on his beautiful round brown eyes, “Are you glad we got to meet?”

The man’s eyes widened at my forward question, but I meant no harm nor did I have questionable reasons to ask such a thing. The doctor cleared his throat, playing with the pencil in his hands as he thought his answer over, “I’ll be glad once you are back to being yourself, until then, I cannot allow myself to feel any sort of satisfaction.”

“Don’t you think my madness is part of me, now?” I muttered, gazing off towards the house. The curtain in the kitchen moved, but I knew it wasn’t Mrs Humphrey. She was out in town with my mother at this hour. Doctor Jeong inhaled sharply, then closed his notebook loudly. The paper made a noisy sound, making me look over to him. The man looked aggravated as if my question had bothered him immensely, but I was merely curious about how he viewed me.

“Perhaps we should continue tomorrow, Miss Harold, and we must proceed with the story. The committee is pressing me with questions, they are very curious to hear the full story.” The doctor was avoiding my question, that was unusual. He stood, brushed the dirt off his trousers, then hastily grabbed his satchel bag and clumsily placed the notebook and his pencil inside.

“Thank you for indulging with me, Doctor Jeong.” I looked up at him, and had to shield my eyes from the sun, “I love sitting under the willow tree.”

“I will keep that in mind, Miss Harold, have a nice afternoon.” The doctor then bowed his head and I mirrored his actions, then he was rushing back towards the house, looking a little rigid. Karina stood in the doorway to the tea room, a tray filled with cookies and lemonade in her hands, but Doctor Jeong merely nodded at her and left the house in haste. Karina’s glare could be felt even from the distance, and I gently stood to head back inside, keeping the arrangement in mind. I wasn’t supposed to be unsupervised, I knew Carla would be in the laundry room if she had nothing else to do.

Yunho couldn’t sleep. He kept reading over and over his notes, all the small hidden messages making his head ache. His stomach growled in hunger, but he was physically unable to stand from his study and ask the housekeeper to prepare dinner for him. The girl was frail, she was soft-spoken but witty. She liked to keep him on his toes, and she was great at making him lose track of what was most important. He felt like he was making no progress, yet the committee kept pressing him for an answer. Father Louis was understanding enough not to ambush him with questions daily, but the rest of the officials weren’t. They wanted a diagnosis of Miss Harold already, they didn’t want to understand that Yunho couldn’t give his verdict in anything but a week. Building trust took time, getting to hear the unfiltered truth from someone who loved to play with her words took patience. Yunho was a patient person, but he wondered how long he had until he’d break. Whenever he closed his eyes, he felt as if she was watching him, standing over him, smiling at him. Her skin was sun-kissed and sometimes her cheeks were burnt from staying out in the sun for too long, but Yunho knew her skin would be soft. When he had twisted and turned his napkin into shapes, absentmindedly, he realised he had made a ballerina out of it. Thus, he had made his first mistake as a professional. He had allowed himself to sympathise with Miss Harold. He had allowed himself to notice her smile was brighter than the sun itself, and that she smelled an awful lot like those hydrangeas that Yunho was allergic to. And he had allowed himself to notice the tremors of her hands, making him yearn to hold her frail hands between his with the hopes of soothing her nerves. Yunho wondered if she yearned for him like she had yearned for her once lover.

            The clouds were almost black as they expanded over the horizon. The wind was too cold for us to keep the grand doors of the tea room open, so they remained closed as I sat on the soft sofa, gazing out through the glass. Matilda had left the curtains undrawn for me, and a few scented candles were lit to ease my muscles' tension. I couldn’t focus lately, these past three days my mood had quickly reclined. I know the doctor had noticed it too, but he didn’t prod more than it would be considered rude. I was reluctant to tell him the cause of my moroseness, he wasn’t here to listen to me weep about how unfairly Karina treated me. She had been ruthless these past three days. I knew she had a vendetta against me, but ever since the doctor started coming here, she had been progressively getting worse and worse. I could handle it until I couldn’t. If I ignored her and got lost in a deep spot in the back of my mind filled with happy memories, I would end up with a backhanded slap to my face. If I talked back and stood my ground, I would only fuel her fire, giving her power over me. Karina was clever, she knew when to strike. If my mother was around us, she was an angel. If the servants were watching, she’d be sharp and arrogant towards me. If Mr. Brooks was present, she didn’t bother hiding her disdain, but she wasn’t as straightforward as around the servants.

She didn’t hold back one bit if it was just the two of us. My eyes were lost on the gloomy visage, eyes tracking the swaying vines of the willow tree. It was even more beautiful in the eyes of the storm, I could’ve stared at it for hours on end. My mind was silent like this, absent of all the turbulent thoughts that shook me to my core and kept me up at night, when Matilda, poor girl, struggled to stay up and look over me. Just last night, she had fallen asleep, and I was grateful because I had a moment to myself where I could secretly slip away and walk through the gardens in hopes of clearing my mind. It wasn’t a smart decision, however, because I couldn’t remember anything after I stepped through the threshold of the house. I just know sometime later I was gasping for air as my arms were restricted and my throat was scratchy, Mr Brooks desperately trying to hold down my trashing body. My white nightgown was dirty with mud and the ends of it were dripping wet with pond water. It wasn’t foreign that I would lose consciousness if something lay heavily on my chest and gnawed at my thoughts, but it had been long since I had lost track of myself so deeply. Not since the incident, at least.

And Karina was enjoying it, her lips pulled into a nasty smirk as my mother cried by my side, asking Matilda and Leia to bring cold towels and help me clean up. Mr Brooks had looked tired as he gently helped me back to my room and tucked me into bed, his eyes pained and suffering as if I was blood-related to him. His expression made me feel guilty for worrying not just my mother, but also him. I felt terrible, yet I couldn’t control my mind or my body when these episodes happened. Even now, as I sat on the sofa waiting for the doctor to arrive, I felt lightheaded and on the brink of losing consciousness. My body felt light and heavy simultaneously, and I could feel my pulse in my neck. My lips felt chapped no matter how much tea I drank, and my throat was tight. I wanted to see the doctor, I needed to tell him why I had done what I had done. I had always been too afraid to confess the truth, not wanting to hurt my mother and break up the second family she cherished. But I also couldn’t continue living like this, not when Karina prayed for my downfall. Her harsh words from yesterday were still fresh in my mind, and I had to blink the tears away for a second.

“I know you’re just a whore, desperate to find another man to toy with.” She had spat with flushed cheeks, a cup filled halfway with wine in her hand, “Do you seriously think that doctor wants to touch you? You’re a deranged woman now, Y/N, nobody will want you. Not even Doctor Jeong Yunho, you whore. I won’t let you have him too, you always get what you want—but not this time, Y/N, mark my words.”

And just when I had thought she was done, she had marched up to me and grabbed me by the throat harshly, making me gasp, “If he doesn’t send you to an asylum, I will kill you myself, Y/N. You’re an abomination and a disgrace, even your own mother hates you, whore.”

The knock at the door startled me, I had been lost deep in thought. I turned my head and noticed Matilda giving me a small smile, “Young miss, the doctor is here to see you. Would you like me to prepare anything for you two?”

My heart skipped a beat, but I couldn’t tell why. Perhaps because I knew he’d take my mind off things, even if I was forced to relive the past I tried to bury deep down, sequences I couldn’t even remember anymore. Or, maybe, it was because I desperately wished to gaze upon his soft face, lose myself in his warm and round eyes peeking at me over his small spectacles. I couldn’t decide which was the reason, but I needed his presence to calm my turbulent mind and body finally.

“Thank you. I will welcome him inside, and you can take a break.” I stood up, hands balling into fists as nausea washed over me, “We won’t need anything, but I hope you get some sleep, Matilda. You’ve been watching over me for three days.”

“That is my duty, young miss.” Then she bowed her head before I could tell her she needed to take care of herself, and she took her leave. I smoothed down my long-sleeved dark blue dress now that the weather wasn’t as warm as days ago. I hadn’t pulled my hair into a bun today, even if it was not ladylike, I wished to feel my copper strands brushing against my cheeks when I moved my head. It shielded my face like a curtain if I didn’t want to be seen, I hoped Doctor Jeong wouldn’t mind.

Sucking in a deep breath and bracing myself, I left the tea room in search of the doctor, who should have been in the foyer, getting rid of his coat and dress shoes, but instead, he wasn’t there. I paused for a second to listen for his voice, and a smile pulled at my lips when I realised he was in the living room. Perhaps we could hold our session inside there today, I could play the piano and show him my favourite piece, if that, of course, was deemed fine by the doctor. As my fingers brushed against the wooden door, about to push it further open, I realised the doctor wasn’t alone. Karina’s sweet giggles flooded the room before she continued speaking.

“Surely, Doctor. I am pleased to hear you do not burn yourself out by coming here daily. I can only imagine how tiring it must be to listen to my sister, she’s rarely coherent. You must have noticed, given that you are a doctor, that she often has no idea where she is or who she is talking to. She tends to get lost in her own mind and blabber on about nonsense.” Karina then paused as my heart raced, my eyebrows furrowed in distaste, “She looks completely normal upon first glance, but it quickly becomes obvious she’s—well, she’s insane, you know?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Brooks, I cannot be discussing this with you.” Doctor Jeong’s voice was neutral, and cold, unlike the tone he used with me, “But as a licensed doctor, given that I am one, I can tell when her surroundings influence her mood, or why she is in a bad headspace.”

Karina scoffed, sounding a little offended, “Are you insinuating anything right now, Doctor Jeong? I don’t need a license to be able to tell that my sister is insane. How long until you realise she’s just trying to trap you here, twirl you up into her web of lies and fantasies? If you think you can help a mad person, Doctor, I fear you should seek help too. She’s beyond help, she’s desperate and pathetic, and as I have stated, she’s mad—”

“I am not mad!” Before I could stop myself, I let my anger take over me as I barged through the ajar room, “I am not insane, Karina, you’re always putting words in my mouth! Who has ruined everything I have ever had, huh?! You, you did, so don’t call me your sister. I am not your sister, and I will never be, you filthy skank!”

Karina gasped loudly, her hand flying up to her mouth. The doctor’s eyes had widened too, clearly taken aback by my outburst. I had been soft-spoken and kind in front of him, careful to not show anything he could incriminate me with in front of the committee. Karina had gotten what she wanted all this time, I suppose. Now, the doctor would make an early report that wasn’t favourable for me without even hearing the truth, or as much as I could remember of it. I gulped, feeling ashamed as tears filled my eyes, but I tried to keep myself from crying. Karina wailing like a banshee next to Doctor Jeong was more than humiliating enough to force me to keep myself in place.

“Enough,” The doctor snapped, his friendly and soft features morphing into something of anger and vexation. For a second, I thought it was directed towards me, but then he turned his head and his warm chocolate brown eyes fell on Karina, now sharp, “This is the last time I let you off the hook, Miss Brooks. If you don’t stop treating your sister so poorly, I will have to write you up on the board as the main suspect that causes Miss Harold’s turbulent manic episodes to occur, is that what you want? Do you wish to also be psychologically evaluated? I can do that, I can get one of my colleagues to come out here and question you, but you might be surprised to find yourself deemed insane too.”

Doctor Jeong’s words visibly shook Karina as she crumbled into an armchair, fingers sinking into her hair as she shook her head at the doctor, crocodile tears streaming down her cheeks pathetically. My heart was racing in my chest, the doctor was all I could see. His flushed cheeks from anger, his whitening knuckles around the strap of his satchel bag, his rapidly rising and falling chest—Jeong Yunho had stood up for me, taken my side. He was my doctor, he was supposed to look out for me, but he wasn’t obligated to protect me from claims that might be true. I didn’t feel insane, I never had, but Karina might still be right. Maybe I was a danger to society and Doctor Jeong hadn’t discovered why yet. It was only a matter of time until I exploded in his face, showing him my true colours. I had no idea what I was fully capable of, that part of my memory was still absent, but I could never forget the feeling of pure satisfaction and elation as I watched Karina lay on her back, gasping for air as blood trailed from her nose down to her mouth, chin, and then neck.

Doctor Jeong sighed loudly, his eyebrows furrowed as he licked his lips, shaking his head in almost disappointment at Karina. Then, he faced me and his features instantly softened. My heart raced again, and I hid my hands behind my back. Then, without many words, he came closer to me and nodded with his chin towards the stairs, “Would you mind if we skipped the tea room today, I’d like a more private setting.”

I gulped, feeling lightheaded once again, “No, the storm ruins the pretty visage either way.”

The doctor hummed as I turned around and took off towards the stairs, his strong footsteps loud behind me. My hands trembled as we ascended the creaky old stairs, my fingertips tracing the old railing. Doctor Jeong’s fingers were close to mine, tracing the same pattern as mine, so close yet so far away at the same time. I exhaled softly and tried to keep a clear head, but my nausea was getting worse as I led the way to my bedroom. My mother would’ve been outraged by the idea of leading a man inside my room, but this was the doctor, he was here to help. I couldn’t think of a more private room than my own bedroom, the heavy door closed and locked once we were inside. The doctor seemed to tense when he heard the lock, his back to me. I felt exposed, a little naked, now that the man was in my intimate space. There wasn’t much to my room except for a desk filled with books and poorly done sketches, and a vase filled with daisies and tulips. The doctor headed for my desk, meanwhile, I headed for my bed. The sheets were satin and silky as I lowered myself onto the edge of my bed, letting my hands sink into the fabric. With a questioning glance, the doctor turned my chair around to face me and sunk into it with a heavy sigh.

“I apologise.” My eyebrows rose in surprise as I tilted my head in question, “For letting your sister speak like that of you, I should have never let her go that far. I shouldn’t have even let her corner me like that and-and—it doesn’t matter. I understand if you need space after this, I might be able to convince the committee to give me a few more weeks.”

“She’s not my sister.” I whispered as I wrung my trembling fingers together, looking down in my lap, “Karina is not my blood sister, Doctor Jeong. I might have viewed her once as a sister, but not anymore.”

The doctor fumbled around for his notebook and pencil, which had gotten smaller from having sharpened it so often. The doctor’s eyebrows were furrowed as he pushed the spectacles up on the bridge of his perfect nose.

“Does this have to do anything with what happened on that day?” The doctor’s voice was gentle, understanding even. I bit my lower lip and nodded slowly, feeling my head swarm around uncontrollably. Would he know what to do with me if I were to pass out? He is a doctor, after all, but Matilda is the one who knows me best, perhaps I shouldn’t have locked the door.

“She-she really—hurt me that day, and I—” My throat felt dry as my lungs started heaving for air, “I don’t know—maybe I did want her to di-die—I can’t do this right now, Doctor Jeong, I’m sorry.”

Doctor Jeong’s bottom lip was between his teeth as he suddenly let his notebook rest on the desk behind him. He leaned forward, lowering his head as he tried to make eye contact with me. I gulped and kept my gaze focused on my tremor-ridden hands, “Listen to me, Miss Harold, we don’t have to talk about it today. I’m just here to chat, I can tell you are not feeling well. Your mother informed me through a letter that you had hurt yourself last night, may I know what happened? Can you tell me? I won’t even take notes, just this one time.”

I gulped, slowly raising my eyes to look up at the doctor. He wore a tight beige shirt today with a dark blue vest over it, his pants snugly fitting his long legs. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, showcasing his fair and smooth skin, veins bulging through. The wristwatch on his left hand looked fancy, the leather a very dark blue to match his vest. Doctor Jeong’s dark hair was swept back once again, but it looked fluffier today. I itched to reach out and run my fingers through his hair, wanting to feel its softness for myself. I tensed my muscles before I could do anything stupid like that. The doctor’s cheeks were slightly flushed, and his tooth was leaving a small white dent in his bottom lip. Because he was leaning forward, there was less distance between us, but still respectable. Like between doctor and patient.

“I—” I chewed on my bottom lip before taking a deep breath, “I haven’t been feeling well lately, Doctor, so I couldn’t sleep last night. I went for a walk and…I don’t remember what I did or what happened. Sometimes I lose consciousness while I’m awake, it’s frightening. I woke up with a muddied nightgown and a cut on my arm, Matilda had patched me up though.”

“How often does this happen?”

“Not that often.”

“Do you have an idea what may cause it?

“Well, yes. I think it’s Karina, she’s been antagonising me for the past three days and I’m so tired of it all. I just disassociate when I see her approaching me now, I’m sorry.”

The doctor sighed, rubbing his bottom lip with his thumb. His spectacles had slipped lower once again, “Do not apologise, you haven’t done anything wrong. I’m just glad you’re alright, Miss Harold.”

“The thought of you visiting daily keeps me afloat, Doctor Jeong, I have something to look forward to now.” I smiled, widely, and the doctor’s eyes widened before he blinked rapidly, looking stunned. Afraid the moment of lightness would pass by before I could grasp it, I continued, “Would you mind telling me your story today? What it’s like where you are from? How you were as a child? Is that…is that unprofessional? Are we not allowed to speak about you, Doctor?”

Doctor Jeong’s gulp was loud, then he took a deep breath and slowly leaned back in his chair, his legs spreading wide. He looked conflicted for just one second, but upon a glance at my face, he gave in. I couldn’t help but beam at the doctor as he chuckled, taking his spectacles off to place them on the desk behind himself.

“Where should I even start?” He hummed, looking towards the window, lost in thought. He was gorgeous, and he was kind. I hadn’t met a man like him before, I wished to trace my fingers along his jawline, but Karina was right. I couldn’t be a whore, not with this man, “As a child I was energetic and always blabbering on about whatever was inside my mind. I liked to ask a lot of questions, but I was reprimanded often for being too curious. Life is…different in South Korea at this time, very much different compared to how things run here. I am lucky I managed to sail so far away, my family has made great sacrifices for me to end up here. I’m not even able to send them often letters, it’s too risky.”

“Why?”

“Because they are in hiding, our belief in God is frowned upon, Catholics aren’t safe there now.” To prove a point, Doctor Jeong grabbed the silver cross underneath his shirt and brought it forward, clutching it tightly in his hands, “I can bravely say it here despite the other religions that exist, nobody has tried to murder me for it, so far. Besides, I cannot tell whether they still live where we did before I managed to sneak onto a French ship and escape. The elite class isn’t like the one here, it’s falling apart and I cannot be sure that my family are still part of it today.”

My eyebrows furrowed as an ashen look crossed the doctor’s face, “Do you miss your home?”

“Yes and no,” The doctor answered truthfully, “I was young when I sailed here, I had nothing and no one until my foster father found me. He was a Dutchman, very kind but unforgiving. I got lucky because he was a doctor and I came here to study advanced medicine with the hopes of once returning home and spreading the word, but I cannot go back, not yet. They’d shun me away, shame me and possibly kill me. South Korea isn’t welcoming of strangers yet, and in their eyes, I’d be one too for leaving our homeland only to return with new doctrines. Even if it means saving hundreds of lives. Not that I work with the physical body, but everyone needs someone who can soothe their soul once in a while.”

“You’re beyond courageous, Doctor Jeong, I admire you.” I sounded breathless as I closely listened to the doctor, making sure no word he uttered slipped by my ears. I wanted to know more about him, who he was and why he chose to be here. I couldn’t imagine being on my own, out on the streets, away from my mother, “I promise not to waste your time here, I’m almost at the end of my story.”

“I know, Miss Harold,” Doctor Jeong smiled softly, “Rather an acquittance than your doctor, I’d like to tell you that I look forward to our sessions. You are easy to connect with, and you don’t make it hard for me to glimpse inside your mind. I cannot say I understand each choice you’ve made, but that’s the beauty of having free will and individual thoughts, it sets us apart and makes us unique.”

I couldn’t help but blush as I averted my gaze from his intense one, feeling shy all of a sudden. The doctor wasn’t calling me specifically unique, but the implication was there, and I couldn’t help myself but imagine, “What about your home? What was that like, Doctor Jeong? And your family?”

For a second, he was silent. It made me think I had offended him in some way, but then his eyebrows slightly furrowed and he looked serious, “Since I am not talking to you as your doctor, you should just call me Yunho, if I may…Y/N?”

Hearing my name fall from his lips had my heart racing and my breath shuddering. I gulped, feeling speechless for a second as my eyes bore into Doctor Jeong’s, wondering if the man knew what it meant to drop such drastic formalities. But I obliged because I wanted his name to roll off my own lips like mine had done on his, desperate to fortify this frail bond between the two of us, doctor and patient, “Right, of course…Yunho.”

Doctor Jeong’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, his gulp was loud. I watched redness coat his ears down to his neck, his fingers digging into the wooden armrests. He was still wearing the silver band around his middle finger, I wondered whose it was. Was it from someone back home? Or was it from his foster father?

“Right, Y/N, well my home certainly was smaller than your house, and also built with different architecture in mind. And people don’t wear these fancy suits at home, we have our own traditional clothes that we proudly wear. I still have the one I arrived in tucked away as a means to never forget where I come from.” Doctor Jeong—Yunho—smiled softly, eyes glazed over with memories as he spoke quietly, almost as if to himself, “I have a younger brother, he’s the loveliest. I didn’t want to leave him home, not even my father and mother, but we would’ve been discovered if we were to run away together. My mother sent me off sobbing, clutching me to her chest and wondering if we’d see each other ever again. My father was a stoic man, but he had cried too. He had enough faith in me and God to know I’d make it out alive and become what they sent me away for. I left a dear friend behind too, but he promised to follow me one day. I do not know if we’ll see each other, perhaps he’s wandering around on a completely different continent, but at least I have something of his with me.”

My eyes flickered towards the silver band Yunho was absentmindedly playing with, his lips set in a tight line. So, the ring was from someone he dearly loved and cherished, I wished I could reach out and pat his hand to offer him comfort. But Yunho’s solemn look switched into one of contentment as he looked at me again, “Our house was in a lovely neighbourhood, filled with silence and the chirping of birds each early morning. Our servants were few, so they lived with us, and they had quickly become part of the family too. I would play in the dirt with my brother when our mother was busy in the kitchen, overlooking the cooks while also helping out. Our father worked long hours but he always returned with fresh flowers for my mother and some sort of western delicacy nobody was allowed to know about. I would often take walks on the beach, if there’s anything I miss terribly, it’s the wide sea and the calmness it brought with itself.”

“I love sailing,” I muttered, tucking my hands underneath my thighs as I hummed, “Despite what’s happened to my father, I find solace in the sea. It silences my fears, much like taking walks in the garden does. I feel like I belong to nature, that I can easily become one with it.”

“Nature is a beautiful place,” Yunho hummed, swiping his thumb against his bottom lip, watching me closely, “You’d love exploring the world.”

I chuckled sadly, “I would, Yunho, but I’m forced to rot away in this house under the very eyes of my servants and family. I can���t even be left alone here, sometimes I want it all to stop. Tell me, have you travelled a lot?”

Yunho looked abashed as he shrugged one shoulder, “Enough to see all sorts of places, people, and cases. Not each one had a happy ending, but I had learned something from each of them, so it was worth it in the end.”

“I wish to see the world, Yunho. I don’t want to be caged in here anymore. Could you set me free—no, will you set me free, Yunho?”

“I—I’ll try, I really will, Y/N. If you tell me the truth, I can help you and write a promising report on your case. But you have to be transparent with me for that to happen.”

“What if they don’t agree with you? See me as unstable and a danger to society, what then? Will I require a caretaker still?”

“I’m afraid, yes. Perhaps you’ll have even more severe surveillance, I’m sorry. I truly promise to do my best, but you have to trust me.”

“And what if…what if you became my caretaker?”

The silence that followed my question felt heavy, it felt wrong. I shouldn’t have asked that, but I was desperate to know how far Doctor Jeong would go to prove I wasn’t insane. And perhaps, a hidden sadistic part of me wanted to know just what exactly the doctor would do for me, to me.

“That would imply you are very unstable, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of such a thing.” Doctor Jeong breathed out, reaching for his spectacles.

“But would you become my caretaker?” I whispered, gazing up into his eyes with yearning as the doctor abruptly stood, “I wish to see the world, the places you go to. I wish to see South Korea once you’re allowed to go back, Yunho. Would you take me with you?”

He was packing his things frantically, breathing through his mouth loudly, “I cannot tell, Miss Harold, it implies great responsibility to look over someone unstable. Given if you were the object of my desires, I wouldn’t even consider becoming your caretaker, but I’m your doctor and it’s inappropriate.”

“Isn’t it only inappropriate if you make it that?” I stood, facing the doctor before he could run off. He looked conflicted and angry, so I backed off, “My apologies, I have taken you for granted and stepped over our boundaries as doctor and patient. I hope I haven’t made you too uncomfortable, Doctor Jeong, that’s not what I wished to do. I hope you can forgive me.”

“I will be back tomorrow, and you must tell me what happened, Miss Harold.” With a nod of his head, the doctor was at my door, quickly unlocking it, but he didn’t twist the knob right away. He took a deep breath and released it with a whisper, “And I would become your caretaker, if I could.”

His footsteps echoed through the house just as lightning struck in the distance. I walked to the window and watched the doctor get onto the motorcar as his butler drove away, trying to avoid the storm. And then, just like that, the world started spinning as blackness threatened to coat my vision.

            My knuckles were bloody from having picked at the skin consistently since I was awake. The tremors from my hand have extended to my whole body, my head felt underwater. I couldn’t understand what was happening around me, but I jumped each time thunder rumbled the earth. I know I had been placed on a chair in front of the window in my bedroom, Matilda sitting in the corner with my mother regularly checking on me, but I couldn’t tell what was being said to me or done around me. I didn’t have an appetite this morning, and getting out of bed was harder than ever before. I knew something was wrong, that something had disturbed my peace of mind, but I had no idea what this sudden change in my mood meant. I tried to break through the veil of haziness and speak to Matilda, tell her that my head was throbbing and my joints ached from how wrung up my body was, but my lips formed no words. I tried using the breathing technique Mrs Humphrey had once taught me, but nothing was working. I wasn’t able to control my body, and it was only making me more anxious.

The door to my room opened, but I continued to look out the window absentmindedly, bracing myself for the loud rumble when lightning struck again. After the doctor left yesterday, it hadn’t stopped raining ever since. I knew he couldn’t make it today, but he was determined enough to push through the storm and visit me. Unless it was a serious issue that needed to be urgently taken care of, the doctor never cancelled our session. The thought of seeing him when I felt so unwell managed to calm my racing heart, but until he was actually standing in front of me and I could gaze into his deep eyes, I couldn’t help but take shallow breaths as my muscles tensed up even more.

“Look at you,” It was Karina’s voice unmistakably, “trembling and sweating like a dying child, aren’t you? Who are you acting for, hm? The doctor isn’t here, Y/N, no need to act all pitiful like this, nobody in this house cares about you.”

Her voice was crystal clear for some reason, it made my ears ring as I released a shuddering breath. My mind was so askew that I couldn’t even answer her, I just needed a warm embrace and a deep voice to whisper that everything was fine. Did nobody care about me? That was so depressing, it brought tears to my eyes.

“Besides, he’s not coming today.” I failed to inhale as Karina continued to speak, “He sent a letter to your mother that he couldn’t find a carriage in time, so he isn’t coming. How tragic, all this acting only for him to not witness it…”

The sound that left my mouth was quiet, but unmistakably a whimper. Matilda shifted in her armchair and cleared her throat. I could see Karina through the reflection of the window, she was smirking maliciously as she stared at the back of my head. She looked so pleased with herself, that it made tears stream down my cheeks. I wanted to say something, but the lump in my throat was getting tighter and tighter, I realised I had stopped breathing. Why wouldn’t Yunho come? Was he like Karina too, did he not care about me? Did he lie to me yesterday? Was I worth so little that he couldn’t take on being my caretaker? Why must this be my fate? Why must I be forced never to leave this estate, this house, trapped under the eyes of people who either hate me or pity me? I wanted to sob, but the more I tried to breathe, the quicker I realised dark spots had started appearing in my vision.

“I don’t know what you two do during your little sessions, but the committee has given him one more week before he has to make his final report,” Karina chuckled, I heard her coming closer, fingers gripping the back of my chair, “And then, he’ll be all mine. I already talked to my father and he considers Doctor Jeong a nice suitor, how exciting. You can’t have him, Y/N, and he won’t have you either. I see the way you look at him, you are pathetic.”

Karina’s warm breath fanned my ear and cheek as she whispered her last words, cackling like an evil witch in all those fairytales my mother had told me about. My mouth parted to inhale deeply, but the spots grew darker, becoming more.

“Miss Brooks, please,” I heard Matilda plead as she sprung up from her seat, “Leave young miss alone, she isn’t feeling well.”

“Oh, shut up, you silly goose!” Karina snapped at Matilda, throwing her a disgusted look, “You and everyone else who feeds into her delusions should be admitted to an asylum, get a grip! She’s fine, she just needs her daily dose of attention, stupid girl.”

Hearing the word asylum cracked something further inside me as I sprung up from my seat, eyes wide and body cold. I looked at where Matilda was standing, but all I could see was the face of the man who found great pleasure in cutting me open just to leave me bleeding and helpless. A scream tried to tear through my throat, but I lost my balance as I tumbled to the floor, fingers digging into the floorboards painfully. Someone shrieked as my stomach heaved, but there was nothing to empty. I could hear the man’s words, his tone unbearable and scratchy as he told me I was worthless and a whore, hungry for male attention ever since my father had died. It made my skin crawl, it made me feel dirty and disgusting as I tried to scrape at my arms.

“Mrs Harold!” I could hear the panicked screams, but I couldn’t tell where I was anymore. I felt caged and in danger, like someone was leering over my shoulder, waiting for me to pass out so I could be targeted. I whimpered when I felt hands on my back and tried to slap them away, but I was forcefully hauled up to my feet. A wail finally tore through my lips, and I started trashing around when I felt myself being lifted off the floor and carried somewhere.

“No! No, stop!” I screamed, my voice nothing but a screech as my nails sunk into whoever was carrying me, “Don’t take me back there! I haven’t done anything, please! No—no! I didn’t mean to—I don’t know—wait, no, please, I’m sorry, stop!”

My body sunk into something very soft and warm as fingertips pressed into my skin, forcefully prying my eyes wide open. My lungs heaved for air as I tried to get away from whoever was touching me, but I couldn’t, they were stronger. They were always stronger, I could never get away. They would never leave me alone, I was always their little experiment. They would cut me open as if I was a rat, they would ask me questions and whip me even if I told the truth, they liked to touch me and make me beg for them to stop…I wanted to die. I couldn’t do this anymore. Why would they torture me like this? Did my mother not love me? Had my father’s ghost abandoned me?

“Please.” I managed to whisper when my body finally froze up, all fight leaving it. My muscles and joints ached, my heart thumped wildly, and I couldn’t hear my thoughts anymore.

“My baby, please, stop.” A female voice pleaded above me, “Nobody is hurting you, tell me what’s wrong, baby. I’m here, your mother is here, please.”

How could my mother be here? The asylum didn’t let anyone visit us. My eyes burned when I opened them, but I couldn’t see well, they were filled with tears. There, looming above me stood the one man I yearned for. His eyes were kind and brown like the most expensive Swiss chocolate, his skin fair with a rosy flush to his cheeks that made him endearing, small spectacles slipping down the perfect slope of his petite nose. The doctor was here.

“Yunho, save me.” My voice was barely audible as I croaked out my words, but I noticed my mother’s eyes widening before I drifted off to the darkness that had come to claim my body. Here, nobody could hurt me.

But even in my dreams, the miscreants wouldn’t leave me alone. I couldn’t tell where I was due to the darkness that enveloped me, but I felt frozen down to the bone. My summer dress did nothing to keep me warm, and the little friction to my arms only caused me to shiver more. I tried to call out to see if anyone was there with me, but my vocal cords wouldn’t even croak. My heart was racing and my eyes burned, I could tell I was in danger but I couldn’t see because of what. The impending doom I felt, however, said to me that I needed to run and that I needed to run now. So, I didn’t wait around as I grabbed the skirt of my dress and aimlessly took off, unable to see anything due to the permeating darkness. My feet hurt from all the little rocks that cut into it, and then something touched my cheek that made me cry out. It was warm, almost scorching hot against my frozen skin. There were whispers around me that I couldn’t make out, or understand even if I concentrated on them, but then one of them started making sense. It made more sense than the others, its timber familiar and warm, kind. Then, I could feel fingers tracing my left cheek, a calming hum easing my tense muscles until I could finally take a deep breath. It burned my lungs, it felt as if I was inhaling for the first time.

“Open your eyes, Miss Harold.” Then, just so that I only could hear it, the familiar voice whispered, “I’m here.”

A gasp tore through my lips as my eyes flew open, jolting me awake as I sat, frantically looking around. It was a lot darker in the room than the last time I was conscious, and the rain was hitting the roof of the house harder than before. Matilda, my mother, Mr Brooks, and Mrs Humphrey all stood at the foot of my bed, different emotions reigning on their faces. As I made eye contact with my mother, she let out a loud sob as she fell into Mr Brooks’ arms, and I felt my lower lip trembling. I hated seeing her in a state like that, worrying over me. Before I could cry too, my head was gently turned to the side until all I could see was the doctor. My mouth opened in shock as the doctor looked at me with sad, but worried, eyes, a wet rag clutched tightly in his other hand.

“Yunho.” My throat felt scratchy as I reached out incredulously, wondering whether I was just hallucinating. I noticed my bloody knuckles were bandaged now, ointment placed on the nightstand table next to my bed, “You are here? Really here?”

“Yes, Miss Harold.” He smiled gently, hesitantly letting me touch his jaw, “How are you feeling?”

“Sick,” I said before I could mule over my answer. My stomach was aching and my head was thumping, “I don’t know what happened to me, Doctor, I cannot remember.”

“Don’t try to remember now, your body and mind are overwhelmed,” Doctor Jeong then gently guided me to lay down in my bed once again, “You need to relax, Miss Harold. You fainted, and Miss Matilda has told me you haven’t eaten all day long, that’s unhealthy.”

“I’m sorry.” I felt like a child being chastised by their parent for the first time, except that Doctor Jeong’s face didn’t look even a little bit angry like my mother’s had back then, “I thought I would throw up if I ate anything, still do.”

The doctor hummed, then slightly turned to look back at the others in the room, “Mrs Humphrey, can you bring me that tea I asked you to brew? It will greatly help Miss Harold right now.”

“It’s storming outside, why did you come?” My eyebrows furrowed as I watched the doctor’s serene face, his spectacles were missing and his hair was a wavy mess on top of his head. Looking further down, I realised he wasn’t wearing his fancy suit. Instead, the doctor wore a beige tunic with the strings undone, showing a silver of his collarbones and chest. His silver cross dangled between his pecks whenever he moved forward to check for my temperature, letting the cold rag ease the thumping of my head. The doctor’s boots were still on his feet and looked muddy, but nobody was paying attention to that as he sat on the edge of my bed, taking care of me.

“I’m a doctor, my duty is to ensure my patients are healthy and safe.” Then he glanced back at my mother and Mr Brooks, Matilda had left the room with Mrs Humphrey, “You scared everyone, you scared me, Miss Harold.”

“Thank you for coming, but what you did was unsafe, Doctor Jeong.” I gulped, eyebrows furrowing in worry, “How will you get back home?”

“He will sleep here tonight, sweetheart.” Mr Brooks answered for the doctor, looking just as worried as I felt, “Can’t let him go out in this bad weather, it’s risky. I will ask the maids to make dinner for you, Doctor Jeong. The guestroom is already being prepared, your butler can sleep with the rest of the servants, if that is alright.”

“Yes, thank you for your hospitality.” Doctor Jeong bowed his head, smiling at Mr Brooks, “I’m sorry to say this, but Miss Harold should rest now and the more of us are in the room, the bigger the risk of overwhelming her is.”

“Oh, of course.” My mother whispered, her eyes glossy again, “Rest, my dear.”

I hummed as I watched her and Mr Brooks leave, leaving me alone with Doctor Jeong as the door closed after the two exited the room. I sighed long, looking at the doctor as he removed the rag from my forehead to wring it in more cold water. We said nothing as he placed the rag back onto my forehead, gently removing wet hair strands from my cheeks. He sat close to my body, but his eyes avoided looking into mine. I gulped, trying to find the right words to say just as there was a knock at the door. Doctor Jeong told them to come in and Matilda came inside with a tray and a cup of tea. She offered me a sad smile as she placed the cup of tea on the nightstand.

“Get some rest tonight, Matilda.”

“But you are not feeling well, young miss.”

“This is an order, how long until you faint from exhaustion? Please, I won’t leave my bed tonight, you shouldn’t either.” The maid looked hesitant, but didn’t say anything other than a quiet ‘thank you’, and then she was out of my room, closing the door after herself.

“Someone should check on you tonight, though.” Doctor Jeong said quietly as he helped me sit up, puffing up the pillows behind my back. He grabbed the cup of tea and handed it to me. It was still hot, its scent herbal. My nose twitched as I took a whiff of it before tasting it, cringing away from it, “It tastes horrible, I know, but it’s very good for your health. Drink it.”

It tasted so bitter I thought I would throw up on the spot, but it was supposed to make me feel better, so I toughened up and drank it as quickly as possible. The doctor watched me as I placed the cup on the nightstand, looking a little amused. I wrung my fingers together and placed them in my lap, looking down at my hands. I felt guilty for having forced the doctor to come all this way in such bad weather, yet he was looking at me with kind eyes and a soft smile.

“How do you feel now?” He asked, turning his body more to face me.

“Slightly better, my head isn’t thumping as violently as before, thank you.” I answered, sinking back into the pillows and cushions, “I think—this could be a grave accusation, but what if Karina is the reason I am like this?”

I couldn’t meet the doctor’s eyes as I chewed on my bottom lip, my thoughts whirling around too quickly for me to comprehend them. The doctor froze for a second, then I saw a hand reach out, only to settle on the blanket next to my thigh. I could feel Doctor Jeong’s body heat through the blanket, I wished he had placed his hand over my thigh instead.

“Why do you think that, Miss Harold?”

“May I call you Yunho?”

“Of course, Y/N.”

For a second, I paused and looked up with a smile. Yunho was already looking at me with a small smile on his lips, and I huffed a little embarrassed. Seeing him dressed so casually was doing something weird to me, my heart raced from excitement as I felt shy all of a sudden.

“Just like on that day, she was saying bad things to me again, antagonising me. I know she hates me, but I get so angry around her that sometimes I can’t even form words.” I gulped, eyebrows slightly furrowing as Yunho’s fingers twitched next to my thigh, “I wasn’t feeling well all day, but then she started speaking and I just—she brought the asylum up and I was back there again, being terrorised and touched—I can’t talk about it, I’m sorry, Yunho.”

“Let’s not talk about it, then.” Yunho’s jaw was clenched as he licked his lips, his forehead creasing as he leaned slightly forward.

“I don’t remember anything after that, even her words are muddy.” I felt helpless as my eyes bore into Yunho’s understanding ones, “Matilda was there the whole time, you can ask her what happened, I’m sure she’ll tell you everything. She hates Karina as much as I do, she wouldn’t lie for her.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Y/N.” Yunho nodded once, then tilted his head to the side. I gulped, feeling nervous for no reason, “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep tonight? Are you feeling tired?”

I hummed, playing around with my fingers as I looked down at my lap again. Yunho’s fingers were tapping the blanket, his breaths audible but even, “I feel spent, and I know I will be able to sleep, but I’m…scared to fall asleep alone.”

“I understand, I’ll let Mrs Harold know. Perhaps she could keep you company.”

“Yunho?”

“Yes, Y/N?”

“Can you stay until I fall asleep?”

My voice was quiet as I glanced up at Yunho through my eyelashes, feeling my cheeks heat up. He looked taken aback, then something I couldn’t recognise crossed his features for a split second. He exhaled through his mouth and gulped, loudly. He hummed, deep in his chest, and flattened his palm against the blanket as he shuffled his feet around until his muddy boots hit the ground. I realigned my pillows and crawled a little further away on my bed, to make more space for Yunho as he made himself comfortable, still on the edge of it.

“But I cannot stay once you are sleeping, I’m sorry.”

“I know, it’s alright, Yunho.”

Our smiles were small but appreciative. Yunho nodded and chewed on his bottom lip, his eyes raking over my face as I watched his cheeks flush a deep shade of red. It wasn’t warm in my room, but I suppose the sheets could make him feel warm too. His hand balled into a fist, grabbing a tight hold of the blanket as I glanced down at it.

“Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

“You too, Yunho.”

Every waking moment he spent thinking of her. Even in his dreams, she appears as a vixen, tempting Yunho to do unforgivable things. He knows he cannot, he’s her doctor and she’s a patient in desperate need of treatment. Yunho knows this, she isn’t his first case. He’s met people with manic episodes before, potential dissociative amnesia too, but something sets her apart from the rest. Yunho has never once in his life wanted to reach out and cradle one of his patients to his chest and tell them everything would be alright now that he was there. But when he saw her, so frail and generous, soft-spoken and kind, he couldn’t help but feel anger whenever she told him of Karina. Yunho had a feeling she wasn’t like that unprovoked, and the more he heard of Karina and her schemes against his patient, the more convinced he was that Karina had lied in the first place to get her into that asylum, far away from the safety of her home. Yunho knew what went down inside an asylum, he’s treated many mentally unstable patients before, straight inside those horror houses, and his blood boiled anytime he saw pain and terror strike upon her face whenever the asylum was mentioned. Yunho didn’t want to know, truth be told, what had happened to her there because he was sure he’d march up to that asylum and strangle every man who had hurt her. He was a doctor, his ego and fame protected him from making a mistake, but when she had led him inside her bedroom, Yunho was close to throwing it all out the window, quite literally. Her unique scent of hydrangeas had been so potent inside her bedroom, and her sitting daintily on the cushions of her queen-sized bed had his thoughts going haywire. Yunho wanted to touch her, not just tell her that she was safe and sound with him, but show her too. He was wanting and wanting, and he wondered if her story would have a happy ending. Could he save her from the madness they plastered over her head? Or would he dig her a bigger hole once the committee hears his verdict of her mental state? But what Yunho most importantly needed to sort out with himself, was the question that’s been mulling over in his head ever since she had uttered it. Would he be willing to become her caretaker? Just to keep her safe and away from Karina, of course, Yunho was a professional, above all. He told himself he didn’t have second intentions with her, but the more days passed by spent in her company, he couldn’t tell for sure anymore.

            Karina was right about one thing, the committee had given Doctor Jeong one more week to sort out everything. He was right, I couldn’t beat around the bush anymore, besides, we had gotten close in my story to that faithful day. Doctor Jeong knew this, I knew it too. Because he was afraid of overwhelming me again too soon, he had given me two days of bed rest before he’d return to resume our sessions. The two days had gone by and I was nervously waiting for him in the foyer. After the storm passed, the heat returned even stronger. I didn’t wish to stay in the house, it aggravated me anytime I glanced towards the stairs, Karina’s injured body lying by the foot of it too clear in my mind. The doctor’s patent motorcar was louder today than other days as it rolled to the front of the house, where he was welcomed by Mr Allen, the gardener. He was an elderly man who had grown fond of Doctor Jeong like many others in the household. Myself included, which would explain why my heart was beating uncontrollably once again, sweat brimming my eyebrows.

“Will you be alright?” Leia asked as she shuffled past behind me, fresh bedsheets in her arms, “I don’t think Matilda will survive one of your episodes.”

Leia had no mal-intentions, she was just honest down to a pulp. I chuckled, glancing at her as she had stopped in the doorway to the laundry room.

“I might not survive another episode, too.” Leia’s eyes widened guiltily, but I continued to smile, “If the doctor writes a good report about me, I’ll finally be out of your hair, Leia. Pray for it.”

“I don’t believe in God, young miss.”

“Don’t let Doctor Jeong know that.”

Speaking of the devil, his knuckles rasped against the sturdy front door as Leia grinned, disappearing inside the laundry room. I opened the door before the doctor could knock again, welcoming him with a bright smile on my face. He paused, looking taken aback.

“Good morning, Doctor Jeong.” I greeted him, stepping aside to let him walk inside.

“Good morning, Miss Harold, you seem to be doing fine.” He returned a small smile as he shrugged his blazer off, wearing another tunic but fancier this time. It was a deep green, paired with his brown trousers which made him look like he was a huntsman returning from a long hunt to his wife, jittery to have her in his arms. I gulped, feeling embarrassed by my thoughts when I realised, I had imagined myself as the wife Doctor Jeong would return home to. It was inappropriate, but the thought was intrusive and fast before I could stop it.

“Thank you for letting me rest, it has helped.” I hummed, raising a hand when the doctor went to step out of his polished shoes, “Do you mind if we sit underneath the willow tree today?”

“Not at all,” The doctor beamed, taking me off guard, “I was just about to suggest it, you know we cannot postpone today’s topic. Being in a place you love might bring comfort, I hope, at least.”

“You are thoughtful,” I smiled, then led the way towards the tea room, the grand doors were pulled open, letting inside the fresh warm breeze. Mr Allen was in the doorway, trimming the bushes, but he made way for us when he spotted us. I offered him an appreciative smile as he raised his hand in a silent greeting, a straw of wheat between his teeth as he tipped his hat towards Doctor Jeong. The doctor bowed back to him politely before we made our way down the gravel path, headed towards the willow tree. The warmth today made me feel hot despite the thin summer dress I wore, its sleeves short with a sweetheart neckline. It was a sage green, a pretty contrast against my copper curls. Without needing to ask, Matilda has made a daisy crown to wrap around my bun. I felt pretty and safe covered in my favourite things, sitting underneath the willow tree as frogs ribbited down by the pond, bees buzzing by. The doctor got ready as he opened his satchel bag, taking his notebook and new pencil out. As we sat, I noticed our thighs brushing together, the doctor’s now musky cologne invading my senses. When he placed his notebook on his left thigh, twisting his upper body to face mine, the pages of it brushed against my own thigh too.

“In our last session, you spoke about visiting your father’s grave with your mother. You made him a daisy crown since he loved the flowers just as much as you do, and then, when you returned home, your once lover was waiting for you in the foyer.” Doctor Jeong’s tone was gentle but impersonal, he was a professional after all, “You stopped after you said you were fighting and it got…violent? You must elaborate on that, did nobody hear it? Did nobody help?”

I sighed, picking at the grass, “It didn’t get violent in the sense of a physical altercation, but our words were harsh and unforgiving. He called me many names that day, he broke my heart, Doctor Jeong. I know you are curious about what was said, and because it leads up to what happened between Karina and me, I shall tell you.”

The doctor was jotting down my words in his notebook, his hand flying over the page. His bottom lip was between his teeth as he pushed at his spectacles with his other hand. He hummed and briefly glanced at me when I remained quiet for too long. I had to brace myself, so, I took a deep breath and gazed at the doctor instead of at the house, finding my nerves calmer if I gazed at his beautiful face, and his chocolate brown eyes whenever he held eye contact.

“Matthew, the man I had once loved, was my fiancé. He had asked for my hand while my father was still alive, our love story goes way back. We’ve grown up together due to our father’s being friends, and chancefully had fallen in love too. He was always sweet and loving, he respected me, and always heard me out. I suppose that is what attracted me to him most, I could see a glimpse of how my father treated my mother in him. But we had our ups and downs too, he was way too jealous and hated it when I spoke to other men, meanwhile, I had no problem if he had female friends. After my father died…it was hard for me to come to terms with it, I was sad every day for a very long time. I didn’t want to see anyone but my mother, not even Matthew. He knew I needed time, but he was getting impatient, he was bringing up marriage more often than not, but I wasn’t ready yet. I had just lost my father and the thought of not walking down the aisle with him by my side just hurt too much.” I paused and licked my lips, pulling my knees up to my chest as I felt the doctor shift and lean even closer, “And then as my mother and I healed together, she found Mr Brooks. It took them a while to settle down, paperwork and whatnot got in the way as well as people talking nasty behind their backs, but when I found out Mr Brooks had a daughter too, I felt hopeful. I thought I would finally find a true friend, someone to share everything with. Karina was lovely at first, very kind and funny, I could easily consider her my sister even if we weren’t related by blood. But then, one evening we went out to a pub where she finally met Matthew, and things just…changed.”

Doctor Jeong hummed, still writing as I let my eyes take in his focused expression. His forehead was creased slightly as he chewed on his bottom lip, his neck flushed from the heat. I had also shifted more into his space subconsciously, and I had to refrain from tracing his brows before sinking my fingers into his smooth-looking hair, “You see, it wasn’t Matthew who had changed, but Karina’s attitude towards me. She became snappy and rude, she didn’t make it obvious, but I knew she was looking down on me. She barely talked to me now when my mother and her father weren’t around, but she somehow always found time to ask about Matthew. At first, I thought nothing much of it, I figured she might’ve not liked him too much and was looking out for me in an obscure way, but then I found their letters. Mr Allen was bringing in the post and I told him I would sort them out, so when I saw Matthew’s letter, of course I had assumed it was for me…except, it hadn’t been. It was addressed to Karina, and there were all sort of weird questions about me as if whatever Karina had said before had upset him.”

“Has Karina been sending him letters behind your back?” Doctor Jeong looked confused as he looked up at me, his round eyes narrowed and void of kindness. When the doctor was this serious, he looked almost frightening. But I knew he was kind and caring underneath that mask, so I didn’t care. I hummed and nodded, absentmindedly picking at the scabs that had formed over my bruised knuckles.

“Yes, and she was lying to him, saying very ugly things about me. Still to this day, I don’t understand why she did all of that. Leia says she’s blinded by jealousy and wants to be better than me, but unless Karina says it, I don’t want to believe it. Anyways, I didn’t confront Karina right away, I hurried over to Matthew’s house to talk to him.” I huffed sadly, looking at the doctor again, “He was just about to mount his horse and leave for the city, but when he saw me, he knew we had to talk. It turns out, Karina has been lying about me for months now, saying I was seeing other men behind his back and somehow even made up some evidence of it. She had sent him handkerchiefs that had been my father’s, claiming they were of those I was—sleeping with. She even told him I was badmouthing him and that I was only marrying him out of pity, and because my father had made me promise I would marry someone richer than my family. But—it was all lies! I loved Matthew, I always have! I wanted to marry him and have a nice household, but Karina took it all away from me. What he said to me…it had hurt a lot, and it still does, so I won’t repeat his words, but he broke off our engagement and told me to never appear in front of his eyes. I had loved him, Yunho…”

My throat clenched as I took a shuddering breath, eyes filled with tears. Yunho had stopped writing and looked at me with pain in his eyes, bottom lip between his teeth, “I’m sorry, you deserved better.”

I hummed with a sad chuckle and quickly wiped my eyes before the tears could fall. This was it, this is what Yunho had been desperately wanting to hear for a month now. I lowered my legs and looked at Yunho with a neutral expression, making his eyes widen minutely, “I know, but it’s okay. If God is watching like everyone claims him to be, Karina will be punished, and so will Matthew. I was a mess after that conversation with Matthew, and I cried all the way back home. My chest was clenching and my heart was thumping wildly, I thought that was what heartbreak felt like, and I still believe so. When I stumbled through our front door, Karina was just…there. Waiting for me in the foyer with an amused smirk. She didn’t even feign innocence as she asked what happened, she could clearly see Matthew’s crumbled letter in my hand. I won’t deny it, I said some very ugly things to her. I didn’t even let her speak as I exploded on her, I’m still surprised the house staff didn’t try to stop me. I have said this in my report too, but I struck first, I slapped her and pushed her back when she started laughing. She was only doing it to make me even angrier, and it was working.”

My muscles tensed as I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, keeping it in my lungs as Yunho’s jaw was clenched, his eyes focused on my face as I continued talking, “I needed space, so I backed away before I could do anything really hurtful. My head was thumping and my body was shaking, I felt like I was suffocating. Karina just continued laughing as I hurried to the stairs, wanting to lock myself in my room and cry myself to sleep. She was following after me, now cackling instead of laughing, and then she said something—something that I’ll never forget, ‘All that courting and playing around each other just to never even fuck him? Don’t worry, you’re not missing out on anything, sister, he’s not even good in bed.’ I saw red when I heard her say that, my thoughts were a mess and I didn’t even doubt the accuracy of her words. I just reacted, I know I slapped her again as I stopped on the stairs, but I couldn’t say anything as I was close to sobbing, so I just ran up the rest of the stairs, but she was still following after me. She was saying something, and I was screaming at her to shut up, but she wouldn’t. And I—I just really wanted her to shut up, to not look at me with those eyes and I just—I don’t know, Doctor, I don’t know. My whole body was shaking and I couldn’t see clearly, my head was aching and I couldn’t even hear anymore, I just—I just remember suddenly coming to myself again when there was a shrill screech. And then I remember Matilda looking at me with terror in her eyes as she called for Jesper and Mr Allen to come help, to call for a doctor.”

“In your report, you said—”

“I know what I said, Yunho, I said I turned around and gave her a backhanded slap, yanked on her hair and bashed her head against the wall before pushing her down the stairs.” Yunho’s eyes were shaking as our faces were close, “But I don’t remember doing any of those, the lawyer told me to say that to protect myself from a serious accusation. Matilda lied for me, and so did Mr Allen. In the end, Mr Brooks paid the judge and I was simply classified as insane, the case was swept under the rug and I’ve been forced to live like this ever since.”

“I knew there was something wrong with that report,” Yunho muttered under his breath, “But why did you lie?”

“I was young and scared,” I sighed, my eyes searching Yunho’s face for any judgment, but it wasn’t there, “I thought they would lock me up if I didn’t make up a story. But in the end, I was locked up in my own house for six years, a prison still, just different. I fainted in the court too, I don’t remember much from there either.”

Yunho looked troubled as his eyebrows were deeply furrowed, his bottom lip thoroughly chewed on, and his spectacles pushed up on his nose. With his free hand, he reached forward, but stopped just before his fingertips could touch my hand and instead balled it up into a fist and lowered it back into his lap. His jaw clenched as he gulped, shaking his head as he looked down at his notebook.

“I have a scar on my abdomen,” I whispered, hand pressing against my covered stomach, “from having fallen over and cutting myself, do you believe me, Doctor?”

When Yunho’s jaw just clenched and he didn’t look at me, I gulped nervously and reached towards my sleeves to pull them off, to let the dress pool at my waist, but one fleeting glance at me had Yunho reaching forward with a panic-ridden face, his eyes widening, “Stop, what are you doing? I believe you, Y/N, I do.”

His hands were big and warm, wrapped completely around mine as the sleeve of my dress swiftly slipped off my left shoulder. His thumb rubbed my bruised knuckles, and despite the sting, I welcomed the affectionate gesture as it covered my arms in goosebumps. I released a long breath, my eyes boring into Yunho’s. His eyes were easy to read, he looked conflicted and confused. I had no idea if he believed me, but I wanted him to. Hurting Karina was wrong, but she deserved it, and I was glad I managed to make her hurt at least once compared to how many times she had hurt me. But I remained silent as Yunho leaned even closer, our faces a breath away from each other. He gulped, loudly, then frowned. As I opened my mouth, he looked alarmed and scrambled backwards, letting my hands drop into my lap as he gasped, grabbing for his things frantically. I didn’t understand what was happening, but when I tried to help, he just pushed my hand away. My heart hammered in my chest nervously as sweat rolled down my temples, and I stood so quickly I got whiplash. Doctor Jeong was just about to take off towards the house when a desperate question left my lips.

“Will you save me, Doctor Jeong?” My voice was trembling just as much as Yunho’s hands, “Will you become my caretaker and take me away with you, will you?”

My questions went unanswered as Yunho ran off, not even bothering to go inside the house as he followed the cobbled path to the front of the house. The engine of his motorcar was loud as I slumped back against the tree with a dizzy head.

             The committee was more eager than I had thought at first to wrap this whole thing up. Just two days after my last encounter with the doctor, a letter came at an early morning hour that the verdict would be given today. I was nervous, but I braced myself for the worst possible ending, which would be me being sent back to the asylum. I doubted I would survive that once again, so I could only hope the doctor had taken pity on me and would be generous in his report. My mother had been buzzing around the house all morning, making sure everything was perfect for the arrival of the committee. Cookies had been baked, fresh tea was brewed, the ground floor aired out with every corner dusted off, and the tea room was decorated with vases of freshly picked flowers. The grand doors were opened, creating a serene surrounding as I sat on the sofa by myself. Nobody was inside the room except for me, something which was rare. I gaze forward, at the visage, trying to commit it to memory. I wondered if I would get to see it tomorrow too.

Matilda had dressed me in a dainty white dress to feign innocence, with my hair pulled in a low bun, and daisies hanging out of it. It felt as if the ghost of my father was here to cheer me on, to offer me some braveness before everything would unfold. And it would, way too soon. There were loud knocks against the front door before it was opened, and six people piled inside our foyer. My mother and Karina quickly walked inside the room with my mother sitting next to me, meanwhile, Karina took her spot in her favourite armchair. The image was eerily similar to the first day the doctor had arrived, it made my heart race. The rest of my future was in the hands of another man, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I knew what I had done to Karina was wrong, but a small part of me knew that she had deserved it. My muscles tensed when Mr Brooks’ voice carried inside the tea room as he led the committee and Doctor Jeong inside. My jaw clenched and my hands balled into fists as they each walked in, eyes on me as I remained unmoving.

The committee consisted of the town mayor, the judge who had handled my case, the town’s richest married couple, and Father Louis, the head of our church. My stomach churned as the familiar faces sat down surrounding me, leaving space for Doctor Jeong at the front. Mr Brook sat next to my mother and held her hand, making my mother sigh loudly. I didn’t want to look at anyone, I was afraid to see what they hid in their eyes. The doctor seemed tense as he rolled his shoulders a few times, then cleared his throat and accepted the tea from Mrs Humphrey, who had insisted on staying in the room, in the back where she didn’t bother anyone. I couldn’t focus on anyone else but the doctor as he finally seemed like he was ready to speak up. He faced the room and his eyes took in everyone, staying on me for a second too long. I could see Karina sneer from my peripheral vision, but I didn’t care. I was just as curious to hear what Doctor Jeong had to say as the committee.

“Dear committee, Mr and Miss Brooks, Mrs and Miss Harold, and of course, Mrs Humphrey,” Doctor Jeong bowed his head lightly, “Thank you for coming, and I’d like to thank the committee for entrusting me with this intricate and peculiar case. I must say before I begin, that I have encountered cases like Miss Harold’s before, but neither one has been as complex as hers. I trust my personal judgement and everything I have learned up until this point, that my verdict is the right choice, and that if the committee sees it fit as well, it shall proceed with Miss Harold’s sentence accordingly.”

Doctor Jeong’s fingers were wrung together in front of him, his dark blue suit was perfect. He looked dashingly handsome with his wavy hair falling all over his forehead and into his eyes, his spectacles perched into the pocket of his vest. His warm eyes found mine for a second before he looked around the room again, nodding to himself. He took a deep breath and continued his speech, starting to pace around the front of the room. Him standing in front of the garden and the path that led to the willow tree was dreamy, “We all know that Miss Harold had lost her father when she was young, which would be hard news to swallow for a person at any age. I assume that his early death left Miss Harold traumatised in a way that could go unnoticed unless looked upon by a professional, which didn’t happen. Her stress and repressed pain had accumulated, waiting for a small spark to ignite the explosion, which did happen as we all know it. I spent a month daily by Miss Harold’s side, listening to stories of her childhood, and her adulthood, all leading up to the moment we’ve all been curious about. During my time studying her, I’ve come to observe that she is a very kind soul, attentive, and a generous person. She is soft-spoken and very sensitive to everything that happens around her, it is rather hard for me to imagine she could even as much as hurt a fly.”

I gulped, feeling my heart hammer in my chest as Yunho spoke with much conviction, his eyebrows furrowed as he stopped moving around, his eyes settling on Father Louis, “Her mental state, however, fluctuates a lot based on her surroundings, she easily reacts to the change of weather and the change of mood of a person. People like Miss Harold aren’t only in touch with their peers, but with nature as well, as insane as that might sound, it’s a rather special attribute to have. She’s had bad days during our sessions, and I had the chance to further observe the cause of this. As a psychiatrist, I do not enjoy lightly throwing out diagnoses, but I have to ensure the health of my patients. Miss Harold suffers from manic episodes that get triggered by certain words, environmental changes, and people. In Miss Harold’s stories, I have found one person who seemed to be always around her when these episodes happened, making me confident in my theory that she is Miss Harold’s trigger.”

The people in the room gasped as they looked around. My heart was hammering, I could feel my pulse in my throat, but I couldn’t help but let out an amused huff. Karina’s eyes were wide and her knuckles white as she gripped the armrest of the armchair, fear painting her face. It felt satisfying looking at her, and if I hadn’t known the doctor better, I would’ve missed the satisfied smirk on his lips there for a millisecond, “If this wasn’t about the health of Miss Harold, I wouldn’t be throwing out names so unabashedly, but this is to ensure her safety and health. Miss Brooks seems to like to pick on Miss Harold whenever she gets the chance, and she likes provoking her sister. Before anyone could deny my claim, I was witness to such a thing happening, Miss Brooks herself has said some very rude things about Miss Harold that no lady should utter, less about their sister, even if not related by blood. That being said, I cannot throw all the blame on Miss Brooks since Miss Harold is traumatised and doesn’t know how to handle it, or how to control her outbursts.”

Then, as if there was nobody else in the room with us, Doctor Jeong’s eyes found mine, his expression softening. Karina had started crying next to me, but I couldn’t care less as my mother was glaring at her, the committee didn’t look very pleased either.

“What she said in her report…” Doctor Jeong loosened his necktie a little, licking his lips, “Turns out to be true. In a fit of rage, she disassociated and acted upon instinct. I do not know if she had told anyone, but Miss Brooks had come between Miss Harold and her fiancé, breaking off their marriage. As someone who had been in love once, much like all of you in this room, I’d like to assume, we all know what it means to experience our first heartbreak. For someone who had grown up with this boy, loved him with their whole heart, and was supposed to grow old with them, to hear their engagement was broken off based on some lies made up by Miss Brooks not too soon after Miss Harold’s has lost her father must’ve been devastating. Thus, the trauma she had experienced before due to her father’s untimely death combined with another tragedy has made Miss Harold’s mind break, lose its bearings, making her unable to tell right from wrong.”

I couldn’t breathe as my eyes bore into Yunho’s, filling with tears. I had expected him to go against me for having lied in my report, or to try and go around the topic without bringing it up much, but no, he was actively lying for me and keeping up the image that I had a lapse of judgement all this time. My mother’s hand found mine as she squeezed it reassuringly, tears streaming down her cheeks. I glanced at her fleetingly, my body buzzing with life as my hands trembled. I wanted to see the faces of the committee members, but Yunho was all I could look at. There was a heavy sigh in the room, it could’ve come from Mr Brooks or someone else, I couldn’t tell.

“I’m very close to giving my verdict, so allow me to say this before that,” Yunho smiled softly, looking towards the committee with a gentle look on his face, but with a steely look in his eyes, “Miss Harold’s is a human like all of us in this room, and she is allowed to make mistakes. She’s been punished for her mistakes, probably unfairly, and we mustn’t make the same mistake again. I have concluded, that Miss Harold needs an environmental change for her to fully heal. This house no longer feels homey to her, she feels caged in and watched all the time, plus now you all know that Miss Brooks won’t leave her alone either. As a verdict, I have concluded that if the committee and her mother agree, Miss Harold could be assigned a new caretaker. And…before you make suggestions as to who could fit this role best, I would like you all to consider me as her new caretaker for the next year. I am a doctor, I know what to do and how to act in case she is having another episode. I will be leaving the country in a month to return to France, where my foster father has requested my presence. The environmental change would benefit Miss Harold greatly, that is, if you trust me, of course.”

I felt close to fainting by the time Yunho had stopped talking. Him, Doctor Jeong Yunho, my new caretaker? Could that be possible? Would the committee even let it happen? I had no idea, but I wanted to fall in his arms and sob as I thanked him for his effort, for listening to me, for trying to save me from this place. The committee erupted in whispered mutters amongst themselves, but Father Louis seemed more than pleased with Yunho. His brows were sweaty as he dabbed at them with the back of his wrist, his arms covered with the sleeves despite the heat. My mother wasn’t moving next to me, and Mr Brooks had turned his body away from Karina, who was trying to catch her father’s gaze insistently. Then, there was a tsk as the judge rose to his feet, all eyes falling on him.

“Thank you. Doctor Jeong, for your in-depth analysis and for the tabs and reports you’ve been keeping on Miss Harold this month, we appreciate it.” He rubbed at his chin, his hair already silver from age, “We have selected you, Doctor, to treat this delicate case because we have heard of your expertise. You have never once failed to treat your patients accordingly, and I find no reason to doubt your verdict, however, wouldn’t it be risky to take Miss Harold away from here? Couldn’t that trigger her madness even more? And if Mrs Harold won’t agree, she cannot go. Either way, we cannot let her go unless you promise to report back to us monthly, Doctor Jeong, and once the one year is up, you must return her home. She shall be reevaluated, then her fate will be decided for the future.”

When Yunho and my eyes met again, I knew my fate had been sealed. France, a new beginning by his side, sounded like a far-fetched dream that was now within my reach.

Yunho was a professional, except when it came to her. The lines had blurred long ago, he couldn’t tell who was the doctor and who was the patient when it came to her. All Yunho knew was that he could never let her go, not when she clung to him as if her life depended on him. Her lips tasted like honey and her moans were the prettiest music he had ever had the chance to hear, her skin soft and warm and her body so pliant underneath his. All it took was one touch from her for his whole being to crumble, he felt drunk on her, insatiable. Yunho knew he couldn’t let her return home, not now that he’d found Mingi too, not when the three of them were living in a tucked away village in a homey cottage, away from prying eyes. Yunho finally had what he’d been yearning for his whole life. His family was back, right within his reach, and even when he missed his home, he’d gaze upon Mingi and her, and realise that his home was here with them. And she was sweet like nectar, Yunho’s guilty pleasure that he just couldn’t get rid of—didn’t want to get rid of. He was a bad man for preying upon the innocent and unassuming ones, but may God forgive him for his sins, he was just a man after all. He knew he was bound to become insane like his patients one day, but Yunho was already a madman for her, and he didn’t care. Profession be damned, only the four walls of their cottage would truly know the truth, much like her amnesiac brain that had no desire to return to a land and home that’s treated her so horribly once. Here, Yunho was a complete man and he had wowed to protect what was his…no matter what it took. Mingi and her were staying there with him, forever.

ꕤ Masterlist ꕤ 

↳Perm. taglist: @orshii @jjoongstar @tinyelfperson @thestarskiller @zuuhaa

@aaa-sia @gong-fourz @a-tinycarat @sooberryworld @hopefulrascalstatesmantoad

@anastasiamin860 @yunhogrippers @vcutparis @tunaasan @blvckarabixnvoid

@yusalterego @arigakittyo @slowee00 @jaerisdiction @hey-syia

@vnessalau @oddracha @chatsgotmytongue @potatos-on-clouds @yunhowooyo

@watermelon2319 @yoongzsmile28 @klllerwaifu @apriecotte @hwasbbyg

@kyeos4ng @samiiy20 @woosanhobros @aswho1estuff @khjoongie98

@ateez-main-yapper @kang-ulzzang @felixs-voice-makes-me-wanna @ginger-mingi @redzie02

@unholywriters @autieofthevalley @roomsofangel @peachyy-joonie @baeksofty

@tunafishyfishylike @syubseokie @jycas @fandom-freak-geek @intaksfav

@itswaffleberry @e3ellie @skz1-4-3 @hoe4yunho @kyeomooniee

@winklehwa @eyesonlyformingi @khjssss @torieisawesome99 @amrose8

@faeriehwa @hongjoongsprincess @iceteainsummer @lac3ybow @aurorajoye

@londonbridges01 @hyukssunflower @hwashua-luv @halloweenbyphoebebridgers

❀ complete the forms if you're interested! ^^

[notjustjavierpena]

Ubi tu Gaius, ego Gaia: Chapter III

Series Masterpost | Main Masterpost | Support a disabled creator

A/N: I'm excited to bring to you the next chapter! Happy reading!

Chapter Summary: In which you experience your wedding night and an uncomfortable conversation takes place.

Pairing: General Marcus Acacius x f!reader/you (no y/n)

Chapter warnings: +18, arranged marriage, historical sexism, probably historical inaccuracies, large age gap, religion in the form of Roman Gods, shitty parents, anxieties over wedding night, virginity loss, female masturbation, handjobs, piv sex, praise kink, dirty talk, painful sex but also not painful sex, creampie, politics, Marcus gets angry

Word count: 9k

Link to this work on AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57443332/chapters/154904269

Chapter III: You're a woman and a wife now

After you enter the room, Marcus closes the door to his night chambers with a soft click. He secures it to give the two of you an illusion of privacy despite the many servants walking up and down the halls that now belong to you as well, cleaning the rooms of any signs of guests so that new people can relish in festivities tomorrow too. 

“I noticed you regained your appetite. Did you like the feast?” He asks as he starts undoing his sandals with steadier hands than you can muster right now in your anxiety-riddled body, untying them where they stop just underneath his knees until he can step out of them completely. 

“Your cook is better than ours,” you compliment with a little smile, your arms crossed over your chest until you can hug yourself with your palms on your back. You try to self-soothe like when you had first met but the thought of the wifely duties that lie ahead makes your heartbeat pound in your chest in a dizzying fashion. 

“He is your cook now too,” he delves into small talk, trying to make a mundane situation out of something that so evidently weighs heavily on you. He is just about to continue when you hold up your hand to stop him, reluctantly having let go of yourself to signal that you wish to speak.

“Marcus,” you start in a soft voice without knowing where the sentence will go, doing the utmost to make sure that you are not sounding as if you are going to refuse to share a bed with him in case of evoking anger in him. He watches you curiously, graciously allowing you to interrupt him all the while you swallow the lump in your throat, “I must confess that I am nervous.”

You can barely get the sentence out before tears start to well up in your eyes, your throat constricting as you find yourself on the verge of crying. You reach for some of the fabric of your tunic, clutching it desperately as you hold a sob at bay. 

Marcus looks at you with sympathy that shouldn’t surprise you but still does despite the moment you shared the last time you were alone with each other.  

“What bothers you?” He asks despite knowing the answer already. 

“Is it not obvious?” You ask with a whimper, “I am dreading the thing that all wives so desperately long for on their wedding night. I have been told stories of blood and cries, of men being cruel in their passion, and— I know that it is my duty, that this is as important as the ceremony itself but it scares me. What if my body simply isn’t made for this act?“

It is odd to confess something so personal to a near-stranger but you suppose that there is no point in tiptoeing around the fact that you are united in marriage which demands the deepest form of vulnerability towards each other. A tear manages to escape your eye and it rolls down until it drips off your chin. 

“Carissima,” Marcus soothes gently. He dares walk to stand in front of you, his bare feet quiet on the cold floor and even though he can potentially reach out to put his hands on you, he does not, “Goddess Nox has given us plenty of time to take things slowly before dawn. These stories you have heard… I wish you would not think of me as such a brutal man. Our chambers are not a battlefield.” 

You reach up with the back of your hand to swipe away the tears that have started to continuously fall from your chin, catching some on your cheeks before they even manage to go so far. You feel a pang of guilt at your assumptions because Marcus is right and the proof is in the way he kissed you so carefully yesterday when you had asked. 

“I’m sorry,” you cry unhappily and stare down at your feet again, hating the way you come off as a scared child. You are married to a general of the great Roman Empire, meant to exude grace and strength even when the two of you are alone in your home. Your home. These chambers will forever be yours too.

“I know this is difficult but this is something we must do to start our lives together as man and wife,” Marcus coos back at you. He dares to put a hand underneath your damp chin to tilt your head up again, looking into your eyes with his own that seems to be miles deep with their brown color. You whimper but he shakes his head, “No more of that. I will not have you remember your first night in these halls with remorse and terror.”

His hand moves up to cup your whole cheek with how large his palm is, and as you feel his warm and gentle fingers on your skin, you close your eyes and lean into the same kind of touch that had made you explore yourself in bed last night. He smiles as you melt a little, “Very good, that’s it.”

Your eyes shoot open again as he praises you so effortlessly, a warmth spreading through your lower body at hearing words you have never heard from any man before. A tiny drop of need pools in your belly, making you bold enough to make a request, “Will you kiss me like yesterday? Perhaps then I might relax more.”

Marcus nods. You move to remove the crown of flowers that secures the veil covering your hair. You place it on one of the many marble surfaces in the room, handling it with the care that comes from your superstition as to what would happen if you were to tear it. You do the same with the veil, draping it across a chair while Marcus waits patiently. No tears fall from your eyes anymore.

You signal to him that you are ready and you don’t flinch as he leans close, the tip of his thumb resting underneath your chin while the rest of his hand is spread across your face. He pokes his nose into your cheek, pecking you there with featherlight touches of his lips before gently going inward to capture your mouth. 

The kiss is even better than yesterday. It makes you release the fabric of your dress in an instant, your arms coming up instinctively to wrap around your husband’s shoulders. You kiss him back with a desire that must have been asleep in your body because it wakes up as fiercely as linen catching fire. 

“What do I do?” You pant when he gives you a moment to breathe, your faces barely an inch apart. You might drown in his eyes. 

“You trust me,” he replies without hesitation and you can do nothing but nod slightly, so eager to follow orders that it terrifies you a little. You feel his strong hands bunch up the fabric of your tunic that’s draping over your hips as he captures your mouth once more, a soft moan leaving you as his tongue slips past your lips. 

He leads you towards the bed without pulling away. You can taste the honey and fruit from the dessert on his tongue, smell him when he forces you to breathe through your nose when his mouth does not leave yours. He smells faintly of scented oil that a servant probably recommended after a shave along his neck, of sweat and of himself, which you will fall asleep and wake up to for many days to come. He has you not worrying about yourself for even a second, not even when one of his hands reaches for the woven belt around your waist to undo it with utmost care. 

It sways in the air as it falls to the floor, lying forgotten for the maids to clean up tomorrow. He allows you a breath when he breaks the kiss but he takes the air from your lungs once more when his hands touch your shoulders. You feel lightheaded as he slips the tunic off of them, the soft fabric slipping down your arms and chest until it catches on your hips. You have never been this exposed to anyone before, the slightly cooler air outside of your clothes making your nipples harden and catch Marcus’ attention. He admires your bare chest without words at first but it makes you hesitate, knowing how effortlessly he had complimented your appearance when you had first met. However, when you reach up to cover yourself, he shakes his head. 

“You are radiant,” he praises and warmth goes to your face, eyes dropping to the floor at the idea that he might mean it wholly. You gain a shred of courage, pretending that you haven’t looked at the floor again by fixing your gaze on your skirt. You work the draping fabric over the swell of your hips, ripe for bearing children if that is what he should want, and let it pool around your feet. You have already had your blood this month, so you have no garments covering your sex. Suddenly, you are more exposed than you have ever even seen the depictions of Venus. Does he find you just as beautiful now that you are in nothing but the golden jewelry that your mother said he had sent?

Without word, your instincts guide you to sit down on the large bed and Marcus waits patiently while you crawl back on the linen sheets. You move your arms back to support yourself, bending your knees slightly but not daring to let your legs fall open like you know you probably should. You consider the pose of a siren, legs together like a tail and laying to one side to show off the curve of your body. 

“Seems like Venus has favored you. I shall wonder how your father has kept you in his house for so long,” Marcus finally breaks the silence but only to make you smile shyly, stirring up a little laughter and shortness of breath in your chest. Cupid seems to have hit you square in the chest with his golden-tipped arrow, filling you up with desire for your new husband when he says praise so effortlessly. 

“Are you going to join me now?” You ask, finding that nervousness is best fought by being direct. You gaze at his face to read him but you have no clue how these situations unfold, so you are unable to read his mind and foresee his next move. 

“You will not be ready,” he shakes his head. You narrow your eyes as you ponder what he means, watching him undo the knot of red fabric on his shoulder to slip off the top layer of his toga. He hangs it on the chair next to your matching veil. 

“Ready? But I am in your bed,” you let him know of your confusion. When he turns around to face you once more, you gasp at the sight of his sex, the length of it. He is visible through the toga now that the top layer isn’t covering him up anymore. His cock is outlined by it from the way he has gotten hard in response to seeing you naked, a thing you knew was going to happen but never could have imagined what looked like. 

“Come closer,” he says as he stands by the end of your bed. His tone has changed a little but you cannot confirm whether it has to do with him being aroused underneath the remnants of his clothes. It seems like a command now, so you follow through with a pounding heartbeat until your heels are pressing into the mattress right at the edge of the bed. 

“What did you mean?” You ask. 

“When you are alone,” he begins but the tone of his voice is still to the gentler side, his hand reaching out and hovering above your knee. He makes you gasp as he grabs it, carefully pulling it outwards until the most private part of your body exposes itself to him. His eyes only look down briefly, “Do you touch yourself here? Between your legs?” 

You glance away quickly as your heart leaps into your throat. The images of last night flood through your mind and you feel embarrassed, so you shake your head in response, “No, of course not.”

“I don’t believe your words for a second, Carissima,” he chuckles, his dominant hand going up your thigh until he removes it altogether to catch your wrist. He moves your hand to rest between your thighs, “Show me what you do.”

You release a breath you didn’t know you have been holding, feeling the warmth of your cunt against your fingers and how it aches for you to caress the spots you like the most. Your pulse is everywhere now but mostly centered around your clit, the pearl-shaped nub that you have explored just the night before. 

“I don’t do it long,” you babble nervously as you start to touch gently between your legs, two fingers rubbing in gentle circles over your clit. It makes you gasp a little, the sensations in your lower body heightened by being in another person’s proximity as you touch yourself, “I always stop right before… before something happens.”

“There’s no need to stop. Something beautiful happens when you keep going and get to that pinnacle,” Marcus teaches you with a kind expression, moving his hand to push your other leg out to the side. You are opened up to him like a lotus flower but he still doesn’t seem like he will move on top of you yet, crush you with his weight, and fall asleep afterward with horrible snoring that your sisters have joked about. 

You start to feel familiar wetness increase between your legs, your fingers gliding over your cunt easier and making you speed up your touches as the pressure increases. Marcus sees it from the way your slit glistens in the dim light of the oil lamp on the nightstand. He encourages you, his cock even more prominent underneath his clothes, “If you have touched between your thighs, you will know of what I speak. I see it now, the signs of your body welcoming intrusion by making itself warm and wet for me. It will feel like you are missing something… I assure you that I will give it.”

You furrow your brow at those words while you stroke yourself and feel a flutter of pleasure intense enough to make you moan, Marcus’ eyes dropping to his own lap where his length twitches. He readjusts himself with a soft groan and then something clicks. You do feel exactly like he said, perplexed by why you have not noticed the gaping emptiness all the other times you have done this. 

Experimentally, you reach lower to prod a finger at your entrance and you groan at the way it slips effortlessly inside yourself. You aren’t sure what to do next, letting the finger stay still inside of you as you get used to the unusual pressure, but the heel of your hand starts grinding down onto your clit in earnest. 

Marcus steps a little closer at the temptation you bring him with your growing pleasure. He squeezes your thigh and you nearly laugh in surprise when you can feel your walls squeezing your finger, “Will I not hurt you if I… grip you with my…”

You cannot say any of the words you know. Cunt, heat, sex. It somehow feels more exposing, more intimate in a way than the physical gestures you are performing for him. You hear him laugh but his eyes are not cheerful when you find them, instead, they’re dark with lust and you squeeze your digit again. 

“On the contrary,” he touches himself on top of his toga, his stomach rising and falling faster than just a moment ago when he didn’t have a hand on himself, “It’ll feel like I was made for nothing else.”

There’s the familiar gathering inside of your belly. Sweat prickles at your skin, pleasure steadily blossoming from inside of you as you reach a point of no return. This would be where you would stop back home, leaving you sensitive and emotional as you forced sleep onto yourself. This time, you chase the feelings that terrify you.

You feel like the most fragile person ever; like you are made of clay that might shatter at any moment. You clutch at the sheets with your free hand, Marcus’ eyes sure to make you succumb to how brittle you are as he watches intensely. You bite your bottom lip, a small whimper escaping you as you teeter on what you have always shied away from. 

“Don’t stop,” he urges when you hesitate for less than a second. His breathing is ragged now, synchronized with your own as you suddenly realize that you are doing the same thing. He seems better at controlling it than you, “Let it come, so we can enjoy each other.” 

You cannot breathe, snapping for air as you press a little harder on your hard clit. You want to squeeze your eyes shut but then you’ll miss the look on Marcus’ face as he sees you come undone, so you power through and, and… and—

A cry of surprise and pleasure leaps from your chest as you find release. You lift your hips to meet your hand, your index finger slipping out of you as you instinctively know to focus on your pulsing clit. It is like nothing you have ever felt before, going on for several maddening seconds where you don’t know whether to chase more or stop when you can do nothing but tremble from the sensation. 

The linen on the bed is wet underneath you and a cockiness within you tells you that you could handle him tenfold if you wanted. You are disoriented by the heat ebbing out of your body, leaving you in a state of daze and a mix of emotions that you cannot fathom has nothing to do with the wine during the feast. You let your hand rest on your stomach, feeling your panting underneath it and suppressing a giggle that bubbles up all the way from your belly. 

“Will it be like that every time?” You ask and stretch your legs to let your feet hang out over the edge. 

“It can be,” he replies with slight amusement, hiding a lopsided grin. He is standing with his knees brushing against the bed, having itched to get as close as possible without overwhelming you and perhaps scaring you off. He lets your foot brush his toga, “However it might get better with time and practice.” 

You stare at him in disbelief, not sure if you believe that there’s something even better awaiting you somewhere in your future. You stare down between his legs where he must be aching like you’ve been several times in the past. You are already aware that you are wrong in the assumptions you have about pleasure because you’ve learned so much in less than ten minutes. How will it feel when he gives it to you?

“Can I touch you?” You boldly ask and slowly find the confidence to sit up, feet planted on the floor. You are so close to his lap, “When you are undressed?”

“You can,” he nods, not able to hide the surprise on his face as you look curious above all else. He undoes the belt around his waist and lets it clatter to the floor, and you watch with nervous breath how he lets his own garments slip from his body until the whole of him is revealed. It is fascinating to see a man like this, much different from the statues around Rome and particularly where you sometimes have felt scared to look. 

He steps between your knees, looking down at you and the height difference should be intimidating but is not. Instead, there’s the calming reassurance of being watched and guided as you lift your hand to rest your palm on the softness of his stomach. He has muscles there, just a little less toned than what the working men back at the village sport. His arms are what hold his tremendous strength, the effects of carrying a sword or spear on the battlefield. He is gorgeous, you think to yourself while curiosity and unexpected heat stir in your loins. 

Your eyes wander while your palm skims lower. They follow the sculpt of his torso, a long scar weaving itself around his hip distracting you until your gaze settles on the sight of his erect cock. It is much larger than you expected - thick, long, and intimidating but somehow also beautiful - and the thought of it entering you brings new anxiety to your body and mind. 

“You are nervous,” he points out, chest rising and falling slowly as you explore the fine hair on his skin which becomes thicker the further down on his abdomen they are. You run your nails through the trail just below his navel, looking up as his cock jumps at the contact. 

“I try not to be. I’d rather be curious,” you tell him, finally bold enough to touch him where he is hard and straining. You wrap your fingers around his generous girth. He is warm in your hand as you stroke him lightly to simply feel the weight of him and it takes little else before he lets out a low, appreciative groan. The confidence his response gives you makes your mouth water but despite what your brain tells you to do, that seems over the line right now. 

Instead, you look up at him with big eyes as you continue in a rhythm that he seems to like because you can hear the catch of his breath. You think he might stop you when he covers your hand with his own but instead, he adds slight pressure to guide you in how he likes to be touched. 

You hadn’t thought this was how everything would go down. There’s a strange form of equality between the two of you when you are naked together, a comfortable feeling in your chest at the idea of a whole night of giving and taking pleasure from each other being before you. What you had gathered from what Cassius so disgustingly had tried to explain to you whenever you were by the river alone, it was supposed to be a cruel act for the woman. This is not cruel. 

Eventually, Marcus’ breathing has become labored and you know that he is within reach of his own pleasure. However, he tightens his grip on your hand to slow down your movements much to your confusion. 

“You’re a quick learner, almost too quick,” he says with a warm chuckle, removing your hand from his cock. There’s a bead of clear liquid at the tip, threatening to drip down onto your thigh. The room somehow smells sweeter when the both of you have been so close to experiencing a peak together. 

“Why did you stop me?” You ask curiously and let your hand drop to your lap. You can still feel his warmth radiating from his heated skin, it glowing with a sheen of sweat already. 

“I don’t want this to be over yet,” he explains with a few controlled breaths that seem to calm him. His jaw clenches as if he is in pain but he doesn’t sound like you have done anything wrong, “And it will be if I lose myself.” 

“Am I… are we ready now?” You question once more. 

“Lie back,” he orders with a nod. You do as you are told and he joins you on the bed with confident grace, as if he has done this a million times before, the mattress dipping underneath him. Gently, he pushes on your chest to make you lie down on your back. When you are comfortable, he lies down next to you with his body turned towards you. 

You see him come closer and meet him halfway, pressing your lips to his in a kiss even deeper than the first you’ve shared with him. He makes a noise of approval at your eagerness, cupping your face with a single giant hand while you cup the back of his head with both of your own. You try to initiate more kisses but suddenly his lips descend to your throat, leaving goosebumps in their wake as he pecks along the sensitive skin of your collarbone too. You start to feel impatient for another high with him, another peak of pleasure to dance its way through your veins. 

“Marcus,” you say with your fingers in his hair, “I’m ready.”

“Let me make sure,” he says while the hand on your face settles on your thigh instead. He rakes his fingernails across your skin when he goes inwards, causing you to gasp at the idea of what he means. Are you wet for him? Yes, you are. You know you are. 

Two fingers slide between your legs. He parts your thighs slightly to gain more access and then simply feels the slick that has been dripping from your cunt since you kissed him fully clothed. A gasp leaves you at the feeling of being touched by a man in a place that you’ve been told is your most private. In return, a smile spreads across his face and a satisfied hum escapes him. 

“You’re ready,” he whispers with his gaze fixed on you. Teasingly, he holds his fingers up before you and turns his wrist so you can see your wetness shine in the light. He then puts his digits in his mouth and licks them clean, to which you want to hide your face with a squeak. He describes you as ripe and sweet, juicy like the peaches in the Summer, all the while he shifts his weight and positions himself between your thighs. 

Feeling him like this - the skin of his rough thighs, the coarse hairs that feel nothing like yours as they grace your softness - makes a fresh wave of nerves wash over you. It feels like there’s suddenly a very short time to prepare for what you have come to understand will be a transformative experience. You start to tremble, looking down between Marcus’ legs and wondering how on Earth you are supposed to allow him into your body. Above you, you hear him say your name but it sounds like you’ve been trapped inside a bell jar. 

“We will go slow,” he promises when you look like a hunted doe. He has placed his hands on your thighs to soothe you, letting his calloused palms skim up and down your skin, but you tense up even more since he has barely touched you before. You swallow as he goes on, “You will guide me with your comfort. If anything hurts, I promise it’ll only be for a moment.”

“You will stop if I tell you to?” You ask with uncertainty. A part of you already knows that you will try to power through no matter the pain. 

“Yes,” he promises and removes his hand again when he realizes its effect on you. He places it on your chest instead, feeling your unsteady breaths underneath it, “But I need you to relax, Carissima. Take a deep breath and tell me what you fear.”

You do as he says, heaving for a large mouthful of air that makes your heartbeat settle down slightly as it fills your lungs. For once, you don’t shy away from his gaze as you talk about lying with him in such explicit terms. You chew your bottom lip after a few breaths, “What if it doesn’t fit?”

Marcus laughs and you feel embarrassed. He shakes his head as he notices, leaning over you to hover just above your lips. You hold onto the arm on your chest as he reassures you, “It’ll fit, I promise on the Gods. Your body and mine were made for this; for the act of making beautiful children.”

You decide to be brave and kiss him now that he is so close, and slowly, as you taste his mouth again, you tangle together in a way that makes sense for what you are about to do. Marcus is close enough to map out every detail of your face, one hand on your hip and the other resting just above your head. You, on the other hand, have grabbed both his bare shoulders, holding onto him tight enough for your fingertips to dent his skin. He has promised that it will be okay if you scratch him with your nails, that he, if he is completely honest, likes that sort of thing. 

“Okay, I’m ready,” you say with determination, feeling the way Marcus lets go of your hip to run his fingers through your folds again. You moan softly as he lets his hand gather wetness, your eyes going down to watch him take his cock in hand and smear it with slick. 

“Don’t look down there, look at me,” he guides you gently as he prods against your slit. You force yourself to meet his eyes again, a gaze in them that holds a mix of desire and restraint. He takes a deep breath that is followed by him starting to push forward, the feeling so intense that you whimper while keeping eye contact. 

“Shh,” he soothes during the initial sensation. There's a painful sting as the head stretches your walls that have never known such intrusion. It makes you breathe rapidly and shudder from discomfort until a cry leaves you when you are breached. Tears form at the corners of your eyes as it burns. It’s a feeling that you can’t describe, a fullness that feels unnatural and natural at the same time. He pushes beyond the thick head and it makes you tighten around him, so much he has to still completely. He looks angry but he isn’t, his teeth gritted as he continues to push despite the danger of finishing, “You’re tight around me, try to relax.”

“S-sorry,” you attempt to follow his instruction, try focusing on the exciting intensity of his gaze, the delicious way he looks at you because he wants you. His weight on you is so heavenly, his skin is warm against yours that is riddled with goosebumps despite not being cold, and the sound of his breathing reminds you of the way your own breath is rapid when you pleasure yourself. 

Yet when you seem to think that the worst is over, he goes a little faster with feeding you his cock and the pain intensifies by blooming into something more sharp. The air inside your lungs feels trapped as your breath hitches but you force it out until it releases into a pained cry. Mostly, you just want to stop but you’re reminded that this has to happen if the marriage is to be successful and legitimate. So instead, you clutch at Marcus’ shoulders and whine. 

“Am I hurting you?” He asks, resting his forehead against yours and stilling his hips. You nod at first but then shake your head quickly afterward, unable to speak in case you’ll sob. He doesn’t seem convinced, “I’ll try moving. I won’t go further in before you can handle it.”

You nod in approval, your heart beating so fast it is making your mind feel clouded. He begins to move with gentle, shallow thrusts of his hips, his eyes glued to you in search of anything that might tell him that it’s too much. The first few moments have you thinking that you might split in half but you find that the repeated fill of your cunt makes everything turn into a dull ache as you get used to it. Your noises are pained yet soft, soon switching to quiet moaning as he moves inside of you. 

“Doing so well,” he praises as you welcome him further without thinking. A sensation that you had thought would only be painful has kickstarted a different kind of feeling. It’s a warmth that spreads through your lower body, pleasure that mixes in with the rest in an almost insistent way. Marcus makes a noise that makes you clench around his cock, and he finds your mouth in a messy kiss, “I’m almost all the way in. It’s supposed to feel good. Does it feel good?” 

You nod repeatedly as you feel connected to him in a way that you never thought you would with another person. He is so deep inside of you and the discomfort that you thought would persist is fading away fast, leaving only a tug of pleasure that tightens more and more. You close your eyes and squeeze them shut as you moan a little louder for the first time. 

Without control of your body, your hips rise up to meet his and he fucks you a little harder. The friction is significantly more intense than what you have felt alone, but you can feel its effects mixing with your previous orgasm’s warmth. The room fills with the lewd sounds of your shared breaths and the scent of sex. 

Marcus’ hand settles on your hip, his incredible strength hauling your leg over his own hip so he can switch up the angle. Meanwhile, his other hand reaches down and pushes hard down on the back of your thigh to open you up even further to him. He stretches so his upper body towers over you and rolls his hips with controlled desire, mouth hanging open a little in his breathless state as he concentrates on making the pain disappear completely. 

It does a moment later. An involuntary moan leaves you when the head of his cock slides over a spot that seems different from every other place inside of you. Your eyes fly open after having been squeezed shut for so many seconds, fireworks going off in your peripheral vision. Your gaze moves down between your bodies to see a faint trace of red on his cock, setting your heartbeat into overdrive. You should be shoving him off now that you are bleeding but what the hell felt so good? He hits the same spot once again to make you cry out and crane your neck. 

“You like that? Was that all I had to do?” He asks with a satisfied smirk, breathing raggedly on top of you as he treats you to even more of the same pleasure. You want to come again, your hips rising to meet his thrusts more insistently if it means him giving you pleasure like that over and over again without fail. As your pleasure starts building into another peak, a shocked laugh leaves you. 

“How do you… How did you—?“ You start. 

“I knew where I wanted to reach. Feel that? That spot is made for feeling good,” he explains with a voice rough with his own pleasure before you manage to finish your inexperienced question, “I wanna hit that over and over, fill you up so you can feel it there for days when I’m done.” 

“Don’t stop,” you groan. 

“I’m not going to,” he promises but instincts tell you to make sure, that if he even falters a little, you’ll feel the frustration of no release like you have since you discovered what is between your legs. You tighten your thighs around his hips, locking your ankles around the small of his back and the move makes Marcus growl. 

He, who you are ready to call a master in the art of love, leans down over you and drives into you like a wild animal. You whimper but it isn’t of pain, the familiar feeling of ecstasy building rapidly between your legs again. He feels huge inside of you, the whole length of him throbbing against your overstretched walls. 

And he kisses you, seemingly not in control of himself anymore when he feels the same pressure in his lower abdomen. It is messy and sweet and rough at the same time, your hands cupping his face until they automatically slide up into his hair. You can feel his chest rub against your breasts, your nipples more sensitive than they ever have been and you moan as a fact runs through your head. No man has ever been this close to you before. Only the sun’s rays or the clouds’ rain has been this close to you.

You come once more with this thought in your mind, the intense and warm feeling hitting you as suddenly as the snapping of a dry twig found in the sun. You arch your back with a groan, feeling it even deeper inside of you than before because it seems to be the spot inside of you that has triggered it. 

“Oh! Oh Gods,” you moan into the air, Marcus’ lips having descended to your now-exposed neck and kissing with the same fervor as he had your mouth. His own noises have grown in volume, his cock seeming to respond to how your heat clenches around it. You have tears coming down your face without knowing why; you aren’t upset but rather quite the opposite. Everything below your navel is sensitive, slick, and used up. 

You feel it as he goes rigid as you have just done, a rough growl leaving him as he has his own orgasm. However, you instantly realize that Cassius forgot to mention something in his horrible renditions of love-making; the sticky, warm waves that come along with a man’s ultimate pleasure. You gasp in shock, looking down between the two of you as Marcus fills you up with his seed.

You cling to him, your hands grabbing at whatever they can while you whimper, and you stare at the milky white ring that forms around his length. He keeps going for a few thrusts more, and the noises coming from your connected bodies are on the verge of making you embarrassed. It’s squeaky and wet, but it’s not making you want to pull away. Instead, it makes you reach up to cup Marcus’ face so you drag his lips to your mouth and kiss him, the sensation of his seed inside of you making you feel more connected than ever.

You kiss for a moment before your husband buries his face in your neck. He leaves you empty when he softens, eliciting a weak gasp from you when you become aware of the sticky wetness smearing your inner thighs. Marcus pants against your already burning skin and chuckles without any particular reason. You are in awe of what has just happened, seeming to somehow know that this was the completion of the act. 

This act, once so unfamiliar and feared, now feels like a revelation to you. The new dimension of pleasure, so uniquely intense and intimate, makes you wonder how anyone gets anything done when they can do this all the time. You are sticky with sweat, dizzy with tears and pleasure, and by the Gods, you want to do it again and again with him. He will not leave this bed until you get tired of feeling this way between your legs. You think of commanding him this but you are already aware that it is an impossibility. He would probably laugh at you but given the way he lifts his head and looks at you now, he might also follow through on your order by sinking back into the mess between your legs.

You miss his weight on you when he rolls off, the both of you staring towards the ceiling. The room becomes very quiet in the aftermath, torches and candlelight flickering around you. You have a hand on your chest, trying to calm your racing heartbeat to no avail and breathing rapidly to catch your breath. Your whole body buzzes, feeling like it is aglow and warm, and you dare sometimes look at your husband out of the corner of your eye. He looks the same but less surprised by the state he is in, clearly experienced and you find it all enticing when everything inside you has shifted.

You let your back and legs relax fully into the bed. Marcus watches as you stretch your body, and there is some kind of tension between you that you cannot put into words. You know it stems from the silence that is also between you, an unspoken game of who breaks it first, and when you dare peek at him, you find him staring right back at you. Your heart rate spikes once more but Marcus holds your gaze in a way that makes you unable to look away. 

“Are you alright?” He asks after a beat. You see him look at you with a softness that reflects how vulnerable you must look right now. He reaches out to take your hand, brushing your knuckles with his thumb, “You are not in pain?”

“No. I– I’m fine,” you shake your head. You say the words and realize that they are true even despite your uncertainty at first. For now, your body feels afloat but you have a gnawing feeling that it won’t last. A thought enters your mind, “What do we do now? I mean, what does one do after being together like this?”

“Well, given our roles and the expectations placed upon our union, there’s a thing that I would like to do. I’d like to help you arrange yourself comfortably if you’ll allow me,” he gently releases your hand and shifts to sit upright beside you. 

You give him a puzzled look, not sure what he is talking about but you nod. It’s natural to trust him, you find, and his proposition intrigues you, “Yes, of course.”

Marcus reaches for the pillow against the headboard on his side of the bed. He fluffs it with care before patting your thigh, causing you to follow your instincts and automatically lift your pelvis towards the ceiling. When you have given him the room for it, he slips the soft pillow underneath your hips to elevate them, resulting in them laying comfortably at a gentle angle. 

Afterwards, he lies back down beside you but this time with his body facing yours. You try to smile at him but there’s embarrassment in your chest as the intention behind his act becomes clear. However, even as he senses your vulnerability, your new husband simply reaches for your hand again to kiss your knuckles. It is soft and intimate, it is kind reassurance in your time of transition. 

A moment after, he guides you to rest your palm just below your navel and places his own on top of it, caressing where new life may spring after tonight if Goddess Juno has the both of you in her favor.

"The pillow will help," he says quietly as he gently feels the soft skin on your stomach, the skin made to carry a child, "To ensure that our union bears fruit. Our alliance is only strong if I put a baby in your belly."

The words remind you of how your partnership is a part of something much bigger than yourselves, something to do with your father’s power and greed that you aren’t sure if Marcus feels too. Yet despite the impersonal nature of your union, the General’s tone is gentle and speaks of more than just mere duty. 

“And while we wait? What then?” You question, daring to entwine your fingers and feeling your chest flutter when he doesn’t protest. 

“We may rest…” He suggests with a smile, “Or, if you prefer, we may talk. It is different in every marriage.” 

There’s something about the way he words it that makes you feel more secure in your situation, that even if this is new territory, he is giving you permission to join in on shaping your relationship. 

You nod, “I think I would like to talk.”

“Then talk we shall,” he agrees without question, “Tell me something about yourself.”

You let go of his hand to place both palms on your stomach, looking to the ceiling as you reminisce about the life you have left behind back home. You tell him about the river all over again, about the sparkles the sun leaves on the surface of it, so beautiful it makes it seem like you can pick them with your bare hands. You tell him about wine and bread from the market, about a secret orange tree that you think only you and your sisters know of, and then you tell him about your sisters who all married for love. 

The latter makes Marcus shift slightly. A fleeting expression crosses his face before he gently clears his throat and gives you a small, hesitant smile to reassure you, “Do you think you’ll be happy here?” 

You take a moment to mull it over. You don’t want to lie to him but he looks so hopeful and sad at the same time, “I suppose that there’s always going to be a part of me that is going to wonder what would have happened if I had followed my own path and married someone I was deeply in love with, but I hope I will find happiness here. Perhaps it would have been you anyway, you never know. I would be as lucky as my sisters then.”

You say the last sentence with a twinkle in your eye, a soft and playful smile on your face, and Marcus looks almost shy, the importance and duty that he usually carries crumbling. You take the opportunity to see further under the surface, “And what about you? Do you have family that you are close to? I couldn’t help but notice that there were no formal introductions at the festivities.”

He hesitates briefly before answering, “My parents passed when I was merely a child. Thus the military became my family in many ways. I’ve always admired their dedication to each other. The responsibilities for the men I command seem like the next closest thing.”

“I’m sorry about your parents,” you say sincerely, touching his wrist gently, “I suppose it explains your dedication.”

He looks modest as he smiles, “I suppose it does.”

There’s a comfortable silence in the large chamber. Marcus looks down at your hand, opening his palm to invite you to place your own in it. You take his hand without hesitation and it feels natural, a thing so calming and warm, which invites you to venture further into his world. 

“May I ask you something?” You ask. 

“Of course,” he replies.

“Our conversation was interrupted earlier by one of your men, and I wanted to ask what was whispered in your ear. I hope I am not intruding—“ You tiptoe into the conversation, hoping your curiosity doesn’t come off too strong. 

He interrupts you, waving a hand dismissively, “We are husband and wife. I support the idea that we shouldn’t keep secrets from each other.”

“Yes. Yes, I quite agree with that,” you say with relief in your voice, “So you’ll tell me?”

“There was some unrest in the city today. The man was one of my men telling me that there’d been an incident - a confrontation - in one of the town squares. It led to the death of two of my soldiers.”

You gasp, “Gods! That’s terrible!” 

“The loss is shameful and upsetting, yes, but the people are hungry,” he explains simply, “Even the smallest of disputes can escalate when tensions are high. When one feels unheard by leaders, one can be driven to acts one might never have considered before.”

“But surely Rome’s subjects know better than to challenge Roman authorities?” You note with your brows furrowed, suddenly finding yourself speaking words that you have heard too many times around the dinner table at your childhood home, "A firm hand might be necessary to keep the peace. If the people are allowed this kind of behavior towards the empire - and thus the emperors - they might sometimes need to be reminded of their place."

There’s a shift so small that you could almost miss it in Marcus’ expression but disappointment clouds his eyes. You notice it because he follows it by subtly slipping his hand out of yours. He measures you with his gaze for a moment, “You don’t truly believe that instilling fear with unyielding force is the right way to rule?”

You sense his disapproval and feel embarrassed flood your system. With warm cheeks, you sit up and stutter a reply, "I... I suppose that's what I've been taught. My father always says that strength and control keep the empire strong and unwavering."

“And if I ask you to look past your upbringing?” He says it casually but there’s a command in his voice. Suddenly, the security you had felt moments ago is washed away by the feeling of being a mere little girl.

You look down at your hands, not able to keep eye contact despite how close you have just been, "I didn't mean to offend. I don’t— I don’t think I have ever taken the time to consider other perspectives. My father has given little room for such discussion."

“Is that so?” He raises a brow, “And does he seek influence in Rome’s leadership?”

"Yes," you reply hesitantly, still yet unaware of the implications of your words, "He hopes that our marriage might help him gain favor, perhaps even become an advisor to the emperors."

“It seems like your father was unaware of the fact that I served under Maximus Decimus Meridius, a man who believed in ruling with honor instead of fear. He would have done himself a favor by seeking alliances elsewhere if he aligns himself with ruling through oppression. Perhaps he should have married you off to the emperors themselves,” he says firmly, jaw tight and words filled with frustration, tingeing on angry. They come out a lot more venomous than you think are his intentions yet they sting nonetheless and you have to bite your lip to keep tears at bay. 

“I didn’t— I’m sorry, I was just repeating what I have always heard,” you stammer, swallowing around a lump in your throat. The vulnerability of your situation suddenly crashes over you like a wave trying to drown you, making you choke on a sob as his hard gaze scrutinizes you. You are young, barely out of childhood, and thrust into the role of a wife. You have never been expected to relay your views to anyone let alone a commanding general of the highest order in Rome. 

For a moment, an uncomfortable silence fills up the growing distance between you. You try to shift away on the bed but there’s a sudden ache between your legs from the previous activities of your wedding night. It’s shameful to look back at him but you have no one else to turn to right now. A tear escapes your eye but you find the courage to say what you need to say even if it is with a dizzying heartbeat, “My whole life, I have been taught to be obedient, to serve along with my sisters. My mother even. I don’t know who I am outside of that.”

Marcus suddenly mirrors your expression of shame, evidently grappling with his own emotions behind his eyes. He gently lifts his hand to catch the tear running down your face until it threatens to drip down from your chin. 

“Forgive me, I should not have raised my voice at you,” he says sincerely. He cups your cheek with a softening demeanor and you allow him, needing the affection and this is where you can receive it, “I know you have your concerns but I hope you can entertain the idea that this union might not just be a different cage.”

You nod, leaning your cheek into his gentle touch and earning a smile. There’s a promise beneath his words and despite everything, you allow yourself to feel hopeful. This man is not your father, actually far from it, and he is offering you something you are not used to; partnership and respect. 

Instead of answering him, you chew on your bottom lip and try to find the same courage that made him apologize so you can address the ache in your lower body. The pillow under your legs is all askew. You try to busy yourself by straightening it, “It has started to hurt where you…— Is that normal?”

"It can be," he says gently, and the hand on your cheek goes to skim over your bare thigh in an attempt to soothe,  "Your body needs time to adjust and recover.”

You pout as you automatically lie down again. You look like a child not getting their way, “Time to recover? Does this mean we can’t do it again?” 

Marcus’ expression flashes with amusement at your eagerness. He raises a brow, “Eager, aren't we? I admire your enthusiasm, but it's important that you give yourself time to heal. Rest might help.”

“Surely there's something else we can do?” You only just abstain from pleading him, tilting your head.

“This, my dear wife, was your husband's subtle way of saying goodnight,” Marcus chuckles quietly and you find that all tension has slipped from the room once more. He dips down to kiss your forehead, the tip of his nose skimming down the length of yours. He stares into your eyes, only an inch from you, “Say it.”

You smile and kiss him softly, “Goodnight, Marcus.”

“Goodnight, Carissima,” he whispers.You go to sleep next to your general, the man who is slowly becoming the commander of your heartbeat, unaware that your conversation has changed the course of your father’s future gains from your powerful marriage.

.

.

If you would like to follow my writing then go follow @notjustjavierpena-fics and turn on notifications 💖❤️

[after-witch]

Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Title: Bookworm [Yandere Mahito x Reader]

Synopsis: Mahito doesn't like that you have an interest in a book character.

Word count: 1787

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader, mentions of other people being tortured/killed, supreme self indulgence of the highest order

“Who is the smiling man?” 

The silence that had existed between the two of you was broken by a question that made you flinch. Well, why not? Mahito has been quiet all morning--and afternoon, actually, which perhaps should have startled you more than his sudden words. 

But you were too happy to enjoy some quiet (you would never say “peace and quiet,” not down here, not with him); all too happy to curl up in your haphazard nest on the floor with some books that took  you away from this place. Away from Mahito.

Who was, of course, still here. Lounging in his hammock with a pile of books sagging down the netting. 

You couldn’t tell exactly what he was reading from down here--you probably needed new glasses, a subject you were certainly not going to bring up with Mahito, who might reiterate his offer to “fix” your eyes. It looked like a bundle of pages stapled together. Maybe he went to the library and printed off obscure articles to read again. 

“Hey,” he calls down, and the first hint of worry begins to prickle on your arms at his uncharacteristically serious tone, “Answer me.”

Your mind stutters, tries to put one word in front of the other, and make sense of it all. 

The smiling man? The smiling man, the… ah. From Small Spaces. The otherworldly supernatural entity who lives in a world behind mist and has a penchant for making deals with people for their greatest wishes. 

It’s not your fault that you haven’t thought about him in ages. It’s not like you had copies of your books with you, and the fun you had with imagining him in an endless number of scenarios had fallen by the wayside considering your circumstances. 

It’s hard to daydream about worlds behind mist and cornfield servants when you’re watching people be turned into grotesque experiments that had them, sometimes quite literally and loudly, begging for death.

Mahito is looking down at you now, staring expectantly. 

“He’s a character,” you say, fidgeting on the floor. “From a book series.” You look down, flip a page in your book, although you haven’t finished reading the last one, and ask, casually as you can muster: “Why?”

Mahito, up above, flips a page. You can hear the wobble in the paper--not a bound book, that’s for certain. And there’s some low, primal sense that shivers through you which says, plainly, that he’s actually reading whatever’s in front of him. 

“You write about him a lot.”

Oh.

Low, slimy dread filters into your stomach. Thick and gelatinous, resting at the bottom of your belly like an unwanted slug. 

“I… don’t know what you mean,” you say, voice only half-there, because while you are apparently stupid enough to lie to Mahito’s face, you’re not stupid enough to think he’ll believe you. 

You are just stupid enough to think that he won’t know exactly how deep your interest in this particular character goes; before Mahito took you, you thought about him all the time. You’d take walks and daydream about him, write story after story; you’d even commissioned fanart of him, because it wasn’t like there was a plethora of fanart for a character from a middle grade horror book. 

Mahito huffs out a sigh. Quick and short, it sends a shock right down your stomach. 

“Get you a man,” he starts, and confusion buzzes through your brain until he continues. “Who is an otherworldly entity that is so petty when an 11 year old beats him that he traps her in another world, leaving her to a fate worse than death, and laughs until he cries about it.”

You wrote that. There’s a vague memory of when you posted it--after you’d taken a walk, you think, and reread your favorite parts in the books for a few hours. But the way Mahito says it makes it sound--you don’t know how to explain it. Like saying the words out loud almost pains him; they come out clipped and bitter. 

Bitter? But why?

He doesn’t stop there. He reads something else, voice getting higher, almost mocking the way you talk. And that bitterness is still there, a thread continuing through every syllable.

“What if we kissed in the corn maze before you turned me into a scarecrow servant whose soul slowly gets dried out and useless and in the end you feed it, crunchy and tasteless, to your hellhound.” 

He takes a breath. Then--

“One particular aspect of the Smiling Man’s cruelty that I truly adore is that he can make people feel understood. He can make them feel like he cares, like he’s lending a listening ear, like he’s wanting to help them out and make them feel nice.”

Another breath--and he continues, again and again, reading your posts. Quoting your stories. Listing off the titles, the imagine posts, everything you’ve said about him.

All the while, bitter and mocking, his voice raising now and then in an imitation of your own. 

Then he gets to the last page of his clearly self-created tome and stares down at you, waiting, expectant. 

And you… you actually glare up at him. 

Because you're scared, sure. You’re always scared in some way, when you’re with Mahito. But there’s something else too, something that digs its way out of the rot in your gut and sticks up a petulant middle finger.

How dare he do this. How dare he take something that was yours and make it his; put it in his mouth and sneer over it. 

“Have you been--” Your mouth sticks together, refusing to let you accuse him of what you know he’s been doing. Stalking your online profiles. “That’s… that’s private,” is what you finally mutter, cheeks feeling hot and that half-buried petulance pushing you forward. “It’s not any of your business.” 

“Private?” He mutters the word softly, cradling the sound.

And then--

Mahito doesn’t often move fast around you. He prefers to be slow, languid. Calculating. You think it’s because that terrifies you more.

But now, in a moment, he goes from being slouched in his hammock to leaping down and crouching right in your face--there’s sudden pain in your head, and you realize he’s grabbed your hair and yanked it back.

That metaphorical middle finger sinks back down into the slimy gut sludge.

“Not from me,” he says, low, a warning. “Not for you.”

This is all it takes for tears to prick inside your eyes.

Mahito’s lips quirk up. Just a little. Just enough for you to notice.

“You’re going to cry already? I didn’t even do anything.”

Your eyes dart up and back, towards where he’s currently gripping your hair hard enough for it to sting.

He sighs through his nose. “This isn’t anything. You know that. Don’t be childish now.”

But--he lets go of your hair, and doesn’t grab for you when you scoot backwards on your blanket nest. Instead, he plops himself down, crossing his legs and resting his chin on his elbow.

You don’t speak. You don’t want to, and you don’t know what to say. Sometimes it’s better to be quiet around Mahito, so he doesn’t get ideas. Although he comes up with them on his own just fine, even if you try to stay silent.

It’s Mahito who breaks the silence.

“Why do you like him so much?”

How silly, to feel embarrassed right now. With the creature in front of you, and what he can do. But that’s what makes your cheeks burn: embarrassment. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble, because while you are stupid in so many ways, you’re still smart enough to know he wants an answer. “I guess I just like antagonist characters sometimes.” Well, most of the time. But it’s better to keep that from Mahito, if you can.

Mahito’s lips quirk here and there while he thinks. Then he looks at you with something like genuine confusion.

“You say that you like how awful he is. The awful things he does. So…” He tilts his head a little. “You should like me. Right?”

Your fingers pick at the loose threads of your clothes. Your eyes don’t meet his entirely--they flick up and down, from your legs to his face. 

“It’s not the same thing,” is what you come up with. But how to explain that to a curse?

Mahito frowns. 

“I don’t understand.” No bitterness, no pouting. A simple statement of fact.

“He’s not real.” You swallow against the minefield that all of this is making you step through, hoping you’ll avoid them. “But you are. That makes it different.” 

Mahito leans forward, grabbing your wrists, pulling you closer to him with a yanking, childish gesture.

“So you should like me more,” he says, a slight pout in his tone. “Because I can really do those things.” His eyebrows raise, and you swear you can hear a buzzing light bulb go off. “I could turn someone into a scarecrow for you.” He smiles, sudden, excited. “Do you want me to find some school children to torment?”

“No!” Your voice cracks. There are brief images in your mind--the people he’s tortured and killed, experimented with, before you were here and while you’re here and probably after you’re dead and gone--and you shake them away. 

Mahito’s eyebrows furrow. He groans and rolls his eyes backwards until they are entirely white, not in mockery or an attempt to scare you, but in irritation. Fingers squeeze your wrists briefly and let go, and you stay quiet, trying to fight your urge to cry, until Mahito slowly rolls his eyes back to stare at you.

His gaze flicks over you, until he catches your eyes with his. 

“You won’t write about him anymore.”

You don’t take a moment to answer this time.

“I won’t.”

“You won’t read those books anymore.”

“I won’t,” you stay. “I haven’t. I--don’t even have copies anymore.”

Mahito smiles, a little. Maybe it’s a good thing you never asked him to find you a copy, a thought which had been a brief temptation a while back.

And then he leans in closer again, until his nose touches yours.

“You won’t think about him anymore,” he says, quiet, solemn. Not an order but a matter of fact. 

You don’t answer. You swallow against a bitter taste in  your throat; you swear, sometimes, that the sludge in your gut is real and tries to make its way out sometimes.

Mahito presses his nose against yours until it starts to hurt.

“You won’t,” he says again, this time more to himself. “I’ll make sure of it.”

[flowerandblood]

To please, to serve (Oneshot)

[ canon • Aemond x niece • wife female ]

[ warnings: incest obviously, oral sex, smut, fingering, the angst, degradation, role play, dirty talk ]

[ description: During a meeting of the Small Council, Aemond learns that his wife is feeling unwell. Fearing that these are symptoms of another pregnancy, he abandons his daily routine and visits her in their chamber. To his surprise, he does not find her there, but someone else. Sexual tension, dark, loving, thirsty Aemond. ]

Author’s note: The events of this oneshot are part of the canon of The Fall from the Heavens series and feature the same characters. This oneshot takes place several years after the events of that storyline and can be read as a standalone story. I just came up with this idea and decided that's it, I have to write it. Ehhhhh.

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

My other works: Masterlist

_____

"Where is the Queen Regent?" He asked impatiently, surprised that, although it was not her custom, she was late for the Small Council meeting. One of the guards bowed his head and shifted from foot to foot.

"The Queen Regent requests that the meeting be held without her today, as she has been feeling unwell, Your Grace." He said.

He pressed his lips together at his words, driving his fingernail into the skin of his second finger at the thought that his wife was perhaps expecting his child again.

Seventh, he thought in disbelief, staring dully ahead.

That would be the seventh.

As many as she had promised him.

And what would happen next?

He tried to focus on the meeting and what each person was saying, however, he knew that he was involuntarily pushing for it to end as soon as possible.

Once everything was settled, he approached the Grand Maester, wanting to know what the situation was.

"Do you know anything about my wife's condition?" He asked coolly, frustrated by the possibility that he might have withheld such important information from him for some reason.

The man shook his head.

"No, Your Grace. I am surprised myself. The Queen Regent has not summoned me, so it is possible that her frail condition is due to some other cause." He said, making him feel discomfort in his stomach.

Although he always took part in sparring after the meeting, wishing to remain as skilled and agile in sword fight as he had been in all the years he had been king by his wife's side, this time he headed for their chamber.

When he stepped inside, he did not see her where he expected her to be, which was in their bed. He looked around the room, tense, the servant standing next to him bowed humbly.

"Where is my wife?" He asked, approaching the window overlooking the courtyard, thinking he might perhaps catch a glimpse of her walking between the cloisters.

"The Queen has left, Your Grace." The girl answered him. He furrowed his brow as her voice seemed familiar to him, but he wasn't sure why.

"Where to?" He asked, walking over to his desk to pour himself some wine and quench his thirst.

"She didn't say, Your Grace."

"You may leave." He replied, taking a few deep sips from his goblet deciding that she was probably hiding in the library for some reason. He set his goblet aside, impatient to hear that the girl had not moved from her place.

"Did I express myself unclearly?" He asked, turning to face her and froze, unsure if he had seen correctly or if he was slowly beginning to slip into madness from exhaustion.

The girl standing on the other side of his chamber looked at him before their gazes met, however, she lowered her eyes meekly to the floor when she sensed his surprise and frustration.

She had his wife's face, his wife's figure, his wife's voice but she wasn't dressed like her – her hair was pinned up in a braid around her head, her attire simple, consisting of a long-sleeved red bottom garment and a linen top gown belted at the waist.

"What?" He asked more to himself than to her, looking at her with wide eye.

"The Queen is not here, Your Grace." She said, looking at him again, something in her gaze from which he felt heat in his lower abdomen.

Her gaze was bright, piercing, familiar, but terrified at the same time.

Was it possible that a woman so confusingly similar to his wife had served in the Red Keep?

He swallowed hard, feeling the dryness in his throat, so he reached for his cup again and took a sip from it, looking at her intently.

"Have you been serving here for long?"

"For a few days."

"Mmm."

Perhaps that's why she doesn't know all the rules of good manners yet, he thought.

"If I say you may leave, then you are expected to leave."

She lowered her gaze and did something that betrayed her: her hands entwined with each other as she began to play with her fingers in a gesture of discomfort that he knew all too well.

Fuck.

It was her.

"The whole kingdom speaks of the affection you have for her, Your Grace. About the fact that she has already given you six children, although she is still so young. Perhaps she should rest from this duty." She whispered, looking down at her hands, not daring to look at him.

He pressed his lips together, wondering if she was implying something.

Was she tired of him and carrying his offspring in her womb.

"I could have your head for this insolence." He said, intrigued by what she was trying to achieve, what her plan was.

"You could have something else. While she rests." She confessed finally, the gaze of her bright eyes surrounded by dark lashes lifted to him.

He felt a shudder at her words, at the realisation of what she was suggesting, what she was aiming for, and his cock expressed a desire to participate in her idea, pulsing greedily in his breeches.

"Indeed?" He murmured, raising his cup to his lips, sipping the remainder of the wine from it, not taking his eye off her with a mischievous look.

She did not reply, standing still, her lips parted in an accelerated breath betraying that she was aroused.

"Very well. Come here." He said, stepping around his desks and spreading out comfortably in his chair, looking up at her from below. He set his cup down on the table as she approached him slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor.

"Kneel." He ordered.

She swallowed loudly and obediently sat on her knees between his legs, not daring to look at his face. He licked his lower lip involuntarily as he undid the buckles of his tunic with his long fingers, only to immediately slide them down to the fabric of his breeches, untying them with an agile flick of his wrist.

"Don't delude yourself into thinking I'll treat you like my wife. You don't deserve it." He scoffed in a trembling voice, feeling the chill of the chamber envelope his swollen erection, leaking with desire. Her gaze lifted to his manhood as she nodded, moving closer, the look of her innocent eyes rising to his face in anticipation.

"Open." He said, grabbing the base of his swollen cock, directing the throbbing, pink, wet head of it to her face.

Her lips parted in an obedient gesture as she leaned forward, her hands clenched on her lap. He tilted his head back, feeling the rapid pounding of his heart as her puffy lips slid its tip into her warm interior, her tongue giving him one encouraging, gentle lick.

"– fuck –" He breathed out, clamping his free hand in her hair, forcing her to take it all the way in, the head of his manhood bumping against the back of her throat with her quiet moan of discomfort.

She knew him too well, knew what drove him mad, what touch and where drove him to the brink of insanity.

"– quiet – you wanted it yourself – now suck like a good girl –" He gasped, watching with a wide grin as the fullest part of his manhood disappeared again and again deep between her lips with the quiet clicks of her saliva.

He squeezed himself tighter at the base, trying to find a rhythm with her, involuntarily rolling his hips back and forth, each time making her almost choke, tears of exertion running down her face one after the other.

"– only my wife deserves to swallow my seed – maybe I should come on your face? – hm? – would you enjoy that? –" He sneered, and she shook her head quickly and cried out, looking up at him with big eyes full of tears, whimpering as he quickened his pace suddenly, disappearing again and again deep into her throat.

Her beautiful face was all rosy with exertion, droplets of sweat on her cheeks and forehead, unruly strands of her dark hair stuck to her skin.

So pretty.

"– no? – then how about your tits – show me your breasts –" He exhaled, sliding out from between her lips to avoid coming too soon, taking a surprising amount of pleasure from this unusual act of their marital intimacy.

His wife drew in a loud breath, wiping her cheeks wet with tears, and reached up to untie her dress at the back, blindly undoing it. She looked at him with a look he knew perfectly well when she finally slipped the bright and red material off, showing him one of his favourite parts of her body.

She was so fucking wet, he knew it.

"– go on – I didn't let you stop –" He said coldly, and she leaned over him again, taking his fat erection between her lips with such commitment that he groaned, biting his lower lip so hard that he could feel the blood under his tongue.

"– good girl – just like that – fucking serve your King –" He growled, clenching his fingers in her hair, allowing her small hand to caress what was not fitting deep in her throat imposing a fierce, aggressive pace on her. She cried out loudly, clearly not able to keep up with taking a breath, making him stop in half-motion.

"– too much? –" He mumbled, stepping out of his role for a moment, but she shook her head, looking at him with affection.

He stroked her hair, his fingers sliding down to her face, his thumb running over the hot, moist skin of her cheek – her murmur of satisfaction ran in vibration through his erection, making him pulse hard between her lips.

"– just a little more – your King is satisfied and about to come – hm? –" He cooed, and she nodded, letting him do what he wanted with her mouth, thrusting his long manhood into her again and again with the greedy, deep stabs of his hips.

The warmth of her mouth, her tongue that ran over the soft skin of his erection swollen from his veins, her lips that clamped again and again on the thick head of it made him close his eyes, losing the urge to pull it out of her.

"– I changed my – f-fuck – fuck, gods, swallow –" He gasped out, panting heavily with pleasure, tilting his head back, feeling his cock begin to throb all over in elation, his wife whimpered when suddenly his spend spilled deep down her throat.

He looked at her with dreamy eyes, breathing through his parted lips, stroking her head, listening to the quiet sound of swallowing.

"– that's it – easy – you did well –" He praised her, and she took a heavy breath as he finally let her go, sliding his erection out from between her sweet lips with a loud slap.

She closed her eyes and pressed her face against his thigh, embracing it with her arms, trying to calm down after what she had done. His fingers roamed through her hair, his gaze fixed on her full of curiosity.

"– come here –" He murmured.

She looked at him sleepily and lifted herself up on trembling legs, however, to her surprise, he didn't let her sit on top of him with her arms around him, but turned her so that she was resting her back against his chest.

They both sighed, and her legs spread involuntarily to the sides as his broad hand rolled up the material of her gown, exposing her thighs, slipping under her smallclothes. While there his fingers sank into her silky, leaking folds, the fingers of his other hand embraced her neck, making her moan softly, tilting her head back.

"– only my wife deserves to be fulfilled – so how will it be? –" He whispered in her ear, placing hot, loud, sticky kisses on her red, welted sweaty cheek – her hand involuntarily wrapped around his arm while the other reached back into his hair for balance.

"– please, my King –" She mumbled pleadingly.

"– tsk-tsk – not like that –" He gasped, teasing her little spongy bud with his fingertip, playing with it gently, his other fingers trailing over her throbbing, moist slit.

"– ah – gods – Aemond –" She sighed, bucking her hips to the rhythm of his strokes, his fingers clenching warningly around her neck.

"– call me right or I'll tease this little cunt all night long, but you won't experience fulfillment, sweet girl –" He said warningly and felt her swallow loudly under his fingers, his hand between her thighs all slick with her sticky wetness.

"– husband – please, husband, please, please, please – ah! –" She mewled, clenching her hand in his hair as his two fingers burst into her hot, fleshy interior, pressing the spot hidden between her muscles from which she could see stars, while his thumb teased her pearl from the outside in circular, gentle strokes.

"– good girl – fuck yourself with my fingers – only my wife can use me for her own pleasure –" He gasped, watching with satisfaction as with a cry of pleasure she fell apart in front of him, reaching her peak – his hand from her neck clamped down on her breast, all swollen with milk, feeling her weeping cunt squeeze his fingers again and again, sucking them inside.

His once again hard erection pushed against her buttocks, delighted by what he had just witnessed.

Her hands closed around his, making sure he didn't let go of either her hot, leaking womanhood or her soft, plump breast.

"– what unusual idea did you come up with, hm? – is that the reason for your non-attendance at the Small Council? –" He sneered, placing tender, lazy, sticky kisses on her neck and cheek.

"– I've been thinking about it for a while – what it would feel like – and have you ever had fantasies of doing this to a servant –" She muttered, breathing heavily through her mouth, looking at him curiously.

He snorted under his breath and shook his head, sighing contentedly, spreading himself comfortably in his chair with her.

"– I didn't feel the need for it until it turned out that you could be one – I'm afraid it's not a question of role but of your pretty face – those big eyes of yours –" He murmured, grabbing her chin, turning her head so that she could look at him. She giggled sweetly at his words, her eyes lit up with joy and warmth from which he felt heat in his chest, a feeling he only experienced in her presence.

He hummed under his breath, pressing his forehead against hers, smiling in a way that was meant only for her.

For his wife.

"– if you wish, we can satisfy each other in this way, if you need to rest for a time from bearing me children – you have given me as many as six –" He said softly, wanting her to know that her sacrifice for their lineage, for the kingdom and for him was precious to him, and he held his gratitude for her deep in his heart.

She blinked and smiled comfortingly at his words, her fingers running over his cheek.

"– since Daeron was born, the deliveries have become easier for me – they're shorter each time, I already know exactly what awaits me – I promised you one more, didn't I? –" She whispered, and he nodded.

"– and then? –"

"– hm? –"

"– when you give birth to our seventh child – what will happen after that? –" He asked, and she amazed him by bursting out laughing.

"– it will be surely followed by another – as long as my flower does not wither –" She said, resting her head on his shoulder. He put his hands around her breasts, not wanting her to get cold, thoughtful.

"– our children already think there are too many of them –" He sighed and heard her snort at his words, amused.

"– they will be able to speak on the matter when they become parents themselves –" She replied, looking up at him, placing her hands on his. He kissed her temple and nuzzled his forehead against hers, closing his eyes, imagining how many more children she would bear him.

"– let's take a bath, wife –"

[zara-renata]

The Jog | ao3 | masterlist

Summary: You go for a jog, encounter some wanderers, get injured, Sylus helps make you better. You know, a typical Christmas oneshot.

Notes: Sylus x gn reader, Sylus x mc, Second person POV, Sylus POV. Not part of the Sylus series, with a slightly more damaged (haha can you believe it) MC than in the series, with a relationship development that differs significantly from the Sylus series. This story contains: angst, canon typical violence, serious bodily injury, medical intervention, MC with self-destructive tendencies, grief, hurt/comfort both physical and emotional, a (hopefully more sensual than graphic) brief NSFW interlude towards the end, a happy ending.

It was supposed to be a simple job. An alert on your hunter watch. A location near where you’re jogging after work. You’re wearing insulated tights, short swords strapped to your back, an Association standard-issue pistol strapped to your hip. Not an average person’s jogging outfit, but you never know when you’ll be needed. And the weather’s probably not ideal in the average person’s opinion—a misting, gentle rain that creates halos around the streetlamps you pass on the gravel path through the long park along the riverfront on the outskirts of Linkon City. It’s dusk, now, but the rain is drowning the air, and it feels like night already. You love the wet hush, the sweeping shush of dead leaves in the winter wind, the spatter of puddles with each footfall. The poor weather means there are very few people out tonight, and you can let yourself relax in solitude. No one to worry about passing if they’re going too slow, or whether you should smile or just ignore anyone you encounter as you run past in the opposite direction—all the minute demands of being a human amongst other humans, trying to weigh kindness versus available energy, a hunter as a role model versus just a person trying to survive each day.

Just you, your footfalls, your breath. Running used to be meditative to you. One of the few times you could actually get your racing mind to be fully present, shutting out all the noise of worries constantly spinning in your brain like your motorcycle’s wheels— reviewing for exams, then training, the regulations of your job, the code of conduct for dealing with the public as a role model and a public servant. Your latest failed relationships. The embarrassing things you blurted during a meeting, or during obligatory after-work drinks with colleagues. While you ran, you could be mindful, when it was just you, your pumping heart, the joy in the strength of your legs, your even breath and healthy lungs. You could be present in your body, for once, instead of only living in your head. 

Running used to be meditative for you, until it wasn’t. It has been harder to find that calm headspace, every time you lace up your shoes and just go—like so many things in your life now, there is the Before, and there is the After… After Caleb. Because before, running was a joyful indulgence in the power of your body. And it was one of the few things you shared with him, through all the years in which your lives were intertwined, and then through the years in which your lives slowly unthreaded as you grew older and life took you in different directions. You would run with him as a reckless child, exploring parks around your grandmother’s house, playgrounds for tag and cops and robbers, hunter and wanderer. Later, you would run together after school during the off-seasons of track and field or cross country. It was one of the few times you both could fully relax, your footfalls mirroring each other, each of your competitive edges often pushing you further and further, harder and faster. The joy you felt sprinting as hard as you could at the end of a long run, only to collapse in the grass with your chests heaving, laughter spilling out of you like apples falling from a tree during the season of harvest. And you took it for granted—because the one constant in your life was Caleb, your running shoes, his teasing. Even when he was away more and more on flight missions, and you were busy at the Academy and then as a new Hunter, you both would do your best to carve time for each other in your schedules, And those times always included a run. Each time, you were secure in the knowledge that there would be a next time. You thought the laughter would be never ending. If you won that final sprint, you’d taunt him, flinging friendly insults about him getting soft in his job that kept him behind the yoke of the ships he piloted. If you lost, you’d accuse him of foul play as he used his longer legs to reach the designated finish line of that weird tree further up at the corner, doesn’t it kind of look like it has a face? Okay-ready-set-go, ooh you snooze you lose, it’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention and now I got a head start!

“Better work harder if you want to keep up, pipsqueak,” he’d say, reaching over to pat your sweat soaked hair, much to your annoyance. You’d swat his hand away and demand a rematch. He’d just laugh, and say “Next time. Next time, see if you can beat me.”

“Pfft, next time I might be too busy for your ass,” you’d grumble, taking it all for granted. The one constant in the blur of fighting wanderers and mind-numbing paperwork and the compulsive need to get out there and do it all over again, day after day.

That was Before. Now, After, you’d give anything to be able to grab his big hand and hold it to your messy hair. To be able to say, yes, next time. Next time, and the time after that. Until we’re old and gray. And you will carry the memories of what little I can remember of my childhood inside you, and I will carry your own youth in me, and we’ll laugh about the things only we know, about Gran’s cooking, about late nights giggling under a blanket, flashlight in hand and the latest graphic novel issue between you, way past bedtime. About sneaking the cookies Gran had made and told the two of you that you were allowed only one a day—then desperately brushing the crumbs from each other’s mouths and cheeks when you heard her footfalls approaching on the polished but worn wooden floorboards of the only home you can remember. About how quiet she’d sometimes get, as she contemplated you with a faraway look on her face. About how she’d suddenly hug you, out of nowhere, and whisper an apology in your hair, clutching a little too tight. You were too young to recognize guilt, at the time. You never knew what she was sorry for. Not while she was alive, anyway. How cruel, that so often life requires death for answers to ancient questions to rise to the surface—a tectonic shift to crack open the earth and reveal the bones buried below.

All of these memories that you now carry inside you, alone, in this After.

You breathe in. You breathe out. It’s full dark now. The miles are stretching out behind you now. You refuse to look at your watch, and let time pass over, through you. You could have been running for only half an hour, or for two hours. It doesn’t matter. Until you’re utterly exhausted, you won’t quit. You need to sleep.

The river flashes between the trees, blurred, shadowed trunks and the glittering water streaks like headlights on a rainy highway. The more the memories come, unrequested and unwelcome, the faster your footfalls become, as if you can outrun the images, the sounds, the scents. Caleb’s clean sweat. How he tells you to use shorter strides if it ever gets to be too much. Just slow down. You don’t have to stop. Just do as much as you can, allow yourself to catch your breath. But never, ever quit. Little steps, until you reach the end. You can do it. You can do it. He shortens his stride, looking ridiculous as the big body he has grown into moves forward with little bitty strides to allow you space to breathe, to regain your strength and be able to push him at the end in your traditional sprint against each other.

But now that he is gone, there is no end. There is no finish line. In this After, it’s only day after day, and you have to keep running, keep busy, keep meeting wanderer after wanderer, keep staring at your ceiling through your sleepless nights, only to get up and do it all over again. Because he’s gone, and you’re still here. No matter how much you shorten your stride, the small steps you take, you will never be able to rest. He told you that you can't quit. You can never, ever quit. You don’t want to think about the holidays coming up, the first since you lost your family. What will you do, as the snow begins to fall, and Caleb isn’t there waiting behind your Gran’s door, the fire already crackling, the presents under the tree?

Your thoughts drift to Sylus. Sylus, who came into your life like a wrecking ball after Caleb exited like… like a bomb. Sylus, who offered to disappear from your life altogether, if you accepted his bet of surviving the encounter with some business rival. The bet you refused to agree to, and in the refusal left the door open for him to walk through. And he has—he barreled through it, slammed it so hard against the wall that it fell off its hinges. You can’t shut your door on him if you tried, now. Sending you gifts. Showing up when you least expect it—out with colleagues, at the arcade, even on a few jogs. Saying such sweet, straightforward things, all in his teasing, playful, taunting manner. He has invited you to his base, into his world, leaving his own door open for you to walk through. But even though you have come to trust that he is currently interested in you, affectionate toward you, amused by you, you still can’t bring yourself to step over the threshold, from light into dark, from the safe, the mundane, into the intoxicating excitement that his life, his touch, offers you, with each brush of his fingers across your skin, holding your hand, his nose along your cheek as he hugs you goodnight. What happens when he gets bored? What happens when he decides you’ve seen too much, that you’re expendable? What happens when he disappears from your life as suddenly as Caleb did, because of the violence of his existence or because of his low threshold for boredom? You have stopped fighting him, when he sends gifts. When he invites you out to dinner. When he wraps his big arm around you during a film in the theater. When he lays you down gently on the bed, and gives such great pleasure to your body. But you are still waiting for his door to slam shut, to cut you in half in the process.

You haven’t been able to ask Sylus what his plans are for the holidays this year. Every time the thought crosses your mind, your heart hurts at the idea of him responding that he’ll have to be out of town, that he’ll be working as usual, that he never does anything special, so why should he start this year? You’ll be fine. You’ll set up a small tree in your apartment, make a toast to your dead in the soft glow of strings of multicolored lights. Go to work the next day, as usual.

It was supposed to be a simple job. You’re running too fast now, the adrenaline coursing through you as you are chased by memories that you want to erase, memories you’re afraid to forget, when your hunter’s watch, which is measuring your distance and your pulse and your oxygen levels, suddenly trills. A shift in metaflux near your location, a possible wanderer along the river’s edge.

You gulp a big breath, and urge your legs faster, your stride longer.

There’s no one around, thankfully, because the night is dark and rainy, the air cold, only you and your lonely memories and thoughts willing to brave the poor weather. Three wanderers, panther-like, with sharp scorpion tails, immediately hostile. You have to eliminate them, even as you admire their savage beauty. You catch the first one by surprise, your sneakered feet muffled on the wet grass, grabbing it by the tail right under the vicious stinger, slicing through meat to remove the threat. It twists, bucks, but you’re already leaping on it, straddling it like a bucking horse, and you drive your short sword into the side of its skull, right at its tender temple, killing it almost instantly.

The other two turn, tails whipping, and charge at the same time. You ride the falling body of the first one you killed to the ground, use the momentum to sprint between and past them, their tails missing you by inches, but your path between them has one stinging the other, and the accidental victim lets out a scream that hurts your heart with how much pain the poison must be causing it. They can’t help their nature. But you have to live, because Caleb is dead. If you let them kill you, they will kill someone innocent, someone whose existence is worthy, and useful, and then you will have failed to make up for all of your shortcomings. You have to earn your death, in the end, and you feel like what you owe the universe for living while Caleb died, what you owe the universe for still being alive when your parents died or didn’t want you, with your limping heart, still isn’t paid. You have to live, because you don’t deserve death, yet.

The stung wanderer collapses, mouth foaming, and twitches in the wet grass, now churned and slick with mud from your tussle with the first one, with the heavy footfalls of the other two. Now it’s just the one left. A fair fight. You circle each other, the rain misting along its scales, glittering in the light reflected from the river, the haloed streetlamps on the distant path. It moves like the panther it resembles, beautiful, deadly, a low rumbling drifting through the quiet evening, its tail whipping. You wait, slightly crouched, ready to dodge when it inevitably loses patience and charges at you. You’re patient. You have nowhere else to be, no one waiting for you, no one to care whether you make it home or not in the end. You wait, swords drawn, chest heaving from your jog, from the adrenaline, your ears ringing from the tinnitus but still attuned to every shift of the magnificent creature before you that you’re going to have to slaughter.

It finally loses patience, snorting once through flaring nostrils, crouching low, powerful haunches rippling, its tail curled over its back, ready to strike at the same time that it launches itself at you.

You can survive being swiped by claws, being ripped by fangs. You will not survive the poison in its tail. You force yourself to wait until the second millisecond, until it’s already in the air, before ducking and rolling toward its form flying toward you, using the slick mud to slide under it—you skid, scramble, rise behind it as its tail strikes the wet, soft earth instead of your fragile body. You slip in the mud but manage to grab it by its tail, just as you did the first one, to grab it by the tail and slice off the poison bulb attached to the stinger. As you slice, the wanderer screams like its companion, whips its body around, and swipes its vicious claws down your side, not too deep to catch on your ribs, but deep enough to flay you open, for the blood to flow.

You’re so high on adrenaline that the pain isn’t immediate. There is only you, the still living wanderer, your life balanced on the edge of your swords, your blood splattering over the muddy ground. You twist, drive both swords into the beast’s vulnerable flank, where its leg connects to its torso. You twist them, doing as much damage as possible, slicing through major arteries, rendering its leg on this side useless. It screams again, your heart squeezes. You’re sorry. You’re so fucking sorry that even in this, you have to live when this creature, doing what its nature tells it to do, has to suffer and die under your bloody hands. The wanderer half-collapses, but still tries to bite you with its gaping jaw, its glistening fangs. You dodge backwards, just out of reach, and then shove one of your swords into its maw, up, up, through the soft palate of its mouth, directly into its brain.

It collapses against you, head still pinned on your sword. You fall backwards underneath it, landing on your ass in the squelching mud. There is only the sound of your panting breath, the softly falling rain. You curl over it, rest your cheek on top of its magnificent head, regaining your breath, honoring it and the companions you were forced to exterminate. 

Passing out from the blood loss is like falling asleep, before Caleb died. A pleasant feeling of exhaustion, of having done your best to earn your rest, and then slipping under, the peace of the deep, deep black.

Sylus is exhausted. Meeting after meeting, shipment inspections, having to explode one supplier to teach other fucks a lesson for trying to pass off counterfeit protocores Sylus needs for modifying a shipping container of Hightowers. He’s finally done, after working through his ‘night’ to secure alternatives to the fake protocores so that other contracts could be fulfilled on time. Sylus always keeps his word, after all. He’s exhausted, and now it’s his version of dawn, but he’s not willing to go to sleep until he checks in with his beloved. He’s in the middle of the N109 Zone, ready to return to base, but he’s impatient and pulls up Mephisto’s app on his phone before settling the helmet on his head and getting on the road.

Mephisto is in your bedroom. Your room is empty, and the windows are shut tight. There’s just your verdant houseplants spilling out of their pots, the plushies tumbled on the floor, the city’s lights filtering through the windowpanes exposed by your open curtains. 

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. He has scolded you about this before—sometimes you forget that Mephisto has been programmed not to cause any damage to your place, so if you leave without letting him out the window or the door, he’s stuck. And if he’s stuck, he can’t serve his purpose, which is to keep an eye on you. 

“I survived long before I had you or Mephisto to stalk me. I don’t need him to follow me everywhere I go, running down his battery so that when you actually need him, he won’t be unavailable.” You had scoffed, completely missing the point.

As far as Sylus was concerned, Mephisto’s sole purpose was to be of use to you when Sylus is unable to be there in person to be of use to you. What part of Don’t be shy when using me did you still not understand? “Have you considered that I need him to follow you everywhere you go? That I specifically upgraded his protocore so that his battery can survive a thousand trips a day between Linkon City and the N109 Zone?”

You had just patted his chest indulgently, with a strange, sad little smile on your face that he didn’t like. He opened his mouth to continue, to make sure you understood—it was important to him for you to understand this, but you had moved your hand from his chest to his throat, running your fingertips along the tender skin at his clavicle, palming the side of his neck. He couldn’t help himself—he leaned into your touch, lost his train of thought. Your other hand joined your efforts to distract him, to soothe him, to make him forget what he was just talking about, and then you were cupping his cheeks, smoothing your thumbs under his eyes. It felt so good, to be touched like this by you. For your hands to be on him, for you to be looking at him with such quiet affection. He couldn’t help himself—he leaned down and kissed you, the conversation submerged in the feeling of being treasured by you, of you touching him like he was the fragile one, like he was the precious one—submerged, but not forgotten, because you were the precious one, the one who could be hurt, who he wanted to kiss like this, softly, meeting your lips with his, over and over, gentle presses, nudging your nose with his, until you slid your hands from his cheeks into his hair, kissed him a little harder, with purpose, and he slipped his tongue between your lips like he knew you wanted, and you sucked, sucked, sucked.

He let the conversation go. Later, while you were sleeping, the silken sheets he had replaced your own crappy cotton ones with draped over your hip as you lay on your side, facing away from him, he ran his finger thoughtfully down your spine, admiring its curve in the moonlight through your bedroom window, lower, lower, until he slipped that finger between your legs and pressed back into you, where you were still soft and wet from his earlier efforts. He thought about that strange sad smile, your refusal to let him fully look out for you. He thought about how he always came to you, and you had never once taken him up on his invitation for you to come to his base. To make use of him whenever you pleased. You would accept him when he came to you, ‘ran into’ you, kissed you, but you never initiated. It was like you were still afraid to accept everything he was offering you as unconditional truth, irrevocable once offered. You shifted in your sleep, made a pleasured noise in your throat as he slipped another finger inside you, as he scooted closer behind, spooning you, filling you, as he let his mind wander back to that terrible smile of yours. 

He hated that smile. A smile that isn’t a smile—a hollow mask, containing none of the joy you deserve to feel, all the time. A smile that says that you don’t believe that anyone will care if you don’t come home, now that your family is gone. A smile that says that you can’t conceive of a world in which Sylus’s entire existence revolves around you, your genuine smile, and his utility to you. That if anything were to happen to you, he’d burn down the world and fall on your sword after he had ensured that no one else survived your death. 

Even though you let him in. Even though you let him touch you, you still can’t seem to understand the depth of his devotion to you. He’s been forced to live so long without you. He’s not going to endure that hell again now that he's found you.

Now, he pulls up the app that tracks your hunter watch. You’re along the river, moving faster than a walking pace, but not fast enough to be on your motorcycle. You’re… going for an evening jog? What the hell are you doing, running by yourself after a long, exhausting day in the dark? No matter how strong you are, no matter how skilled a warrior, you should take at least the most basic of precautions and let him know where you’re going if you’re going to behave in such a reckless manner. You’re just one person, against a sea of cruel humanity, against the ever present threat of wanderers.

He wants to pull you into his arms and squeeze you, to press into your skin his worry, his care, his love, to squeeze you so hard that you finally get it through your ridiculous, beautiful, anxious, clever brain that even if you don’t have a care for your own safety, your own value to everyone in your life, but most of all to him, he cares, and if you get hurt, so does he.

This won’t do at all. Sylus is exhausted after being awake for twenty-four hours, but he will always, always have time and energy to spare for you. If you want to go jogging at night so badly, he’ll fucking join you.

The winter night is cold, the gentle rain almost sleeting, billowing curtains turning the streetlamps into something soft, muted stars that Sylus’s sensitive eyes can tolerate. He enjoys the dark, the rain, the cold, as he steps out of the tank parallel to where it looks like you’ve paused to take in a view of the river. Luckily this park, though long enough to enable running enthusiasts a long, uninterrupted stretch of path to run, is narrow, so Sylus could park relatively close to where you’ve stopped and jog to you easily in a few minutes. He doesn’t need to stretch, or warm up his muscles. His body is primed, at all times, for physical action. It’s a perk of the monster within. He shuts the tank’s door and jogs to where his phone indicates you are.

Before he sees you, he can smell it. Blood. Yours. A lot of it. His heart stops beating, his mouth goes dry. On instinct, he presses Luke and Kieran’s contact in his phone. He doesn’t remember everything he says or how he says it. He gives your location, orders them to bring the bags of blood he keeps at the base, the bags with your blood type in them, just as a precaution, the bags you don’t know about, along with all of the other contingency plans has in place that you don’t know about in order to prevent his worst nightmares from coming true—of you dying before him, this time. Of him being forced to live without you, again, as he has through lifetimes already, where he never even found you. He has you now, in this life. You let him touch you, you touch him in return. This time, no matter what fate, or destiny, or any gods have to say about it, you’re both going to live. Together. He has finally found you, and he’s not going to let you fucking die on him. When he’s done with the call, he dissipates into red and black mist.

He re-materializes a few feet away from you. There you are. Two huge wanderer corpses in a muddy clearing where a vicious fight clearly took place, and you, cradling the third wanderer’s head in your lap, slumped over its impressive form. The rain falls softly over you both. Your hair is soaked through, tendrils winding down your cheek, droplets falling from the ends like dew falling from a petal. One of your lovely arms curves around the wanderer’s head, almost as if you’re hugging it, while the other is limp at your side, resting in the bloody mud, your palm relaxed and open to the falling rain. 

You look dead.

You look dead, but Sylus can smell you, your life, your sluggish heart, he can hear your faint breath. You look dead, but you’re still alive.

Although you’re alive, Sylus feels like he’s going to die. He’s died before. Many times. He dies every time he receives a wound that would be fatal to anyone else. It hurts, every single time, because Sylus isn’t the type of man who dies peacefully, in his sleep, at the end of a long, placid life. Each death is violent, frightening, and deeply, deeply painful. His first death, the most painful at all, simply because he knew he was leaving you behind, leaving you alone. The most painful, and yet the least. He could tolerate the sword through his chest, knowing that you would be free from his curse, that you were already on your way to growing your own horns, your own tail, weapons against a world that could not stand against you. It hurt, but he was at peace with his decision to die for you, that first time.

Sylus knows very well what it feels like when he’s going to die. But he doesn’t remember feeling the kind of fear he feels now. A terror that he can’t scream through, because his throat won’t work. He can’t make any sound at all, as he stands frozen for a heartbeat at the entrance to the clearing, only a few feet from you, as his eyes are forced to look at your slumped form, the deep gashes along your side, partially hidden by your arm as it hangs limply, lifelessly.

You look dead.

“No.” He doesn’t recognize his own voice. No. No. No. No.

He has not come this far with you, he has not started all over with you again, from absolute scratch, from your blank memory, fear and hate written all over your face, spilling out of you, so thick her could taste it over the taste of you, your scent, the scent he had been craving for lifetimes, when he found you again—he has not painfully, slowly, rebuilt your trust in him, lured you in like the feral kitten you are, leaving crumbs, treats, tricks, toys, feathers, patiently coming to you and leaving again, instead of doing what he wanted and dragging you with him to his lair, smothering you, shaking you until you remembered his face, his heart, his love. He has not gotten you to the point that you let him touch you, run his fingers along your skin, and you do the same. That you look at him, eyes soft, with affection, with laughter on your tongue, even if you still don’t quite understand the depth of his want for you, his servitude, how utterly you own him, all of him, and always have. He has not come this far with you, only for you to die before he does, from something so mundane, so pedestrian and anti-climactic as a wanderer attack—from just doing your job, and one day, you just don’t come home to him.  He refuses to accept this. This is not the death you deserve. You deserve a death at sunset, entire armies turned on each other, blood like rivers across a ravaged plain, a death by Sylus’s side, as you both fight and maim and kill, the flesh of your enemies between your teeth, each of you crazed with bloodlust for your foes and lust for each other.

Or better yet. You deserve a death at sunset, in Sylus’s arms, when you’re old and gray, and you’re simply a little too tired to keep going. And Sylus will hold you in his arms, and he will press his forehead against yours, your skin paper thin and wrinkled, still perfect, still beautiful, your hair wisps of cotton around your head, and as you close your eyes for the final time, Sylus will close his, and your hearts will stop beating at the same time. A peaceful death, after a long, simple, happy life together, with flower crowns exchanged on anniversaries, your friends around the table, the wine generous, your hand in Sylus’s through all the long years that will never be long enough for him.

You’re not going to die here, under the soft, cold rain, from blood loss after a victorious battle in the dark.

All of these thoughts swirling through Sylus’s nimble mind take only a heartbeat to complete, to bring him to his resolution that he’s not going to let you die here, whether you like it or not. He kneels in the mud next to you, covers you in his leather jacket, slips your phone from your pocket and calls your doctor, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder. As the phone rings, he gently, so, so gently, slips his arms behind your back and under your knees, lifts you in his arms. Your blood is still flowing, and it seeps into the tight athletic tank he had put on in anticipation of jogging with you. He turns, running shoes squelching in the mud, and begins walking back to the tank.

“It’s never good when you’re calling me this late,” comes the crisp, even tone of your primary care physician’s voice. But Sylus can hear the slight smile in his tone, even if you fail to hear it every time.

“You’re right, it’s not good. If you want to see your patient alive again, then you need to come to this location,” Sylus bites into the phone, rattling off the closest address, explaining how to find your and Sylus’s tank.

“If this is a joke, it’s not funny,” Zayne answers after a short silence.

“This isn’t a joke. Wanderer attack, too much blood loss. I already have the right blood type being brought as we speak, but you need to get here, now, for a transfusion.”

“You need to bring them to the hospital—they need proper medical facilities and treatment if they’re to have any chance to survive,” Zayne argues, his distress starting to bleed through his even tone.

“What they need is for you to stop fucking arguing with me, and do as a I say. If you care about them at all, trust that I care more, and I’ll explain when you arrive.” Sylus doesn’t even bother to hide his own agony. He needs your doctor to stabilize you, because you need to be conscious for Sylus to save your life, but Sylus doesn’t have the expertise of a medical professional to get you to the point of surviving long enough to wake up. “Now, are you going to stop wasting time, or not?”

“You have no idea how much I care,” Zayne retorts icily, and ends the call.

Sylus takes his answer as acquiescence to what probably seems like insanity to your doctor.

Sylus walks through the rain, crosses the running path, the expanse of grass and trees, until he’s back on the quiet Linkon City street where he parked the tank. His evol opens the back passenger door and he maneuvers you inside onto the middle bench seat. He strips his now bloody shirt and ties it around your torso, tightening it, trying to stem the flow of your bright, precious blood. He grabs his athletic hoodie from where it was tied around his waist that he brought in case you got cold and hadn’t properly geared up and repeats the motion, trying to create a tourniquet as he waits for Luke and Kieran to arrive, as he waits for Zayne to arrive. He pulls you back into his lap, torso elevated, presses his palms to your wounds through the fabric, orders the SUV to crank the heating to full blast. He busies himself with phone calls, arranging for medical staff to be waiting at the base.

Finally, after what seems like multiple lifetimes—he would fucking know what that feels like—the twins come screeching to a stop in front of the tank at the same time that Zayne’s low-slung, understated but very expensive sedan pulls up behind it.

Zayne drags out a large medical bag from the passenger side of his car as the twins pile into the front seats of the tank, Kieran clutching a medical grade cooler with the blood in it. Sylus’s evol throws open the tank’s sliding back passenger door, and your austere doctor manages to fold himself inside the cramped space.

“I need more room if I’m to do this. Move,” he orders in quiet disdain.

Sylus doesn’t argue. This isn’t a dick-measuring contest, this is your life or death. As gently as possible, he slides out from under you and lays you onto the long bench seat. He teleports to the third row of seats at the back of the vehicle.

Zayne doesn’t even flinch, just flicks his eyes to Sylus’s re-materialized form, from his face to his bare chest, and then turns his attention back to his medical bag without comment. He gets to work, unwinding the makeshift bandages of Sylus’s athleticwear, cleaning your wounds. He sutures the open gashes, stemming the blood flow. After it appears that your bleeding is somewhat under control, Sylus and the twins watch in tense silence as he orders Luke to hang the bag of blood from a hook on the oh shit handle above the passenger door after he has placed an IV line in the tender skin of your inner elbow and connected the tubing.

After he’s done, and the blood is sliding from the bag into your arm, he sits back against the tank’s door, arms crossed.

“Explain why you refuse to take them to a hospital.”

Sylus can’t take his eyes off you as he answers. “While I’m sure you would do a fine job of finishing stitching them up and preventing infection, I can heal them completely. I just need them to resonate with me.”

Zayne’s voice grows sharper. “Who are you?”

“You can call me Skye.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Sylus finally tears his eyes away from you, lying there, blood drained from your beautiful face, deep bruises under your eyes, hair still soaked and matted from the rain and mud. His heart, bleeding and broken.

He looks into Zayne’s pretty hazel eyes. “That’s all I can give you.”

Zayne stares in return, looking for something that Sylus can’t give. Sylus isn’t sorry for the fact that he carries half of your soul, and that you carry half of his. That in this universe, you belong to him, and not to anyone else. But he knows what it’s like, to live lifetimes without you. To look, and never find you. He’s never been in the position of finding you, only to find you bound to another. He doesn’t know what he’d do, if such a thing were to ever happen to him. He likely would not be able to look so calmly into the eyes of the person who had your heart, as Zayne is doing now. After tonight, Zayne has Sylus’s gratitude, and also his respect.

“What I can give you is a promise that you will see our hunter again, healthy and whole, because you helped tonight without asking too many questions.”

Zayne snorts softly through his nostrils. “You didn’t leave me much choice, did you?”

Sylus shrugs. “Even so. You could have stood on ceremony, insisted on going by the book, and likely killed your childhood friend.”

“No, your insistence on doing something incredibly reckless and demanding that I come to you, instead of bringing them to me at the hospital, would have killed them.”

Sylus lifts an eyebrow, enjoying the subtle spark underneath your doctor’s icy exterior. He has a backbone, and Sylus likes that. “Oh, I still would have brought them to the hospital. You just would have had to explain to your board how your heroic hunter patient disappeared on your watch after the blood transfusion without anyone seeing them leave. Because I can guarantee you that the first thing kitten would demand after waking up would be to get the fuck out of there.”

Zayne’s lips part slightly, apparently the good doctor’s version of gaping in surprise. “Kitten?” he asks, bewildered, until he sighs, looks incredibly tired for a moment, and then says, “Never mind. I would rather not know.”

He pulls a prescription pad out of his white lab coat and scribbles on it with a pen. A pen that has a cute little seal on the cap. Sylus has the strangest feeling that he knows where your fucking doctor got such a pen. He makes a mental note to remedy this injustice when you wake up later and are feeling better. “These are the antibiotics they’ll need for the next week, even if you’re convinced that your evol can fully heal them through the resonance. I’m assuming that wherever you’re taking them will have medical expertise on staff?” he asks, ripping the prescription off the pad in one decisive stroke and holding it out between his index and middle finger to Sylus.

Sylus takes the paper, letting his fingers brush against your doctor’s, just to vex him. He does not disappoint as he scowls and jerks his hand back, shoving it into his pocket of his labcoat. “If anything happens…” Zayne’s voice trails off as he returns his gaze to your still form. “Call me. I’ll come, no matter the time, no matter the place.”

Sylus can hear the plea in his words formulated as an order. He is glad you have people in your life who care for you. He makes a note to arrange more opportunities for you to play with your doctor, so you will come to realize that Zayne cares for you as well, as more than just your primary care physician. Another person in the threads of your life, woven together to form the safety net you don’t even realize you have, even without Sylus. Not that you ever have to worry about being without Sylus, ever again. But Sylus has read that it’s apparently healthy for people to have more than one anchor, more than one source of comfort. Friends. People who love you and who take joy in your presence in their life. He wants to give you that. He wants to give you everything. You belong to him, but he can’t begrudge others for wanting to bask in your light—he’ll allow it, as a side effect of you having a healthy, rich, full life. And it doesn’t hurt that it looks like the doctor will be hilarious to torment.

“Deal,” Sylus says. Zayne breathes again, a sharp exhale through his nose, and then extricates himself, along with his medical bag, from the tank, shutting the door decisively behind him.

“Whoa, boss is learning how to play well with others,” Luke says, probably wide-eyed underneath his mask.

“The hunter truly is a miracle worker,” Kieran agrees, sounding pleased.

“Enough. Kieran, drive us back to base. Luke, follow us in the other vehicle.”

They nod, understanding that now is not the time for silly banter, that underneath their boss’s calm exterior is a very worried, frightened man.

As Luke clambers out of the tank and Kieran settles himself into the driver’s seat, Sylus makes his way from the backseat to where you’re lying and lifts you gingerly, settles himself onto the seat, and gently lays your shoulders and head back onto his lap. His eyes do not leave your face, his hands do not leave your hair for the entire duration back home. On the way, he soothes himself with memories of your face, blooming with color, health, your eyes bright, the teasing curve of your lips after saying something mean to him. He soothes himself with plans upon plans about how to finally convince you that you have someone waiting for you now, someone who will not recover if you don’t come home. That you’ve always had people waiting for you, worrying for you, loving you, even without Caleb and your grandmother in your life.

Before Sylus came into your life, waking up was always something you did reluctantly, a slow drag from the peaceful dark to the painful light, something to fear, something to resist, heart pounding with the shrill noise of your alarm in your ears, jerking from a calm numbed sea into the chaotic storm of emotions, of wakefulness, of being back in your body where everything hurt.

Now, something inside you whispers that it’s safe, even as you know the pain is coming. That beyond the pain, the first gasp of breath as your face breaches the tranquilizing ocean of unconsciousness, waiting on the other side is a pair of warm ruby eyes, big hands, soft despite their callouses, a heartbeat that should be a little too fast to be calming, yet soothes you all the same. That waking up has a purpose, beyond your penance, your self-imposed sentence of surviving despite everything, in order to earn your rest when something finally, mercifully kills you. Now, there’s something to wake up for besides guilt, even though you fear it will be snatched away without warning.

You open your eyes slowly. Your body feels heavy, but for once you’re not in pain, as if from the neck down you’re still in the ocean of sleep. You blink, eyes focusing on the ornate crown molding of Sylus’s dark bedroom ceiling. You haven’t been in this room since you searched his beautiful body for the brooch, right before the auction. But you’d recognize his ceiling anywhere. You turn your head on the soft, silk-covered pillow, and just as you knew you would, you’re met with the warm glow of Sylus’s eyes. You wonder how you got here. You’ve never before taken him up on his countless invitations to visit him at his home.

He doesn’t say anything. He just reaches over and palms your cheek, fingertips sliding over your ear, thumb stroking under your eye.

“Hi,” you say, smiling at him. Because you always smile at him, no matter how you’re feeling. You smile at him when you’re happy, when he has said something hilarious, or sweet. You smile at him when he surprises you, when he teases you, no matter how hard you try to keep a straight face, to scowl at him in mock anger for his mischievousness, his intentionally trying to get a rise out of you. You smile at him when your heart is hurting, because no matter how in pain you might be from grief, from worry, from missing him when he’s right there, you care for him so much already, and you can’t help but smile when he turns to look at you.

“Don’t smile at me like that,” he says, dark silver eyebrows drawing together. “I hate that smile.”

You stare at him, feeling the joy of seeing him drain from you like he’s just shoved a knife in your stomach. He hasn’t said something so cruel to you since your first few days of knowing each other.

You swallow. 

It has finally happened. He’s finally sick of you. Whatever pedestal he has had you on this whole time has finally toppled.

“Okay,” you whisper, giving him what he wants. Because what else can you do? You stop smiling. You turn your head away from him again, from his beautiful, wine-glow eyes, his soft silver hair falling over his forehead, and stare at his ceiling. You’re thankful for the strange numbness in your body. It makes it easier to breathe. To tolerate the pain washing through you. You gather your resolve. All you have to do is roll over, sit up. Put both feet on the floor. Get dressed, in your own clothes. You hope you didn’t arrive in any of the clothes he has bought for you over the past few months since he started playing the game of keeping you. The game he apparently never had any intention of finishing.

You try to do what you just imagined, but your body doesn’t listen. You just lie there, like the useless sack of shit you often feel like.

“Fuck,” he says, strangely. He must really, really want you gone.

You laugh a little breathlessly, because what else can you do? “Sorry, I’ll leave as soon as I can. I must have had too much to drink.” Because what else could explain this paralysis? Why else can’t you remember how you got here in his bed again? The last thing you remember is lacing up your running shoes for a run after work.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says, tone dark. Which doesn’t make any sense at all. 

Oh.  

He’s not only bored with you, but he’s finally decided to kill you. You had wondered, at the beginning, what it would take for him to finally get bored. What he would do, when he was ready to cut his losses. If he would feel compelled to get rid of the now useless witness to so many of his secrets. But you had trusted him enough to keep accepting him when he came to you, when he told you how much he cared for you. When he had told you he wanted you, and that wouldn’t change. You must have let yourself believe him, based on how deeply hurt you feel now. This shouldn’t be a surprise to you, after all. This is why you never took him up on his invitation to come deeper into his world. 

You always have been so fucking gullible.

You suppose that you deserve what’s coming, the fool that you are.

It’s a relief, really. Maybe now you can see Caleb again. See Gran again. Maybe if your parents are dead, you’ll finally get to meet them.

Or, if the universe is actually kind, maybe dead is just dead, and at least you won’t have to hurt anymore.

Part of you thinks that you’re a fucking coward for taking the easy way out. For giving up without a struggle. You thought you could survive anything. That you needed to survive everything, to finally earn your death. But losing Sylus’s affection must have been the last straw for you, because you’re so fucking tired. You could fight an endless amount of wanderers, and still keep dragging yourself back out to do it all over again. But after having Sylus, and then losing him… turns out, that’s the one thing you can’t survive.

“I know it doesn’t mean shit, but I want you to know that I love you. It felt really good, being your toy for a while,” you say.

“Toy?” Sylus asks, voice strained. 

You wonder how he’ll do it. “Just, if you ever cared about me at all, make it quick.” You close your eyes. It’s so strange. You could fall asleep again. You’re so, so tired. You suppose, in a way, you’re lucky. Not everyone gets to die by the hand of someone they love. Who they’d die for anyway. It’s better than bleeding out alone after fucking up against a wanderer.

You feel his fingers on your neck. How poetic. How we met is how we’ll end. Sylus has always been strangely poetic.

“Will you resonate with me?” he asks through the waves that you’re letting yourself sink back into.

Why is he bothering to ask? He could just try to force it, like the first time. It would probably work, since he succeeded in making you love him. You wonder why he wants it now. You’ve only ever resonated during fights. Gun battles. Being caught by surprise by wanderers between Linkon City and the N109 Zone. He’s never asked you for it, outside of the context of violence. But then again, maybe putting you down is just another quick little conflict. If his evol is strengthened with yours, so much the easier to snap your neck. He’s such a big man though. He could do it so easily, even without his evol. Does it really matter why he wants to resonate with you now though? You would give him anything, for any reason, the fool that you are.

“One for the road, huh?” you ask. 

His fingers tighten on your neck. He wants to strangle you so badly, it’s almost funny.

You lift your hand, and it feels like a 16 kilo kettlebell. You sigh as you rest it over the back of his hand, resting at your throat. 

“You can have whatever you want, Sylus Qin.” 

“And so can you, my beloved,” he says, and he sounds so sincere that you’re reminded why you believed his lies in the first place. Anyone, not just your idiotic, desperate, lonely, gullible self would have believed the sweet words coming from his beautiful mouth. Cold comfort, but comfort all the same.

He lifts your hand, turns it, threads his fingers through yours. You summon the very last bit of energy you have, all of the love you carry for him, and let your evol flow through you and into him.

It’s the weightlessness of sleep, of falling, of flying. Floating in a vast ocean of stars, the night sky as it actually is without light pollution, so bright that the word ‘night’ loses all meaning. As your gold waves flow into him, his scarlet and ink tendrils flow into you. Power, strength, the exhilaration of wild, unchecked energy, possibility, coiled to explode into action at the slightest twitch of your fingers or his.

The boundaries between you, between him, your minds, your bodies, thin, dissolve. The resonance has never been like this, before. Every time before, you could sense where he was on the battlefield, anticipate his movements. You could work in sync, powering his punches, increasing the speed at which he gathers energy, charging the storm that would unleash and ravage the hostiles arrayed against you. But you were still you. He was still him. Now, his heart beats in your chest. When he swallows painfully, you feel it in your throat. You are big, strong, powerful, and exhausted.

With your eyes closed, you see him. With his mouth closed, he speaks.

When you smile like that, you look so sad, I can’t bear it, he says. His arms gently curl around you, pull you into his chest. Relief floods through you, holding the person you cherish most in the universe in your arms again. And unlike the past two days, they’re awake.

Your mind is overwhelmed, the disparity between what you thought he was feeling just moments ago and feeling his actual emotions now large enough to make you feel insane. You breathe through the disorientation, focus on the words that just flowed through your mind.

Smile like what?

He doesn’t answer immediately. You just see yourself, like looking in a mirror, but from a greater height. You see your upturned face, your lips curved in the idea of a smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. Like a sketch by a skilled artist with their eyes closed. It’s a smile, but it’s wrong. Sylus, the intuitive creature that he is, can sense the disparity, the disconnect, between your smile and your heart. But he doesn’t understand that underneath the sadness, you are actually happy to be looking at his face, to be the object of his focus, to be able to hold him and laugh with him. That even if your heart is hurting, his mere presence can still bring a smile to your face. He said he hated your smile not because he is finally bored with you, but because the heartbreak in your smile broke his own heart.

He finally answers you with words. Like you did when you woke up. You smiled even though I know you’re exhausted. When your body has been through hell. You smiled even after almost dying two days ago.

You open your eyes, turn your head on the silk pillow to look at him. I almost died?

Sylus scoots even closer, and you realize that he’s holding his body away from your torso, even as he rests his head on the same pillow as you, runs his nose along your cheek. I found you bleeding out after killing three wanderers by yourself. You had already run eight miles before your hunter watch alerted you to their presence.

You stare at him. Notice the deep, dark circles under his eyes for the first time. The exhaustion drawing his mouth tight. Through the resonance, impressions of sour terror, heart-palpitation-inducing anxiety, clenched-teeth determination, refusal to sleep blur together. Sylus hasn’t slept since he found you. He has been lying here by your side, watching your face as you slept, for the past two days. You get the impression that he was already exhausted before he even found you.

But why?

How do you expect me to sleep, when I’m not sure if my beloved is ever going to open their eyes again?

You’re reeling. You just thought he was done with you, that he was about to end you. Your beloved?

You feel a pulse of disbelief, incomprehension, dawning understanding, and heartbreak, as all of the tangled feelings you just went through flow through the resonance from you to him. He had no idea that you have been fearing the end like this, somewhere deep inside yourself, all along. This fear, based on how you began. Based on all that you know about him, the way he lives his life, conducts his business. How easily bored he becomes playing simple games, listening to other people talk. Fear based on your own view of yourself, what you perceive as the value you have to offer other people in your life. He knew you were reluctant to come to him, yes, but he thought such reluctance was rooted in him being a criminal and you a deepspace hunter, that you didn’t quite understand how much he cares for you, and that in time, he’d be able to prove to you just how much he cares through his actions alone. Through his consistency in showing you his love. 

His hatred of your sad smile compounds, grows, as he realizes the depth of the hole inside you.

Now that he can see everything, you’re so scared. You don’t want him to see, to finally realize how disposable you are, even to yourself. Your parents, Caleb and your gran leaving you behind, the association once your heart finally gives out. How you’re only surviving until you receive a sign from the universe that you’ve finally earned the peace that you believe only death can offer you.

But instead of withdrawing, instead of dawning disgust in his heart, your heart, you feel determination rise in you, in him. A firm rejection of everything he just felt from you. An efficient, resounding no. If you don’t fucking believe it yet, he’ll just work harder until you do. He’s been too cautious. He’s been so busy trying to give you time, trying to lure you in like a scared kitten, that he has inadvertently let you believe that you’re ultimately disposable to him, when you’re the one thing he can’t bear to live without. No. No. No.

But why? You can’t help but feel, ask. Why you? When the world is so vast, full of people who are so much more interesting, competent, true equals to the man now running his fingers so gently along your cheek, staring into your eyes, sending wave upon wave of wordless, overpowering love through you.

Along with the warmth, the affection, the gentle amusement, the lust, the endless fascination that Sylus is sending along through your connection to him, you start seeing visions of your own laughing face, your lips curved in a scowl or a mischievous smirk, the few times he’s managed to instigate a big belly laugh out of you, squeals of delight at the claw machine, your competitive smugness following a motorcycle race that ended in a tie, and afterwards your lips bathed in moonlight as the both of you lay in a field of flowers, staring up at the night stars on the side of the road. Your mouth, as a metaphor for every reason he loves you so much. Your thoughtful frowns, betraying your clever mind, your bloodthirsty snarls, revealing your righteous fury when engaging in battle, your grin, telegraphing your dark sense of humor, your ability to laugh in the face of the horrors of humanity, existence, the constant plague of hostile wanderers. Your mouth, slightly open, panting, little noises of pleasure escaping your lips as Sylus makes you feel good with his body, as you make him feel like a king with every satisfied whimper out of your mouth.

You had no idea. All this time, you had no idea the depth of his feelings for you. When he is away on business, how his thoughts return to you, over and over again. When he is here at his home, how he intricately plans the ‘happenstance’ encounters with you. His joining you on jogs, because he’s so afraid something may happen to you when you’re exhausted and alone.

Do you understand yet? He’s pressing his forehead to yours, still being careful of your torso, breathing you in.

You feel his heart, and he feels yours, and you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins, as the connection loops through you, a closed circuit, infinity entwined. You understand that when you’re in pain, so is he. That by doubting his sincerity, his love for you, your own self worth, you’re hurting him too.

I’m sorry, is all you can think. You didn’t know, before. You may never have believed him, if he hadn’t opened himself to you like this, through your resonance. 

He silently rejects your apology. Relief unfurls through you, as he realizes that you’re finally understanding. That now you and he can finally begin.

But now you’re curious about what led you to being here, resonating with him, in his bed.

If I was hurt so badly, why don’t I feel any pain?

There is the feeling of a sigh, of tension released. Like he’s finally breathing after being underwater the entire time you were unconscious, and then worried that he was done with you. The painkillers that I’ve had the doctor pumping into you via the IV since I got you back to base. They’re pretty strong.

You smile. Thank you.

His face grows serious, his red eyes troubled again. Don’t thank me yet. I’ve been waiting for you to wake up, so that you could resonate with me. I need to heal you.

Heal me? You look down at yourself. The bandages wrapped tightly around your torso, the IV in your arm. Don’t I just need time to heal? You can dump me at Akso and Zayne can—

No. Sylus is scowling, full lips turned down like he smells something unpleasant. I can heal you better than your accomplished doctor. Under his thoughts snakes a winding thread of possessiveness, of pride that he can’t quite contain, even under these circumstances.

You’re bizarrely pleased with his jealousy, unfounded as it is. He’s the only person you’ve been able to see, from the moment you looked up into his disdainful face for the first time. Then why shouldn’t I thank you for it, if you can do that?

He brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles. It’s going to hurt, my love.

You snort softly. I’m used to pain. You turn your head, feel brave enough to kiss his knuckles.

He licks his lips, briefly, uncharacteristically nervous. Not like this.

And when you’re done?

You’ll never forget the pain, but you’ll be fully healed. As if you were never injured at all.

You watch his face thoughtfully, thinking about all the times he has been injured since you’ve known him. And all the times the wounds have closed up right before your eyes. His stone-cold face, as blood turns to ash, as flesh is re-knit.

Is there any way you can heal me now, without feeling the pain yourself?

He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe you’ve just asked that. Still only worried about me, when you’re the one who almost died. He's incredulous.

I don’t like it when you’re in pain. You’d suffer a million injuries, to spare him one.

The feeling that fills you is his heart, mirroring yours. He takes the injuries every time, to spare you getting hurt.

When you hurt, I hurt. As I heal you, we’ll hurt together. When it’s over, we’ll be relieved, together. That’s what I’ve been offering, all along. Will you say yes?

You search his eyes, and you want to drink them like the sun-filtered wine they resemble.

Only if you promise me that you will stop taking hits meant for me. That if I’m not fast enough to get out of the way, we’ll heal together, but you won’t hurt twice because of me.

He laughs, low, breathless. He can’t believe you’re trying to bargain on his behalf in the state you’re in. I can’t promise that. Especially after the past few days. I can heal. You almost died. You don’t understand that terror.

But a part of you, deep inside you, does understand that terror. You don’t know how, but the thought of losing him makes you want to rip off your own skin, tear out your own lungs, set the world on fire. You scowl at him. He just leans down, licks your lower lip. I like it when you look at me so meanly. You deserve to be a little meaner, sweetheart.

Not towards you. 

Especially towards me. I can take it. If it’s from you, I can take anything.

But that won’t do, not at all, not for you, not for what you want to give him, especially now that you know how much he cares for you in return. Sylus.

Yes, beloved?

That’s not the kind of love I want to give you.

I don’t know any other kind, darling.

Then I’ll allow you to heal me, if you allow me to teach you that love isn’t something you should have to endure. It shouldn’t hurt more than it heals.

There you are. His smile is soft, dark, welcoming like night after a long day. My sweet, master negotiator. That’s a deal I can accept.

Then heal me. Quickly.

My demanding kitten, he thinks, his affection, admiration, gentle amusement warming your exhausted heart.

He gives you what you ask for, As I will always try to do, as he clutches your cheeks in his big palms, rests his forehead against yours. The pleasant numbness is slowly burned away by an inexorable, excruciating heat along your ribs. It is like having your flesh threaded, jerked, drawn together with a blunt needle, rough twine. You can feel your sundered cells re-merging, the scuffed bones filling in, veins, arteries tugged, braided, pulled tight. The pain is much worse than any injury you’ve ever suffered, including broken bones, a bullet through your muscles, your broken body thrown to the ground in the shockwave from the bomb that killed Caleb and your grandmother.

Through it all, Sylus grits his teeth, holds you, absorbs your pain. Your ribs, his ribs, your flesh, his flesh, fused, whole.

The physical pain fades, but not its memory.

You start to cry.

A feeling of alarm ricochets between him and you. What’s wrong?

I hate that you feel this, every time. I’ve dug bullets out of you, just for you to have to go through this. Every time. You have to be more careful, from now on. I can’t bear you hurting like this, now that I know what it’s like for you.

Now that your wounds are healed, your body whole, Sylus throws his arms around you and pulls you close, crushing you to his chest. I’ll be more careful, if you never doubt again that I feel the same for you.  When you come home from a mission exhausted and bleeding, I feel the same way as you do now, imagining the times I’ve been hurt. You have a reason to come home, even with Caleb and your grandmother gone. Don’t leave me alone. Don’t go and get hurt, when I’m not there to heal you again.

You laugh through your tears, so relieved that you’re no longer in pain. That you can move freely, the numbing effects of the pain medication seemingly gone along with the physical trauma on your body. Who’s the sweet master negotiator now?

You feel your own relief absorbed, rebounding, returned to you in an echo. Relief that he really could share his own healing abilities with you through his evol and your resonance. Relief that he won’t have to call your doctor again. That you are going to be fine, now. That you finally understand how much he cares for you, now. The relief morphs into something else. Something hungrier, more demanding.

He rolls you, settling his big body over yours. His agile, calloused hands yank at the bloodstained bandages wrapped around your torso. He leans down, licks the tears at the corner of each of your eyes, salt on your tongue, on his. He kisses your temple. Your forehead. Your nose. Your lips. Licks you, until you open your mouth, and he’s kissing  you so hard, just shy of rough. Tasting your tongue, the slick softness of your inner cheeks, his entire being radiating a question, May I? May I? And a demand, Let me, let me. I was so frightened, holding your chilled body in my arms, your hot blood soaking through my shirt.

You send your wordless Yes, yes, of course, yes through the resonance. He lifts a hand, snaps his big fingers, a gunshot in the quiet room. The IV in your arm dissolves into scarlet and black ash, drifts into nothing. He leans down, laps at the blood trickling from where the needle was just embedded with his tongue. You taste iron as he tastes iron, and you shudder. He has succeeded in yanking your bandages from your body, and you lie underneath him, chest exposed. He moves from your inner elbow to your ribs, where you were just gravely injured, and licks long swipes across the muscles of your side, across the bone underneath. A beast, nursing a mate’s wound the best way he knows how.

His hunger, his desperation to feel your body against his body, to feel good after so much physical pain, fills you. You reach for his evol, pull it into yourself, snap your fingers, and rejoice when his soft shirt and sleep pants, his underwear, dissolve into colorful ash. He hovers naked above you, a look of surprise on his beautiful face. Perks of the resonance, you smirk. He grins, and it’s lethal to your heart—his canines sharp, his dick hard. He snaps his own fingers again, and you’re suddenly naked as well. You laugh, delighted. You grab his cock and pump it, and he groans, twisting, repositioning himself a little clumsily in the tangled bedsheets so that his cock is now hovering over your mouth and he’s trailing open mouthed kisses along your upper thigh, up to where you legs meet, before sinking his mouth over your most sensitive parts.

You gasp, bucking up into his mouth, wanting more of his tongue, his lips, his saliva dripping onto, into you. He feels your pleasure in his own body, and accidentally bucks himself against your lips. Before he can feel sorry, or regret, you tighten your hold around his big dick and open your own mouth, tonguing his soft skin, inhaling the scent of him. You stuff your mouth with him, your jaw wide open. Through the resonance, the closed circuit fires, sparks. You can’t tell where you end, where he begins, the pushing, the pulling, the taste of him, of you, the saliva dripping out of both of your mouths as you feast on each other, as you choke a little on the size of him, as he swallows, again and again, everything he is sucking from you, the wet sounds of your shared pleasure loud in the room.

When you finally come, he follows, and you swallow as best as you can. Salt, warmth, and musk. He rolls to his side, his still-hard dick leaving your lips with a wet pop, and he uses his evol to lift you—you yelp as he spins you, drops you next to him. You roll, throw your arm around him, and kiss him. He kisses you back, tongue sliding back into your mouth, and you taste yourself, and he tastes himself, through the resonance, through your messy, wet mouths combined.

Sylus. His name is a sigh, a talisman, a comfort, a treat in your mind, on your tongue.

You feel the pleasure course through him, hearing his name in your mind. He answers in kind. Beloved. 

Sylus. You repeat, just to feel the spike in his enjoyment again.

He shudders a little. Never stop saying my name.

That’s an easy demand to indulge from your sweet lover, as far as you’re concerned. Okay, Sylus. You smile against his lips. He snakes an arm around you, pulls you tighter.

You enjoy each other quietly, as you each regain your breath, as you revel in the feeling of being whole, unharmed, finally understanding where the other is coming from, the depths of your mutual devotion.

I want to fuck you again, but it's already taken you longer than I expected to wake up. We’re going to be late.

You pull back a little, look at him questioningly.

I arranged a Christmas party at your place. Well, he thinks, gemstone eyes sparkling in mirth. Your boyfriend Skye arranged a Christmas party at your place. I was afraid I was going to have to cancel, and I can if you’re not up for it. But your friends will miss you.

You gape at him. My friends?

Tara, Nero, Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, the twins—who are Skye’s younger cousins. Through the resonance, you receive an image of your apartment, half the small living room taken up with the biggest Christmas tree the twins could stuff in there, decorated with big gold glass ball ornaments, as well as a hilarious assortment of mismatched crow ornaments. Fairy lights strung over your windows. Pine-scented garlands hanging over the sides of your kitchen island. Big, pretty red and black wrapped presents under the tree, each with one of your friends’ names on them.

You stare into your boyfriend’s smiling, lovely eyes. But why?

Did you think I couldn’t tell how sad the idea of the first Christmas without your family was making you? He tsks, a low disgruntled sound in his throat. I’m insulted.

You hug his big body tighter against your own. You did all that for me?

This is nothing, compared to everything I am willing to do for you, darling.

You bury your head in his big, pillowy chest. Breathe in the scent of him, run your hands through the soft silver hair along his skin. He shudders. Keep doing that and I’ll definitely make us late, kitten.

You laugh, filled with such warmth. You can’t believe how wrong you were, about him, about how much you mean to him. You make the decision to live for more than just the day you can die. To live, instead of just survive. This is Sylus’s Christmas gift to you. You send the thought through the connection to him, and he palms the back of your head, gently presses your face deeper into his chest.

And what do you want for Christmas, Sylus?

You don’t know what you expect to hear as a response. Something expensive, or outrageous. Your soul, which you’re pretty sure he already has at this point.

I already have your soul. Now I just want your company. And... you receive the image of a set of pens with little cute crow figurines on the caps. You look at him in confusion. I want my own pens from my sweet little hunter. It’s only fair, since I’m the one who healed you.

You have no idea what he’s talking about. He already has your soul? Now he just wants pens because he healed you? He huffs a little, feeling your confusion. Don’t overthink it. But that’s what I want.

You decide to let it go. Like Sylus, you’re willing to give him so, so much more. But if goofy, cute pens are what he wants, you’re happy to find some for him, or have them custom made if necessary. A pulse of smug satisfaction fills you through the connection, as if Sylus just won a competition that only he knows is happening.

You drift in peaceful, satisfied silence with him. You think about how you felt when you woke up, versus how you feel now. Settled. Completely reassured. Hopeful, even. You want him to know that you're grateful, for not giving up. For insisting that you resonate with him. For showing you his true feelings when he saw how much pain you were in. Thank you.

He just hugs you, radiating contentment. There is no thanks between you and me. When you’re happy, I’m happy.

Fine, no thanks to you, you tease. You listen to his heartbeat. Think about the Christmas tree, and your friends, waiting for you, arranged by Sylus and the twins. Then Merry Christmas, Sylus.

This, he accepts. The first of many, he responds.

It was supposed to be a simple job. It was supposed to be a simple jog. There was a Before, and an After—Caleb, your gran. Small steps, each one more exhausting than the last, but you couldn't quit. You couldn't ever give up, even though there wasn't a finish line in sight, without the guideposts of your family guiding you home, without anyone waiting if you ever made it back to something resembling home ever again.

But the job almost killed you. The jog ended in Sylus opening himself to you completely, healing you in more ways than one. Now, there is a Before, and an After. Not replacing, but parallel to the Before and After of your family. Before Sylus, After Sylus. The small steps suddenly don't seem so exhausting, anymore. Maybe it's not surviving till the welcome end, but trying to live while you're alive. Maybe you have to create a new home, when one is lost to you. You nuzzle into Sylus's chest, ask a question.

The answer is so sure. So matter-of-fact. So Sylus. Of course I'll shorten my stride for you, beloved. Until you feel strong enough not only to sprint, but to fly again.

[larluce]

Arthur and Merlin travel back in time without knowing the other is from the future too AU (SERIES 2)

FIRST PART (SERIES 1) >> PREVIOUS PART >> NEXT PART

(My apologies in advance, I couldn't write the smut, but I know exactly how it went, so you may ask me any questions related to their first time in the comments)

Merlin is no strange to waking up next to Arthur. He's been sleeping in his bed for over a week after all. They also slept next to each other back in the farm, back in Ealdor and everytime they camped outside.

Waking up curled up together after they have given theirselfs to one another, in body and soul, is an entire different experience. He wakes up with a smile plastered on his face. He feels like in a dream, floating, but also like falling. It's the kind of feeling is so overwhelming it's painful, but it's painfully pleasant.

Arthur's arms are around him, his naked chest against his back. Merlin turns in his arms slowly, needing to see him, needing to make sure that it happened, that this is real. The pain in his lower back as he moves is enough to confirm it though.

Merlin: (groans in pain)

Arthur: (opens his eyes slowly and then smiles) Hey.

Merlin: Don't "hey" me. You destroyed me!

Arthur: (chuckles) I don't recall you complaining. In fact, I clearly remember you constantly crying for more.

Merlin: Shut up!

Arthur: And changing positions was not my idea.

Merlin: I just wanted to be more comfortable!

Arthur: I'm just saying, I wanted to be gentle and you didn't let me.

Merlin: Yeah, because I totally forced you. My mistake. (tries to get up, but Arthur's arms are steel around him) Arthur.

Arthur: (eyes closed) Uhm?

Merlin: I have to get your breakfast.

Arthur: Let someone else do it.

Merlin: (chuckles) How can I tell someone else to do it if stay here?

Arthur: Then get it later.

Merlin: I also have chores to do.

Arthur: No, I give you the day off. Sleep.

Merlin: Gaius may need me.

Arthur: Sleep.

Merlin: (smiling) Alright.

Merlin wishes he could stay like this forever. Eventually though, Merlin has to get up and Arthur too.

Merlin slightly limping around the castle doesn't go unnoticed to anybody, nor Arthur smug smile everytime he catches Merlin limping. Already used to the rumors and the eyes on him, Merlin can't mind less though.

It turns out he should have.

In Arthur's chambers. Leon knocks on the door, but no one answers, so he enters.

Leon: (entering) Your highness, I'm sorry for entering like this but- (notices no one is there) He must still be in the meeting with the king. (notices there are flowers petals on the floor and spots a chemise on the floor) ... what? (walks to it and picks it up. Sighs in dissapointment) So the rumors are true.

Merlin: (enters)

Leon: (Quickly hides the chemise behind his back)

Merlin: Leon? What are you doing here?

Leon: I-I was looking for the Prince.

Merlin: (rolls his eyes) He's still discussing with Uther how to execute Kendrick for what he attempted to do to Morgana, or rather dicussing ways to torture him before the execution. They'll probably just let Morgana decide his punishment in the end. (notices Leon is holding something behind his back) What do you have there?

Leon: (too quickly) Nothing! 😅

Merlin: ... Okay? Normally I would run around you until you show me, but, I'm too sore and tired for that. (about to start tidying up the room)

Leon: What are you doing?

Merlin: Cleaning?

Leon: Didn't Arthur give you the day off?

Merlin: He did, but knowing him he'll probably just let this room dirty and messy until tomorrow, so I rather do it at once before it accumulates.

Leon: I'll call other sevants to do it!

Merlin: Is not really a problem-

Leon: I insist! You rarely have a day off, you should enjoy it as much as you can.

Merlin: (unsure) Arthur doesn't like other servants cleaning his chambers.

Leon: He doesn't have to find out it wasn't you. And if he does, I'll tell him it was my idea. Go enjoy your free day, you deserve it.

Merlin: (smiles) Thank you, Leon! You are such a good friend. (leaves)

Leon: (sighs in relief, but also feels bad) No, I'm not a good friend... (searches around the room for whatever thing could give away Arthur's affair, while he talks to himself) He's been limping since this morning, but if Arthur slept with this lady last night, then when...or could it be... (opens his eyes wide) WAS HE WITH BOTH?! 😨

Time skip. In the stables.

Princess: (neighs happily as he watches Merlin aproaching)

Merlin: Princess! (caresses her head) How's my Baby Plum doing? Have they been feeding you well? I missed you so much! (joins their heads fondly)

Lancelot: (who was close by, aproaches) Seriously, how do you do it? She's only ever this sweet with you.

Merlin: I don't know. Maybe is my weird connection to nature.

Lancelot: (pauses) It was the trees who warned you about the bandits, wasn't it? Back in the woods.

Merlin: (nods) Their voices are... stronger everyday. It's not bad, just... weird. Sometimes they talk to me as if...

Lacelot: As if what?

Merlin: As if I was one of them.

Knight x: (passing by) Lowering your standars now that the Prince replaced you, I see.

Merlin: What?

Knight x: (just laughs and leaves)

Merlin: (turns to Lancelot) What is he talking about?

Lancelot: (nervous) Uh...

Merlin: (crosses his arms) Lance, what is he talking about? 😑

Lancelot: Well... you know how you and Arthur weren't exactly discret when you showed affection to one another yesterday?

Merlin: Yes, we are always like that.

Lancelot: Yeah, the problem is that yesterday you weren't you. You were Lady Merelyn, remember? So... they think Arthur cheated on you with her.

Merlin: WHAT?! 😨

Lancelot: Look. I don't have all the details. You know I don't really enjoy gossip. But, as far as I know, most of the nobels are making fun of you, the servants pity you. Oh, and the Unicorn Catcher defenders are diminishing Arthur's affair, saying you are still the favourite, though they dread you could lose your position.

Merlin: I see...(sighs) They like gossip, uh? (grins) I'll give them gossip.

Meanwhile. Arthur walking in a hallway, encounters Leon.

Arthur: Oh, Leon. Have you seen Merlin?

Leon: I encountered him in your chambers about an hour ago, sire, but I don't know where he could be now.

Arthur: Thank you-wait, what were you doing in my chambers.

Leon: I needed to speak to you privatly, sire. About... an urgent matter.

Arthur: Which is?

Leon: I... well... (sighs, frustrated and starts pacing)

Arthur: (between confused and worried) Is... everything alright?

Leon: (stops pacing a turns to Arthur with decision) May I speak freely, my lord?

Arthur: Uhm... sure. Go ahead.

Leon: You are my Prince, but you are also my friend. You earned my oath and my repect, not just because of your title, but because I grew up with you and I got to know the kind of man you are. For years I admired your honorability, your honesty and your loyalty.

Arthur: Thank you, that's a really nice thing to say. But what does it have to do with-

Leon: But I'm not seeing this man right now!

Arthur: ... I beg your pardon?

Leon: When the knights and visiting nobels said you'd start sleeping with other people eventually, I never once believed it! Because I've seen your love and devotion for Merlin from the start! I believed you uncapable, because I thought you valued honor and fidelity. But I guess I was wrong.

Arthur: What on earth are you talking about?

Leon: Of your affair with Lady Merelyn!

Arthur: (finally understanding) Ooh! (laughs)

Leon: You think this is funny, my lord?

Arthur: No, no! It's just. Leon, you got it all wrong. I was never unfaithful to Merlin.

Leon: Really? (pulls out the chemise) Then what was this undergarment doing in your chambers, Sire?

Arthur: Okay, I guess it does look bad. But I swear is not what it looks like-

Leon: You don't own me an explanation, Sire. And I won't tell Merlin anything because my loyalty stays with you above else. But I fear everyone in the castle already knows of your affair, so if you don't want Merlin finding out by other source, you better be honest with him. (bows) Sire (leaves)

Arthur: (shouts) Leon, is not- (cuts himself, thinking) Wait, I shouldn't tell him before I consult it with Merlin first. And I don't think he would believe my word even if I explain.

Time skip. In the training field, Arthur about to start training with the knights.

Merlin: (arrives with a serious face, wearing his old clothes)

Knights: (look at him with mockery)

Knight x: (whispering) You see that?

Knight y: (whispering) That's why you can't rely on affection to get you up the ladder. The higher you are, the harder the fall will be.

Arthur: (turns and smiles) Merlin! I've been looking everywhere for... (notices Merlin's wearing his old clothes and frowns) Why are you wearing that?

Merlin's wardrove has improved since Arthur's been gifting him better clothing from time to time. Nothing too extravagant, Arthur made sure the clothes matched Merlin's simple style, but they are elegant enough to let everybody know about Merlin's status as his lover. Before, Merlin would wear them just in especial events or ocassions and it was when they finally got together that he started wearing them more often. So seeing Merlin in his old clothes is... unsettling.

Merlin: These are my clothes, my lord.

Arthur: You have better clothes now.

Merlin: The ones you gifted me, I'm aware.

Arthur: Then why aren't you wearing them?

Merlin: The thing is, my lord, I don't want anything from you.

Knights: 😧😧😧😧😧😧😧😧

Servants around: 😱😱😱😱😱😱😱😱

Arthur: (very confused) What?

Merlin: (face contorts in rage and hurt) You thought I would never find out of your affair?! How could you do this to me?!

Arthur: (nervous and very scared) Merlin, I swear is not what 😰-wait, you already know! 😠

Merlin: And you have the nerve to say it so lightly! (covers his face and pretends he's crying) I thought you loved me!

Arthur: (in panic) I do! (runs to him) Merlin, the lady they're talking about, you must know it's- (about to put a hand on his shoulder)

Merlin: (gets his hands off his face and shouts) Don't touch me! If you want to have more lovers so be it, but I don't want you to touch me ever again! We are over! 😡 (leaves dramatically)

Arthur: Merlin! (runs after him)

Knight y: It seems the lady didn't catch his attention for long.

Knight x: How can the prince stoop to running after him?

Knight z: So… is the training cancelled?

Meanwhile, in some hidden place of the castle.

Merlin: (enters)

Arthur: (right behind him) Merlin, please listen to me! Is not-

Merlin: (turns) Are we alone?

Arthur: (more confused) What?

Merlin: There's no one here, right?

Arthur: No, I don't think so.

Merlin: Oh, good. (relaxes)

Arthur: (takes his hands) Merlin, I would never EVER cheat on you. I love you too much for that. You must have heard wrong! The lady they are talking about-

Merlin: Is Lady Merelyn.

Arthur: Yes, and... wait, you know?! 😨

Merlin: Of course I know! I'm not stupid. I know you would never cheat on me.

Arthur: (in relief) Oh... okay...(shouts, furious) THEN WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT ALL ABOUT?! 😡

Merlin: Shh! Not so loud, you're going to ruin it!

Arthur: Ruin what?

Merlin: The act.

Arthur: Act?

Merlin: My offended lover act.

Arthur: Again. What?

Merlin: Everyone thinks you cheated on me with Lady Merelyn. Obviously, I can't tell them I impersonated a Lady. They would make more fun of me and your dad would have me killed for sure. But I can't have them thinking you are losing interest in me or that I don't have any kind of dignity either, so... I decided to give them a show. 💁‍♂️

Arthur: And you didn't think of giving me a warning before making your show? I thought you were actually leaving me!

Merlin: (feeling bad, holds Arthur's face with one hand fondly) I'm sorry, I really didn't want to scare you, but I needed your reaction to be genuine. You are not as good at lying as me.

Arthur: (thinking) You'd be surprised... (sighs, still kind of mad, but puts his hand over Merlin's) You do realize your show consists in making me look like a scoundrel, right?

Merlin: Nobody thinks you are scoundrel.

Arthur: Leon thinks it.

Merlin: Well, he is the only one. (gets his hand off Arthur's face and sighs, crossing his arms and with slumped shoulders) Everyone else thinks you have the right to have all the lovers you want. That I should be grateful that you still show any interest in me at all after "Lady Merelyn"... And they are right. After all, you are the Prince and I just a servant.

Arthur: That's not true!

Merlin: It is true. But is not the only thing we are. And yet that's the only thing they see.

Arthur: And since when do you care what other people say or think?

Merlin: (explodes) Since we are together! It's not like I don't know how things are. Even if I wasn't a servant and a commoner, I'm still a man, so it's not like we can marry or anything. I know our relationship can't be formal or official in any way, but I want it to be at least taken seriously!

Arthur: ...

Merlin: (composes himself) So... I think a couple of weeks of cold shoulder should be enough. Then you can give me some luxurious gift, I pretend to forgive you for your "affair" and that would be it.

Arthur: (rolls his eyes) The only time you ask something luxurious of me and is for this charade. And you will give me the cold shoulder for two weeks? Really?

Merlin: Just when people are looking? In private we can still be very affectionate. 😏

Arthur: 😒

Merlin: Please? 🥺

Arthur: (sighs) Fine. But tell Leon the truth. I can't handle his disappointed look anymore.

Merlin: I will (hugs him, happily) Thank you. 😊

Arthur: (smiles without been able to help it and hugs back, thinking) He doesn't have the right to be this cute.

Time skip. In the main square.

Merlin: (walking with Gaius' herbs in a cest)

Gwaine: Excuse me, have you seen-

Merlin: (turns)

Gwaine: 😦 ...

Merlin: What? Do I have something on my face?

Gwaine: Do you have a sister by any chance?

Merlin: No, why?

Gwaine: It's just... you look very similar to a girl a met yesterday.

Merlin: (crosses his arms) Are you saying I look like a girl? 🤨

Gwaine: No, no! I mean, you are... very masculine for a... uhm... what is that you do?

Merlin: (about to tell "The prince's manservant", but decides to keep that information to himself for now) Physician apprentice.

Gwaine: Oh, you are Gaius' apprentice?

Merlin: You know him?

Gwaine: I'm sharing a room with another pair of men in his tower.

Merlin: (laughs in amusement)

Gwaine: (laughs too, realising his choice of words) I guess it kind of sounds bad.

Merlin: No, it sounds funny. (pauses) wait...(fakes surprise and excitment) OH! You must be one of the famous saviors that rescue Lady Morgana yesterday! 😃

Gwaine: (smugly) Well, I wouldn't call myself "savior". I did what anyone would have done in my place.

Merlin: Not anyone. What you did was very brave. (pats his arm)

Gwaine: (blushes a bit, thinking) What is this? She looks so much like this lady that I'm confusing him with her. Get yourself together!

Merlin: So, are you looking for Lady Morgana?

Gwaine: Pardon?

Merlin: You said you were looking for a girl, I'm assuming it's her.

Gwaine: Oh, no. I'm looking for the lady that was accompanying her, actually. Lady Merelyn. Do you have any idea of where she could be?

Merlin: Uhm... not really. Nobody has heard of her since yesterday.

Gwaine: (frustrated) It's like she vanished into thin air! (sighs) I told her she couldn't trust that prince! I bet he discarded her as soon as he learned she was tainted by that bandit. And he wasn't even faithful to her. Did you know the prince has a male lover.

Merlin: (gasps) Really?

Gwaine: And his manservant of all people! Look, I don't judge. I myself had my flings there and there. And I do appreciate men beauty. But reject a woman like Lady Merelyn for a man? Really?

Merlin: (chuckles) She got you bad, uh?

Gwaine: Me? (snorts) Nah, I'm just a bit worried about her, it's all. She mustn't be coping well after, well, everything. And she may need a shoulder to cry on, if you know what I mean. 😏

Merlin: (chuckles) Good luck with that. (turns to leave)

Gwaine: (stops him) Oh, let me carry that for you. (points the cest)

Merlin: (lifts his eyebrows in bewilderment and then smiles, amused) Still confusing me for a girl, I see.

Gwaine: Not really. But as I said, I also appreciate men beauty. 😏

Merlin: (mouth open)

Gwaine: (very surprised) It's incredible! You even have her expressions.

Merlin: Oh, so I'm a replacement then.

Gwaine: No, I-

Merlin: Are you even into men or are you so desperate to have this girl that you would lay with anyone that resembles her?

Gwaine: I didn't mean to-

Merlin: Offend? Because that's the only thing you've been doing since you open your mouth.

Gwaine: (sighs) You are right. My apologies.

Merlin: (turns to leave)

Gwaine: (puts himself infront of him) Can I point out something though? (gets closer) You never once said you weren't into men 😏.

Merlin: I am into men. (looks him up and down) But I have taste.

Gwaine: (brings a hand to his chest dramatically) Ow! You hurt my feelings. How am I going to survive this? Ugh! My heart, I can't bare it! (drops himself on the ground)

Merlin: (thinking, fondly) He really hasn't changed a thing. (kneels and says) Are you done?

Gwaine: (opens one eye) This isn't working isn't it?

Merlin: No.

Gwaine: (chuckles and lifts his back from the ground) Come on, at least let me invite you a drink for the troubles. I know I good tavern nearby.

Merlin: (smiles) Of course you do, Gwaine.

Gwaine: (smiles back but then frowns) Wait... How do you know my name?

Merlin: I would gladly accompany you (extends a hand)

Gwaine: (takes his hand with a triumphant smile)

Merlin: But you see... (pulls his hand away and speaks in a more high pitched tone) I'm still waiting for my ring. (shows his ring finger in a very girly manner)

Gwaine: (Gwaine exe has stopped working) 😨

Merlin: (lifts his head and spots something behind Gwaine) Oh, hi Arthur! 😊

Arthur: (just arrived, very hectic, in barely contained fury and with labored breathing)

Merlin: (stands up and frowns, worried) You look like you just came from a race. Is everything okay?

Just moments before in Arthur's chambers. Arthur on his desk.

Arthur: (thinking, while looking at a parchment) The kidnapping attempt on Morgana was handled. Then what? Is Morgause coming already? No, the troll was first and then... (slams the scroll on the desk, frustrated) Ugh! I can't remember! (stands up and decides to go to the window to take a breath. While he does, he spots Merlin very afar coming back with Gaius' herbs, relaxes inmediatly and smiles) He shouldn't be walking this much. Is he still limping? (smirks and starts to have no so good thoughts remembering their first time together and then forces himself to snap out of them) Damn you, Merlin. I can't concentrate nor when you are here, nor when you are not.

Someone knocks on the door.

Arthur: (turns, but stays near the window) Come in.

Leon: (enters, head down, very ashamed and embarrased) Sire. (bows)

Arthur: (sighs and crosses his arms, serious) I'm assuming Merlin already told you.

Leon: I have no words to express how sorry I am-

Arthur: For what exactly? Thinking ill of me? Believing in some rumors before my own word? Or for basically insulting me on my face?

Leon: All of it. I'm really sorry. I didn't recognise Merlin when he was... and then all the proof seemed to indicate... But that's not excuse. I failed as a knight and as a friend and will never forgive myself for-

Arthur: (laughs)

Leon: (lift his head in confusion)

Arthur: Keep going, you were getting to the best part.

Leon: (more confused) Uh... well...

Arthur: I'm joking. I'm not mad at you. I probably would've thought badly too if I was in your place. And, though it hurt my feelings a bit that you believed me capable of being unfaithful, I'm actually more glad that you care for Merlin so much you called me out on my supposed love affair. So thank you, for caring for him and for not mincing words to tell me when you believe I'm doing wrong.

Leon: (smiles, releaved) You are welcome, Sire.

Arthur: It also has come to my attention that not all the knights think like you. (tells Leon to come to the window with a gesture) Tell me... What do the knights think of Merlin?

Leon: (hesitates) Uhm...

Arthur: I want complete honesty.

Leon: Well, knights like Sir Innprudence, Sir Ewan and Sir Owain, may they rest in peace, respected and valued Merlin because they witnessed your story from the start. They got to know Merlin and knew the depth of your feelings. It's really a shame they never got to see... (his eyes water) I'm sorry. (wips a tear away)

Arthur: (puts a comforting hand on his shoulder and gives him a soft empathetic smile) It's okay. You were there when... when the questing beast happened, so I know it's not easy to talk about them. Take your time.

Leon: (pauses to compose himself and then continues) The thing is, most of the knights we have now are new. And for them Merlin is just your whim of the moment, a bed warmer, nothing more. They would never dare to harm him or insult him, much less if you are looking, but they do insult and talk ill of him behind Merlin's back. I'm not going to go into the details, but their thoughts on your relationship are not different from your father's.

Arthur: So they think Merlin is using me just for riches and power and that I'm using him just to get laid.

Leon: To sum up, yes sire.

Arthur: And Merlin is aware of this?

Leon: Sire, when is Merlin not aware of something?

Arthur: True...(sighs) And I guess me showing affection towards "Lady merelyn" didn't help with that. (looks guilty)

Leon: Merlin doesn't blame you, sire.

Arthur: But I should've been more careful. I promised I would cherish him and protect him and... (thinking) and somehow I still ruin it.

Leon: You can't change the past. What matters now is that you are doing something to remedy it. Merlin also told me about his plan.

Arthur: You mean his "offended lover act"? Yeah, that's why I'm keeping my distance. I still think this is absurd, but if he is so invested on this charade, then I'll support him.

Leon: (smiles, proud) You are very mature, sire. Merlin is very lucky to have someone so wise and considerate as his lo-

Arthur: THAT LECHEROUS BASTARD! 😡

Leon: ...excuse me, Sire?

Arthur: (points through the window, furious) There! Look!

From Arthur's window, they both can appreciate Merlin and Gwaine interacting.

Leon: I'm sure they are just talking, my lord.

Arthur: No, I know his kin, he's flirting with my Merlin!

Leon: You just met the man yesterday.

Arthur: Look! They are laughing!

Leon: Maybe he told him a joke.

Arthur: (mouth open) No... he didn't just... He patted his arm! 😤

Leon: A very friendly gesture.

Arthur: (fuming)

Leon: As I was saying, is admirable that you support and respect Merlin's idea no matter what-

Arthur: (leaves running)

Leon: (sighs) Well... at least Lancelot will have a new partner at the stables.

Back to the present.

Arthur: (grabs Merlin and pulls him away from Gwaine, a possesive arm around Merlin's waist)

Merlin: (looks at him, confused) Arthur?

Gwaine: (still on the floor, mumbles to himself, looking at Merlin and Arthur) The prince's mistress... The prince's male lover... the... OH! (finally puts the pieces together)

Arthur: (to Gwaine) You. What do you think you are doing? 😑

Gwaine: Uhm, you know, (puts his arms behind his head and crosses his legs, smiling) taking the sun. With a beauty by my side. Until you interrupted us.

Arthur: Don't be ridiculous. Stop harassing Merlin.

Gwaine: (offended) I'm not harassing anyone!

Arthur: I saw you holding his hand and also how he pulled away uncomfortably from you. In my language that's harassment.

People around: (who have been staring for a while, start to murmur between them)

Merlin: Arthur, relax. He wasn't-

Gwaine: (stands up) What is the problem your highness? Feeling insecure?

Arthur: (about to lunge at him)

Merlin: (stops him, puting himself infront of Arthur, hands on his chest) Arthur, no.

Gwaine: (raises hands as in surrender) I mean, I get it. Any man would feel insecure with this face the gods have blessed me with.

Arthur: (struggling with Merlin) Insecure? of you? (scoffs) Why should I feel insecure about a simple foreign who has no honor or a coin in his pocket. A nobody whose only reason for being in the castle is because he got into a fight with some bandits.

Gwaine: (standing tall, raising his voice) This nobody was able to defeat the bandits that even the royal guards couldn't! But don't worry, I don't expect your gratitude. (looks at Merlin) Your lover's gratitude is more than enough for me. (checks Merlin out shamelessly)

Arthur: (furious) Now you are dead! (tries to lunge at him again)

Merlin: (his arms around Arthur now to stop him) Don't! Arthur, please! (spots Lancelot and Leon in the distance and yells) Lancelot, Leon, help!

Lancelot: (runs to help Merlin to contain Arthur)

Leon: (who ran downstairs as soon as he saw Arthur had no intentions to be civil, hurries to help Merlin to contain Arthur too)

Gwaine: Leave him! I want to see if the prince's skill is as praised and to check if he is really the best warrior in Camelot. Although considering the skills of the royal cavalry, I highly doubt it.

Arthur: I can show you whenever you want! (struggles harder against Lancelot and Leon hold)

Gwaine: Yes, you're probably used to beating all your knights. The difference between me and them is that I'm not going to hold back, nor will I let you win for fear of losing my position.

Leon: (very offended, about to talk in defense of his prince) You-

Merlin: (raises his voice, angry) Enough! Gwaine, you're being very disrespectful. You're talking to the Prince of Camelot. How dare you insult his skills? He's the greatest knight I've ever seen. Arthur has worked and trained very hard since he was a child. You have no right to talk to him like that.

Leon and Lancelot: (look at Merlin, the person who disrespects and insults the prince 24/7, like he growed a second head)

Gwaine: Are you going to slap me again, my lady? 😏

Arthur: He slapped you?! 😨 What did you do to Merlin to make him slap you the first time?! 😡 (struggles even harder, more furious)

Merlin: (to Lancelot and Leon) Take him away.

Lancelot and Gwaine: (start dragging Arthur away)

Arthur: (keeps kicking and screaming as he is dragged away) Let go of me! I'll kill him! What did the fuck did you do?! 😤 (and he's gone)

Merlin: (turns to Gwaine, very serious) No, I'm not going to slap you, but if you keep insulting him I will hit you and not like a lady. (leaves)

Gwaine: Wait, I didn't get your name! (watches Merlin leave, still with a grin on his face) Damn.

Percival: (gets to Gwaine walking through the people gather for the conmotion) I should have know it was you who was making such scandal. (looks in the direction where Arthur, Merlin, Lancelot and Leon left) Was that the prince? What trouble did you get yourself into this time?

Gwaine: (innocently) I don't look for trouble. Trouble finds me.

Percival: Sure 😒. Have you decided what are we going to ask the King yet?

Gwaine: Oh, I know exactly what I'm going to ask.

Meanwhile, somewhere inside the castle.

Merlin: (very angry) What the fuck was that?!

Arthur: (very angry too) I should be the one asking! (to Leon and Lancelot) You let go of me already!

Lancelot and Leon: (let go)

Merlin: I'm not the one who almost beated a man in the middle of the main square for no reason!

Arthur: (almost shouting in disbelief) No reason?!

Merlin: Gwaine went too far with his words, I won't deny that, but you were agressive with him even before that. You weren't just acting like a clotpole or a dollophead, you were hysterical!

Arthur: (very sarcastic) Hysterical?! Why would I be hysterical?! It's not like I just witnessed a man flirting with you from my window, that said man insulted me on my face, and then you prevented me from putting him in his place!

Merlin: He wasn't-wait, you were watching me from your window? 😦

Arthur: Don't change the subject! (accusingly) What were you doing with Gwaine?

Merlin: Nothing! We were just talking.

Leon: Sire, may I suggest-

Arthur: No, you may not.

Lancelot: (opens his mouth)

Arthur: You neither! (to Merlin again) I'm just saying you weren't exactly rejecting his attentions back there.

Merlin: First you say I was being harassed and now you say I was flirting. Make up your mind, will you? (pauses, realising) Wait... you are acting like this just because you are jealous? Really?

Arthur: (sarcastic) No, I'm not jealous, Merlin. It's not like you have given me reasons. Or have you?

Merlin: (stony face and neutral voice) You are right. I have given you none.

Arthur: (realises Merlin now is really, really mad, thinking) Fuck.

Lancelot and Leon: 😰😰

Arthur: Merlin-

Merlin: For your sake I advice you to choose your next words very carefully.

Arthur: It's not that I don't trust you. I just want to understand. Merlin, when I arrived you... you were holding hands!

Merlin: So? I'm a man, Arthur, not a woman. I can have contact with other men. Stop treating me like some maiden or damsel in distress!

Arthur: (yells) I DON'T TREAT YOU LIKE A MAIDEN, I TREAT YOU LIKE MY LOVER!

Merlin:...

Lancelot and Leon: ...

Servants around: 🫢🫢🫢🫢🫢🫢🫢🫢

Arthur: (takes a deep breath to compose himself, just barely, and says in a deep voice) I treat you like my lover, because that's what you are. My lover, my Merlin, MINE. So forgive me if I'm offended to see MY lover holding hands with another man, a man who has clearly shown his interest in you!

Merlin: ...

Servants around: (murmur)

Leon: (coughs) As I was trying to suggest before, maybe you should take this argument to somewhere more private, my lord.

Time skip. Arthur and Merlin alone in Arthur's chambers.

Merlin: Gwaine met me as Lady Merelyn and today I revealed it to him she was me. That was it. We were joking. It was a joke, nothing more.

Arthur: So what history do you have as Lady Merely with Gwaine?

Merlin: Arthur.

Arthur: I'm not saying you were unfaithful. But I did hear something about a ring in that joke of yours and he said you slapped him, so you can't blame me for being curious.

Merlin: (sighs) He did flirt with Lady Merelyn, alright, but never overstepped. He just did a few compliments there and there. But then Lancelot told him I was "the prince's mistress" and I guess his pride were wounded because he started to talk bad about you. That's when I slapped him and gave him a piece of my mind.

Arthur: And the ring part?

Merlin: Well, in our argument, he kind of claimed he could give me "comittement" so I asked "where's my ring?"

Arthur: WHAT?! 😨

Merlin: To shut him up. I knew the kind of man Gwaine was from the start. As soon as I mention the ring he panicked and stopped bothering me.

Arthur: (gives a long sigh)

Merlin: Are you calm now?

Arthur: I'll be once he leaves this castle.

Merlin: Why? I just told you his interest was in Lady Merelyn, not me.

Arthur: He flirted with you as a man too, Merlin.

Merlin: He was joking! He just wanted to mess with you. And of course you let him get to you as the clotpole you are!

Arthur: ...

Merlin: What?

Arthur: That's really what you believe, don't you?

Merlin: Well, why else would he do it?

Silence.

Merlin: Look, I've been walking all day and I'm tired. So I'll be in my room resting while you think about your behaviour today. (leaves, going to his chambers)

Arthur: (murmurs to himself, incredulous) He has... no idea. (laughs dryly) He really has NO IDEA.

Arthur's flashback. Percival visiting Gwaine's grave.

Arthur: (aproaches Percival) Percival.

Percival: My lord.

Arthur: I believe I own you an apology. I was so self absorbed in my grieve, that I didn't notice you were grieving too. Gwaine was my friend too after all, one of my best knights, but I haven't properly shown my respects till today.

Percival: It's alright, sire. We all know what Merlin meant to you. (smiles sadly) He meant a lot to Gwaine too.

Arthur: (nods) Gaius told me Gwaine scorted Merlin to the Crystal Cave. He was there for him when I wasn't and for that I'm grateful. He didn't deserve his fate. What Morgana did, using Eira to get information from him and then torture him, it has no name.

Percival: I don't think he ever cared about Eira.

Arthur: He went after Morgana after her execution, did he not?

Percival: Yes, but no because of her. He was torned because he was fool enough to tell her he was taking Merlin to the valley of the fallen kings. As far as he knew he had almost doomed Merlin with his carelesness. And then Morgana finished to get all the information from him when he tortured him with the nathair, so he died thinking he failed him.

Arthur: (smiles sadly) I guess I can relate to that feeling.

Percival: (gives a small nostalgic laugh) I don't think he ever got over his crush on Merlin in that sense.

Arthur: WHAT?! 😨

Percival: (surprised) Oh, you didn't know?

Arthur: That's... that's impossible! He was a womanizer. I mean, I've only ever seen him with women.

Percival: Yes, but he was into men too. He was never discret about it, but men who like men do not abound pricesly. And it's true he had a preference for women, but... Merlin was always especial, you know?

Arthur: ...

Percival: Are you alright, my lord?

Arthur: Were they... were they ever...

Percival: No, I don't think so. He always came to me like a kicked out puppy everytime Merlin rejected his advances. Though I'm not sure Merlin ever realized Gwaine's flirting was serious. Either way he clearly had no insterest in Gwaine, so eventually he gave up.

Arthur: ...

Percival: My lord?

Arthur: (forces a smile) I have to go. It was nice talking to you. (leaves)

Percival: ...

End of Arthur's flashback.

Finding out Gwaine's feelings for Merlin was a breaking point for Arthur. His memories with Gwaine and Merlin interacting were more clear. Where he once saw friendly behaviour, he detected the flirting . And those memories started hunting him as much as Merlin's last words to him. They made him grumpy, upset and later he discovered why.

Arthur was jealous. Jealous of a dead man. Because he got to flirt with Merlin, he got to show his interest in him even though he was rejected. And it was him Merlin went to when he was vulnerable, without his magic, it was him he asked to protect him when he went to the Crytal Cave and not Arthur.

And, inevitably, the more aware he became of his feelings for Merlin, the more his hatred for Gwaine's memory grew.

Now Gwaine has shown interest in Merlin again, maybe even stronger than before, and , of course, Merlin as the clueless clotepole he was can't see it cause, apparently, he is unable to notice when someone has any romantic interest on him.

But now Merlin was his. He worked very hard to get him back and he is not going to let Gwaine take merlin from him.

...

It may seem funny, but Arthur's jealousy here is actually pretty toxic and I'm not going to sugarcoat it.

Credits to my best friend Rosangela, who help with the dialogues.

Arthur's reaction to Gwaine brazenly flirting with Merlin ✅️

Etiquetas @aceauthorcatqueen , @fallenxjas , @smileytrinity , @lucifertookmyshoe @an-entity-i-think , @thecornerofbelu , @griffonskies , @odinjm , @cinnabon-sweetroll-tiramisu , @thelady-mary , @bennedict , @nightninjaboy , @st8-of-grace , @starrieisdelusional , @error-username-not-available , @dogberryrowan , @jamieweasley13 , @tansyuduri , @tercais , @robynnemrys , @evadne01 , @serasvictoria02 , @hairdryerducks , @curiously-lazy , @harriettesthings , @andrealux16 , @wacko-weirdo , @greatdonutenemy , @yougottobekittenme , @anxiousosaurus , @kinkforwings , @someweirdassnamee , @impracticalantlers , @miyriu , @hobipabo , @whitemaskcd , @bogslob , @braziiis , @rubinaitoart , @thebigoblin , @toomanyfanficsbruh , @farmboyprince , @nonsensefunsense , @slightly-psycho-multifan , @jxmimac , @anarchelsworld , @beepbeep-yeah , @faithiikins

[yanderelionwrites]

I'll Stay Here - Yandere!Leona x Reader

Content Warning: (soft) yandere, implied kidnapping/captivity, I fear the Stockholm Syndrome has ARRIVED

Word Count: 607

(Again, kind of a part 3 to this, but can be read on its own)

You really need to stop forgetting your things in Leona’s room. Luckily, he doesn’t mind you coming and going, but it’s still a pain to have to walk all through the palace to get there.

You’ve been keeping him company as of late, just sitting in his room while he naps or plays chess, meaning you like to bring your own stuff over to entertain yourself. Today, you left behind a book you were reading earlier, so you thought you would pop by really quick and take it back. Even though it was late in the evening, Leona would most likely be taking a nap right now, so he wouldn’t even bother with trying to engage with you.

Poking your head into his room, you confirm that he’s asleep before tip-toeing over to the table you left your book at. You grab it and turn to sneak back out, but you stop yourself when you glance at Leona’s face.

His expression appears so…soft. Free of the stresses his family, the servants, or even you sometimes cause him. He looks the most at peace he’s ever been…

It makes your heart swell, which is very alarming because you’re supposed to hate this man. And yet, despite it all, you still find yourself drawing nearer to him. Just to get a better look.

Leona sleeps soundlessly on his stomach, with his arms hugging the pillow his head is buried in. You can’t help but smile at the way his ear twitches; he looks like a napping kitty. It’s such a stark contrast to how he acts when he’s awake.

This is so frustrating… One minute you feel like you wish you never met Leona, and other times, you’re thinking it’s not so bad staying here with him. You have everything you need, and anything you want (other than freedom) can be given to you when asked. And Leona himself isn’t awful to be with… He makes sure you’re taken care of and remains respectful around you.

But do you love him enough to want to stay?

…You don’t want to admit you don’t hate him anymore.

Inching ever so closer to his sleeping body, you tentatively reach out to brush a strand of hair out of his face.

You shouldn’t…

Hesitantly, you lean down so that your face is hovering right over the crown of Leona’s head. You place the quickest and gentlest kiss on top of his hair, before immediately withdrawing from him. Trying to leave like you were never there, you turn towards the exit, but jump when a hand grabs your wrist.

A small yelp escapes your lips as you’re pulled backward onto Leona’s bed. Arms wrap around your waist, not too tight but firm enough to let you know that you won’t be leaving anytime soon.

“L-Leona?!” is all you can stutter out, hands uselessly pushing at his arms.

“Just stay here…please,” he utters into your ear, voice husky and surprisingly pleading.

“...Only for a few minutes,” you relent, letting him pull you against his chest.

A few minutes is all Leona needs. He’ll take what he can get.

He feels you relax next to him, and he couldn’t be more content. This was only a small step towards the future he envisions for you both, but it was still important progress. Leona bets you don’t even know how much he’s been holding back, how much of his feelings he’s repressed to make sure you’re comfortable here first. But with this small gesture, you’ve opened the doors to so much more.

You’ve walked into the lion’s enclosure, and there’s no getting out of it now.

~~~

Probably the last part to this little series. I've been cooking up something Savanaclaw related though, so stay tuned for that 👀

Reblogs and comments are always appreciated!

[muzetrigger]

In celebration of Nevermore S2, I feel the need to explain why I’m hoping for more Ada page time/development and why she’s my absolute favorite character, despite the series being absolutely stuffed with quality.

Oh and also why MorellAda is peak. I WILL TAKE NO ARGUMENTS ON THIS POINT.

So yeah, MAJOR SPOILERS Y’ALL

Okay, so when we’re first introduced Ada, she’s a minor antagonist, not just in the sense that she’s not the main villain, but that literally, she’s just kind of an annoyance to both Lenore and Prospero. That being said, shortly after the Labyrinth arc, we see her genuinely impressed with Lenore and trying to make amends.

Now at that point, there’s no real reason for us to believe that Ada is telling the truth. Yeah, she seems like she’s being genuine, but so far, we also know that she’s been playing some social games to get ahead.

That’s where we get this first piece of insight into her character (not actually the first piece but whatever):

Ada chooses caviar as her last meal, despite not liking it, or ever having had it before. She is the only student who doesn’t enjoy her final meal, and that tells us that one, Ada doesn’t know what’s good for her; two, that she probably comes from a lower class background that never would have had access to caviar; and three, that she aspires to that upper class position. She is exactly what Morella would call a “phony” but while her phoniness impacts her social behavior in the ways that Morella criticizes, she’s also lying to herself without even realizing it.

Okay, but that’s a bit of subtle character development, so Red and Flynn hit us with this:

(In case you didn’t hate Montressor already)

This moment is so critical to understanding Ada because it shows that she has absolutely no limits when it comes to proving her worth to other people. Why? Because Ada has no sense of self-worth. She is completely dependent on other people’s thoughts to feel adequate. That’s why she clings so hard to Prospero and Annabel Lee, which makes this preceding exchange even more brutal.

Ada reaches out to Annabel for support, and Annabel ignores her.

Annabel BETRAYS her, and this is going to become something of a running theme for Ada.

Now, of course, Annabel has problems, but this is COLD.

So cold even Prospero is surprised, and this sets up why Ada crumbles so easily, because the one person she thought was her friend at this school, literally her roommate (and we know what happens when you’re not on good terms with your roommate), the person who gave her (fake) love advice, just left her out in the rain.

No one is on her side, not Annabel who’s ignoring her, not Prospero (who is rightly) annoyed with her clinginess, not Will who is supporting Montresor, and certainly not Montresor who is verbally abusing her.

The only person by Ada’s side is Morella, partly because she’s being targeted too, but also because Morella is trying to protect Ada.

(Look at that hug. That is a small puppy trying to cheer up her depressed friend.)

Chapter 39-40 firmly cemented Ada as my favorite character because we get a deconstruction of this preppy, pompous, phony personality into someone with crippling self-worth issues, and I don’t know about anyone else, but I relate HARD to those feelings of inadequacy and needing external validation. Will might be the doppelgänger, but Ada is the one with Imposter Syndrome.

Anyway, now we’re going to have to skip a few chapters, because while the haunted house arc is great, it doesn’t really do much with Ada’s character. We do learn that Ada was almost definitely a servant in her past life because she’s able to navigate the house’s secret passages, and we learn that yes, she’s a romantic who clearly doesn’t understand TPO (time, place, and occasion).

Those details are important to understanding Ada, because they help contextualize why her confidence is so abysmal (servants aren’t to be seen or heard) and why she clings so strongly to ideas of ladyhood and romance (the women she served would certainly have appeared to be more comfortable than her, though I’m sure Lenore and Annabel would disagree).

We also get this feast for the MorellAda shippers:

At this point, it’s implied that Morella has stonewalled dozens of students into Prospero’s death trap, but she makes one exception that she will not stand for, and it’s Ada.

At first, I thought this was a little weird, because why wouldn’t Morella protect Lenore? I mean, she’s the protagonist and clearly treats Morella better, but looking back, it’s telling that Ada is the one who Morella chooses.

Morella’s whole deal is that she wants to protect people, and Lenore isn’t vulnerable, Ada is.

Red and Flynn do a lot of excellent foil work in Nevermore, most prominently with Lenore and Annabel, but the contrast between Ada’s dependence on what other people think of her and Morella’s dependence on what she can do for other people is just another reason why I think MorellAda is so good.

But the real interesting events happen post-house.

Prospero has had it.

Now, was Ada being clingy? Yes.

Was she being totally oblivious to all of Prospero’s signals? Yes.

Did she deserve to be told directly that Prospero was just not that into her? Hell. Yes.

But did she deserve THAT much of a verbal beat down? Probably not, especially keeping in mind that Annabel told her this:

So now that I’ve thrown Annabel under the bus for her hand in this disaster, I want to look at one line from Prospero in particular:

“Nothing you say will make you good enough.”

It’s not the final line of Prospero’s diatribe, but it’s definitely the one that hits the hardest for Ada. She is trying SO hard to play the part of a lady in order to be loved, and she is being told that at a fundamental level, she is inadequate.

And she takes that about as well as someone who’s had this happen to them could:

A hatchet to the stomach’s going to ruin anyone’s day, but we can reasonably infer that the person who axe’d Ada was probably the young master she was serving and was having an affair with, and that he aimed for her stomach to abort any kind of child she might have carried.

Again, we see this theme of betrayal and rejection. Ada might not have been able to be a lady, but in an affair, she might been able to pretend that she genuinely had her master’s affection, even though she was just there at his convenience.

This was foreshadowed all the way back with Ada’s first confrontation with Montressor and it’s a great example of how thoroughly planned Red and Flynn’s writing is (Annabel Lee’s panic attack at Lenore’s death in the Labyrinth and the House Fire is another amazing example).

But, it’s also super traumatic which means we finally get Ada’s Spectre!

First, let me gush about how AMAZING this design is. Just aesthetically, it’s great. But it’s also amazing because of how it showcases so much of Ada’s identity. If you look at the spectre’s skirt, you’ll notice it has two distinct parts, a larger back that mimics a lady’s hoop skirt, and a pleated miniskirt, which wouldn’t be out of place in a skimpy maid costume. In her spectre form, we can clearly see Ada attempting to match a lady’s silhouette but upon closer inspection, we can also see the part of Ada that might have sparked her fatal affair, this symbol of risqué servantile behavior.

It’s also worth mentioning what ISN’T in the Banshee’s design, her abdomen. Obviously, this might be a reference to the fact that she was killed by a hatchet to the gut, but if we get dark with it (and it’s Nevermore, we can’t not get dark with it), what men traditionally (and unfortunately still do if the 2024 US elections are anything to go by…) value in a woman, her reproductive ability, is absent.

Ada, who places so much importance on what others think of her, is literally is worthless to them. (I want to clarify, I DON’T personally believe that, but from a 19th-20th century male perspective, that tracks.)

We could also read her abdomen’s absence as another attempt for Ada to play into feminine expectations. Because she’s missing her stomach, she has a tight hourglass figure. I don’t personally believe Ada has an eating disorder, but as the last dinner scene clearly indicates, she has a complicated relationship with food and what stigmas are attached to specific cuisines, and unfortunately many people do metaphorically throw away their stomachs to pursue beauty goals like Ada’s spectre does literally.

Stepping away from design, I also love how Ada acts immediately after getting the slightest bit of power.

She is PETTY.

She taunts Prospero (and let’s face it, you cheered. Don’t lie to me!), which I find so interesting because suddenly, Ada is the one giving opinions.

Ada is finally allowed to express herself.

Here, she takes it out on Annabel, which makes total sense. Annabel abandoned her and is the embodiment of what Ada craves outwardly. But Ada also recognizes that she herself is a servant who was forced to serve people like Annabel and denied their comforts because of her status. If Ada hadn’t been a maid, if maybe she had been a noble or a “true lady”, maybe should would have been allowed a romance or allowed to keep her child or at least allowed to live.

The Banshee is such a perfect moment, because until this scene, Ada has bottled up her insecurities and played the part of a loyal lackey and been this “phony”. As a servant, her entire livelihood would have revolved around keeping up appearances (or disappearances) around her masters, but as a ghost, Ada is more genuine than she has ever been.

And that’s so wonderfully displayed by how Annabel defuses the situation:

To the very end, we see Ada being vulnerable. Annabel takes advantage of her insecurities, and as the Banshee, Ada doesn’t try to hide the fact that it devastates her.

If the Montressor moment didn’t guarantee a place in my heart for Ada, Episode 71 definitely did. I’m not going to argue that characters in Nevermore haven’t experienced worse, but I will argue that no character in season one ever gets close to how pathetic and distraught Ada is here.

And what’s so heart-wrenching about this for me is that Ada is aware of how pathetic she is. She knows she’s been acting like an idiot and throwing a tantrum like a child, which is a surprising amount of insight and maturity for someone we have been led to believe is quite frankly an idiot. And yeah, I relate to those feelings of self-loathing and not knowing what to do or even where to start triaging a disaster I made myself.

Now, Montressor takes advantage of this like the abuser he is by swooping in and wooing Ada, but before that, I’m going to rewind like the shipper I am to replay this:

Again, we see Morella trying to help Ada! And obviously, that’s not what Ada needs at that moment, but it’s worth keeping in mind that out of everyone in the lecture hall then, Morella is the first and really only one to reach out to Ada. (Montressor is a manipulator. He doesn’t count.)

Last time skip, I promise!

The end of the Wall arc doesn’t quite reach the highs (or is it lows?) of Ada’s character development, but I’m so excited for what it sets up in season two.

So, Lenore and the gang find where Montressor has Cask of Amantillado’d Duke and they dig their favorite French man out while beating the shit out of our cowboy(?). There’s a ton of great moments (hell yeah, Pluto! Get him!) but the battle really swings in the misfits’ favor when Duke hypnotizes Ada to traumatize Montresor.

One, this is just an amazing display of Duke’s spectre, two, it shows that Montressor has reasons (maybe not great reasons but at least they’re reasons) for being such an asshole, and three, it shows us that mental spectre powers are straight up busted.

We already knew from Prospero that Ada’s fear factor could trap a person inside a vision of their own trauma so realistic they can feel the physical effects of it, but she can also send a man with a broken Fibula into a full blown frenzy, AND Duke’s hypnosis is something even he can’t dispel.

(Does this look like the face of a man who has things under control?)

It also sets up this exchange:

Morella is able to break through Duke’s hypnosis, and she does it without attacking Ada’s insecurities like Annabel did. Now, I’m a hopeless MorellAda shipper, so of course I reading into this, but even then, it showcases how important Morella is to Ada. After all, Morella is basically the only person who has stuck by Ada’s side this whole time.

…At least until this happens:

Morella has had enough of Ada’s excuses, and just like Prospero basically tells her to shove off.

But the painfully ironic part about this is, Ada is telling the truth. This ONE time, it really isn’t her fault. It’s Duke’s.

But Morella won’t let her get a word in and I love how Flynn drew Ada’s face. It’s a different kind of fear than when Ada was groveling in front of Montresor or reeling from Prospero’s rejection. Here, she isn’t afraid of being abandoned by Morella; she’s afraid of losing Morella.

I know that difference might sound REALLY contrived to some people, but in this case, Ada has a way to keep Morella in her life that doesn’t involve debasing herself and believes that Morella will listen to her. For the first time ever, Ada thinks she has a little control over the situation together with a friend, not an enemy. They can talk things out, and that really shows how close her connection with Morella is and how that connection can be the catalyst for Ada to start developing some self-respect.

Except Morella totally shuts her down.

Of course, I’m disappointed that there’s this “divorce arc” but it makes sense in context and it’s healthier for Morella to make a clean break from the posh crew (even though Ada clearly needs her wife more than ever, like come on, don’t leave her in Monstresor’s clutches!)

Speaking of which, I’m much more disappointed with how Ada immediately crawls back to Montresor and Annabel after being chastised. If there’s one thing I have on my season two checklist, it’s Ada learning to have some confidence in herself (and maybe tossing Montresor to the Hunt).

And I really want an apology from Morella and Duke to Ada. Now THAT’S delusional, and I might be the only one who thinks Ada deserves those apologies, because let’s face it, Ada is a wreck, but it would be nice, especially if she gives out the several dozen apologies she owes the misfit crew too, so that she can hang with them and spend more time with her wife Morella.

Anyway, yeah.

I really like Nevermore.

And I really like Ada. I think she’s severely underrated.

Of course I love Lenore and Annabel, and Morella is a precious and badass cinnamon roll, and Duke is so SO cool, and Pluto is cute as hell, and Eulalie is basically manga-Orihime (which is amazing), but there’s something so HUMAN about Ada.

I empathize with her in ways that I just can’t with the rest of the cast because… they’re just too awesome. I have difficulty believing Lenore or Annabel will ever feel something as fundamentally devastating as Ada has. At their core, they’re just stronger people. Ada is someone who needs more support and it’s nice to see those weaker characters treated with the same amount of care as a protagonist who we typically see stumble a lot but ultimately succeed. With side characters, there’s a genuine chance that they fail permanently and that adds so much to Ada’s stakes.

And honestly? I’ll say it. I think a lot of the students had alright lives or even good lives, they just happened to be cut short traumatically. Exceptions for Lenore (obviously) and Pluto (baby, you deserved so much better than your deadbeat dad), possibly Eulalie for having to live through WWII, but you’re not going to tell me that Montresor didn’t have a good run being awful, Duke didn’t have a successful performance career, and Prospero wasn’t a wealthy bastard. But who knows? We haven’t delved too much into the others’ backstories, so I could be very wrong.

Anyway, I guess this was just a very long-winded way of me saying I love Ada because I’m a total girl-failure and also I’m super excited for season two.

[houserautha]

These Destined Ends

Part 3

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: mentions of killing/death, naked concubines (man and woman), threats via penis manhandling

A/N: I have a vague idea of where I’d like the story to go because I love the fun in discovering different things when writing on a loose plan. This chapter ended up longer than I thought it would be but Feyd is just so damn fun to write😂

You tried not to linger on the implications of your shared quarters.

Angrily you strode after Feyd-Rautha. “What is going to become of my parents?”

“I don’t care.”

You wanted to grab his arm and spin him around, force him to face you. But you were afraid of touching him again, afraid that any little contact would result in an even trade — and you did not want to confront the flicker of attraction you felt when the Harkonnen dragged his lips across your skin. A second reaction would be indicative of something more, and you were determined not to let another scenario arise to find out.

The best you could do was stomp after him. “Well, I do.”

“Nothing will happen.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just am.”

You mull over this response. Would he tell you differently? You sensed that Feyd-Rautha tended to be brutally honest. Probably because he never had to deal with any consequences in his life. How could he, as na-Baron?

You fail to think of anything else to say and lapse into silence, trusting that he is telling the truth and your parents will be fine. Besides, you comfort yourself, the Emperor would be furious if the Harkonnens just slaughtered one of the other Noble Houses like that. There were laws in place to discourage such atrocities.

Feyd-Rautha continues his unofficial tour, winding through a complicated series of interweaving corridors without speaking. You see several servants along the way, all who keep a cautious distance from you both. You couldn't ignore their curious looks. How strange you felt among them - pale and unblemished like stones smoothed over by a river's constant force. It didn't aid in your comfort.

"Do you not know any of them?" You ask. Feyd-Rautha is anything but a pleasant conversational partner, but at least if you're talking you don't have to listen to your rampant thoughts.

"Who?"

"The servants," you reply, brow furrowing.

He grunts in a noncommittal fashion. "Why would I?"

"Because they work for you." You were on friendly terms with the staff back on Caladan and trying to befriend the Fremen employed to you on Arrakis. The natives were untrusting of you, rightfully so. But you couldn't imagine just ignoring them.

"They're disposable," Feyd-Rautha comments with a wave of his hand. A pair of servants scurry by.

You watch them turn the corner and vanish. "They're afraid of you."

"Hm."

"Am I?"

"Are you what?"

"Disposable."

He casts you a sideways look. "Everyone is disposable once their use has expired. Thus is the way of the Harkonnen."

You contemplate this, frowning. "Even you?"

A dry, brittle laugh erupts from him.

"Are you planning on killing me already, wife? Perhaps you'll adapt just fine here."

That wasn't the compliment he thought it was.

You pointedly ignore him. "Are you telling me that there's not a moment that would make you disposable like the rest of us?"

"There is," he says, seemingly unbothered by the threat of his mortality, unlike you. "My uncle has promised the Baronship to me. If I am an unfit ruler then I would be challenged. Thus is the —"

"— way of the Harkonnen," you finish.

Feyd-Rautha flashes you a smile as sharp as the blade of a dagger. "You are quicker than you look."

"But what of the Noble Houses? The Emperor?"

Feyd-Rautha lifts a shoulder. "House Harkonnen has proved powerful for many, many generations. No one dares challenge us. Nor will they," he adds thoughtfully. He pauses. "Do you fret for our children?"

You inhale sharply, swallowing, and it sticks in your throat. You cough out an unconvincing, "I'm fine!" then set to composing yourself, confident that your sanity would be doubted by anyone who happened by. What a way to be viewed by your subjects. Feyd-Rautha just stares at you in poorly veiled amusement.

"I try not to think of our children," you say after you're sure you're done coughing. Something akin to embarrassment burns you skin.

"Pity," Feyd-Rautha says. "These are our quarters."

Feyd-Rautha's quarters are much more grand than your room on Arrakis. He leads you into an antechamber with a skylight, pouring the strange light from the black sun into the space. There's a sunken level in the floor furnished with dark colored furniture — two love seats and a sofa. A handful of glowglobes float aimlessly by.

Feyd-Rautha crosses the room, forgoing the sunken level, to the other side of the antechamber. You have no choice but to follow.

You don't know what you expected from his — your — room. Perhaps a chamber of torture. But it's not the sleek, elegant display before you, a full sized bed with plush bedding and tasteful curtains covering a bank of floor-length windows. It's impeccably neat.

And, to your abject horror, features three naked figures sprawled out on various surfaces. Two women and one man.

Feyd-Rautha ignores them, even as they slink from their positions to greet him, bodies slender and completely hairless, free of any visible blemishes. You feign an interest in the ceiling. It's not that you're naive to nudity or sexuality, but the sudden exposure to it roots you in your place.

"Do you need an invitation?" Feyd-Rautha asks.

When you force your gaze from the ceiling, you find him settled casually in a chair with a low-slung back, the two women kneeling on either side of him and the man behind. You follow their hands as they wander his body.

"No. No."

Where are you supposed to go? If he believes you will worship him like the others than he's sorely mistaken. You walk to the bed, ghosting your fingers over the bedding and confirming its softness. You hate the way that you can feel him watching you, clearly amused by your discomfort; you rally your courage to meet his stare, refusing to acknowledge the naked bodies draped across him.

"Are you quite alright, wife?"

"Fine," you grit out. "I didn't realize we would have company."

"Would you like me to tell them to leave?"

A loaded question, one that you were aware would set the tone for the rest of your life with Feyd-Rautha. A challenge. You control the slight quiver in your voice, "Leave. I wish to be alone with my...husband."

The concubines hesitate, obviously waiting to hear from Feyd-Rautha. He continues to hold your gaze. "Leave."

Uncurling themselves from around him, the women and the man are all white limbs and smooth skin, a multi-limbed creature. Whether or not they are disappointed by this development, they don't reveal, simply sauntering out of the room to wherever they go when they aren't waiting naked for Feyd-Rautha. A feeling of annoyance stirs.

"There's no need to be jealous," Feyd-Rautha says as the door closes.

You bristle. "I'm not."

“Then come here, wife.” Feyd-Rautha spreads his legs, indicating his lap and his powerful thighs. You resent yourself for noticing. “If you dismiss my concubines, then you must come to me now and offer me your warmth instead.”

Another challenge. You wonder briefly if he is playing with you, testing your boundaries, but just as you refused to show weakness in the throne room, you refuse now, crossing the carpeted floor. A surge of bravery — or maybe stupidity — prompts you to wedge your knees on either side of his waist, straddling him, the skirt of your dress hitched up to ensure mobility.

The look on his face is worth the cost of the heat reigniting in the pit of your stomach. You chase it away in pursuit of the heady high you receive from asserting your dominance. He might’ve had the upper hand but you were in control now.

“Warm enough?” You ask him innocently.

“Not quite,” he replies. He’s tipped his head back to examine you, leaving a blazing trail where his gaze goes.

Brazen beyond you imagination, you work the buckle to his pants just enough to slip your hand inside and grab his cock.

That bastard. He was already hard. Not fully erect, you observed with conflicting feelings, but clearly you had your effects on him. Feyd-Rautha showed no shame or guilt about this, however. Like it was expected — normal for women he’s just met to reach into his pants.

And it probably was.

Injured hand screaming in defiance of your actions, you grab the head of his cock and twist, slightly backwards and to the side. You apply pressure, hopefully enough to hurt him, he wouldn’t dare reveal it to you anyway.

“Do not,” you hiss, “embarrass me like that ever again. I will not tolerate looking like a fool.”

Feyd-Rautha’s throat bobs. Except instead of agony he looks totally enthralled. “Or what?” He mocks. “You’ll wrap your pretty hand around my cock?”

“You won’t have a cock for anyone to wrap their hand around.”

“Is that a promise?”

You release him and climb off his lap, figuring it would be more impactful to leave him wanting then lustful. His utter indifference, his arousal, gives you pause to just who you’ve been arranged to marry.

“You disgust me,” you spit out.

Feyd-Rautha’s mouth twitches slightly. Did he really have to find everything funny?

He says, “We’ll see.”

A month passes at Giedi Prime in a disconcerting blur. To your surprise, besides the first afternoon, you hardly ever see Feyd-Rautha. Always busy with important meetings or sparring sessions. Or whatever he did in his spare time. You didn’t ask.

Ever since that day when you’d straddled his lap, you’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had said clearly that you were even after the slap but then you’d unexpectedly turned the tables — did he intend on returning the favor?

You informed him that you would sleep on the couch in the antechamber until your wedding, to which he never remarked upon. That first night you lay awake, afraid and absolutely convinced that he would try something. But he never came.

The days passed without event and your anxiety dwindled. Besides, while Feyd-Rautha was busy with na-Baron affairs, you were forced to schlep through a mountain of preparations for the wedding ceremony. You didn’t care, frankly. You chose the first sample of whatever you were offered — tablecloths, menu items, decorations — until one of the servants accompanying you threw down the sample booklet and scowled.

“This will be the most horrendous wedding in the history of the galaxy,” the servant said in exasperation. “And all of them are too afraid of your husband to say anything.”

You had raised a brow, secretly thrilled by this confrontation. At least it broke the monotony of your life here thus far.

“Do you question my taste?”

The servant glared at you. “What taste?”

A moment passed. The other servants stared in horror, undoubtedly convinced that their demise was imminent. Perhaps that was one benefit to being betrothed to the na-Baron. He wielded a certain type of power.

You busted out laughing. In fact, you laughed so hard that tears stream down your face.

“You’re right,” you said, laughter weakening into an uncontrollable giggle. “It will be a horrendous wedding, but that has nothing to do with the decorations. Will you help me?”

The servant’s name is Asha, and in her you found a companion. She chased away the other servants that day and set to work rectifying your wedding decisions, weighing in on current trends on the planet and admonishing you for your Caladan tastes. “Absolutely not,” she deadpanned when you inquired about floral bouquets.

Out of everyone on Giedi Prime — well, really just the Harkonnen fortress, as you weren’t permitted to leave — Asha became your friend. No one else bothered or cared to talk to you, and now that you had bonded over wedding preparations, you spent infinite amounts of time together strolling the halls arm-in-arm and whispering about servant gossip since you had nothing to contribute.

Asha made your miserable new life interesting.

“Are you scared?” She asks you one day, plucking at your eyebrows.

You outright refused to shave them off in order to conform to the hairless style of the Harkonnens, but regrettably agreed to a touch-up. You kept one eye on a nearby mirror just in case she got any ideas.

“Of what?”

Asha yanks at an eyebrow hair, and you cry out in surprise. “Oh, stop, you’re fine — I mean are you scared of Feyd-Rautha?”

“No. Why would I be?” You avert your eyes from her probing stare. Asha, unfortunately, is able to read your expressions better than a trained Bene Gesserit. You learned that this stemmed from the combat trainings that all young children received on this planet.

“Because,” Asha stresses. You frown when she fails to elaborate, and your friend issues a long-suffering sigh. “I’ve heard things about him, you know, in bed.”

“Oh.” You twist your hands in your lap. “What kinds of things?”

Asha grins triumphantly. “I knew you were scared!”

You laugh and shove away her hands as she playfully jabs at your sides. “I’m not scared,” you say, fending her off. “I’m just curious. Aren’t all brides?”

“Just you. We aren’t all Noble daughters with arranged marriages. We fuck —”

“I get it,” you interrupt. “Consider yourself lucky.”

You’re about to prompt her again about the things she’s heard when there’s a light rap of knuckles on the door. Asha shoots to her feet. You suppress the urge to roll your eyes — of course she’s respectful to Feyd-Rautha but not you. But you supposed it was the basis of your only friendship, so you couldn’t exactly complain.

“You’re back,” you say, standing up slowly.

Feyd-Rautha rests, hip and elbow, against the doorframe into the antechamber. He hungrily drinks you in.

“Indeed,” Feyd-Rautha replies. Last you’d heard of him he had left for an offworld obligation without saying goodbye. Something stirs in you at the sight of him after so long.

“I hope your trip was well.”

Feyd-Rautha scans the room before his gaze returns to you. “I would prefer to be here. The Baron seems determined to keep me occupied until the ceremony.”

Did you detect a trace of resentment in his words? And why would the Baron keep him from you? The heir wouldn’t exactly conceive itself; though he would have no way of knowing that you had been sleeping on the couch all this time.

“Retrieve the present I’ve brought back for my wife,” Feyd-Rautha suddenly instructs Asha. She secretly meets your eyes before dashing away.

You fold your arms over your chest. “A present? And I thought you’d forgotten I existed.”

If he picks up on your anger, he doesn’t show it. Feyd-Rautha crosses the room to you, replaces Asha in the chair across from you.

“It’s for tonight. The Baron has requested our attendance for dinner.”

You bristle slightly. “The Baron? Tonight?”

You had been exceedingly lucky to avoid the monstrous head of House since your arrival. But perhaps it was because you ran the other direction at the mention of his name, or the fact that you hadn’t strayed from your quarters.

“Yes. You needed something…acceptable to wear.”

“My clothes aren’t acceptable?”

“Yes,” he answers. “I have no doubt that my uncle has planned something magnificent for tonight. You will need to look the part.”

Your careful, fragile existence on Giedi Prime was crashing at your feet. From wiling away the hours to suddenly being thrust into the explosive political landscape that was House Harkonnen.

But no matter. Jessica had raised you for this very purpose.

“Fine,” you agreed coolly.

Both of you turn as Asha returns from her errand, a garment bag folded over her arm. She goes to deliver it to your closet but Feyd-Rautha halts her in her tracks. “I want her to open it here.”

Part 4

Tags:

@moonsoulk

@heartarianagran

@torchbearerkyle

@unicoreads

@taleah

@mamawiggers1980

[hallowpen]

This series continues to be a love letter to Thai tradition. It makes me sooo happy to get to share these cultural insights with you guys through watching Girl's Love media. We've come so far 😭😭😭

So... This episode didn't really highlight any traditional Thai dishes, but in keeping with last week's edition, I want to at least mention two that stood out:

ช่อม่วง (pronounced 'chor muang') are flower dumplings that were to be considered part of royal Thai cuisine. The dumplings are filled with a sweet and salty pork mixed with roasted peanuts. They are wrapped in a purple dough that gets its coloring from being dyed by butterfly pea flowers steeped in water with lime juice. (Any fellow UWMAers will recognize this dish, as the process of how to make them were included in that series)

สละลอยแก้ว (pronounced 'sala loy kaew') is another version of the dessert we discussed last week. It is made by having Salak fruit 'floating' in iced sugared syrup. Salak is a fruit native to Southeast Asia (specifically Indonesia). The Thai variety have more flesh with a uniquely sweet and slightly sour taste.

ยิงปืนกันกล้วย (pronounced 'ying peun gahn gluay') is a traditional children's game typically played amongst young boys. It is a game where children "shoot" at each other with an imaginary rifle that is made from banana stalks. They swipe one hand quickly along the banana stalk, and the following impact causes the upright parts of the stem ("the ammo") to loudly "snap"... a sound similar to that of a gunshot. The banana rifles are called ปืนของกล้วย (pronounced 'peun gahn gluay') hence the name of the game... and the "horses", which are also made from banana stalks, are called ม้าของกล้วย (pronounced 'ma gahn gluay').

ลอยกระทง - Thailand's Loy Krathong Festival is probably something viewers are already familiar with if they've watched other Thai dramas. It is a Thai tradition that takes place on the night of the full moon during the 12th lunar month. "Krathongs", which can be translated as 'ritual lantern vessels', are made from natural materials including banana leaves and flowers. They are often formed in the shape of a lotus to symbolize rebirth, strength, and resilience. For Anil and Pin it is a gesture to make merit, while simultaneously wishing for each other’s happiness and good fortune. It is representative of their hope for only good blessings to come into their lives while they are apart.

In more modern tradition, there are also certain romantic undertones revolving around the Loy Krathong Festival. It is said that any couple who float a Krathong together, will be bound together for life.

Aside from these cultural aspects, there are a few other instances I want to note.

I loved seeing the juxtaposition of Anil knowing and actively wanting to pursue a romantic relationship with Pin... and Pin only just coming to the realization that, maybe, her fond affection for Anil actually runs a lot deeper. I also want to point out, that Prik's participation in facilitating their romantic relationship is incredibly risky. As a low-ranking servant of the palace, she stands to receive the harshest punishment for 'breaking convention'. Which brings me to this scene:

There are so many social class dynamics happening in just this one scene alone. Pin cannot afford to be rude to a higher ranking official by saying, upfront, she does not wish for him to pursue her. Prik is being used as a shield to protect Pin from Kuea's advances. And Kuea, as a friend of Prince Anon AND who holds title himself, is blissfully unaware that his presence is completely unwelcome... because who, in their right mind, could ever want to turn away a person of his fortune and stature? Aaahhh, it's just such a brilliant scene!!!

[aquasarsstuff]

Arranged Marriage ft. Lilia Vanrouge part. 1, part. 2, part 3

Tags: Lilia calls you sweetcheeks, fluff, you almost died, will be making a part 3, this will be a series, historical au, lunch is referred to as dinner

Summary: Lilia finally used the the door.

Masterlist

---

You slumped on your desk, tired for studying for hours. You raised your head to look at the clock. There were still a few hours left before dinner. You just wanted a break. Suddenly, a knock outside your door was heard.

"Enter," you groaned. You placed you arms above the other, making a makeshift pillow for your head to bury in. You heard the door open with a soft creak, following by the sound of hard shoes hitting the floor. You didn't bother greeting who entered, assuming it was just a servant who needs to bring something in your room.

You peeked your eyes out of your arms when a plate clacked lightly on your desk. You blinked, staring at the plate filled with pastries. This wasn't a part of your usual diet. "Now, I didn't make the effort those here, just for you to stare at it."

"Lilia?!"

"The one and only," he winked.

You sat up properly and stared at the man in front of you. He was dressed in a raiment often wore by servants in your household. It was probably the reason why he didn't climb to your window. If you saw him once and didn't know any better, you would have thought he was on his way to rob your room. 'There's no better option,' he will say back.

"What are you planning this time?" You raised one of your eyebrows at him, noticing the familiar glint in his eyes. His youthful face radiates innocence, covering his penchant for mischief. You'd know by now that he doesn't come by if he isn't up to something.

"Less talk and more eating, sweetcheeks. I'm not letting the ants have the first bite. You'll need to lot of nutrients for what we are going to do today."

He stepped forward and grab two cupcakes off the plate. He hands you the one with pink icing. You looked at him suspiciously, though still taking it from him. You rolled the cupcake in your hand, inspecting it carefully for anything weird. You even went as far as sniffing it for any unwanted smell lingering. "Did you make this?" You asked him the million dollar question, wanting to make sure before placing it inside your mouth.

"Not this time," he pouted. You sighed in relief, finally taking a bite of the cupcake. A sweet taste filled your tongue. "I was supposed to, but they insisted on making it," he continued.

"How unfortunate for you. I'm sure they'll definitely let you use the kitchen soon."

You'd have to thank whoever they stopped him from committing a crime. You were so over of the dull food you were being fed with; you can't let your tastebuds be ruined than it already is.

"Oh sweetcheeks, don't be disappointed. Next time, you can be assured that the next batch I will deliver will be baked by me."

"I am on a diet. I'll only indulge you this time.

"Do not worry! I'll make sure that it is completely nutritious than the one you currently have!"

You can only hope that his future plans will be thwarted by them again, for your sake.

---

Tags: @d1gital-data @masquerade-of-misery Thank you for the support! 🥰

[muzansfangs]

NSFW ALPHABET — Aizen Sosuke.

Starring: Aizen Sosuke x f!reader.

Warnings: nsfw, vaginal sex, degradation kink, dirty talk, possessive behavior, spanking, hair pulling, face slapping, spit kink, oral sex (Aizen receiving), oral sex (reader receiving), anal sex, exhibitionism, mention to threesomes and use of restraints.

Plot: : basically, a series of nsfw head canons about Aizen, based on the alphabet.

Format: head canons.

﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

A = Aftercare (what they're like after sex).

Despite being a cold man, Aizen Sosuke is a sophisticated man. The key word about aftercare is cleaning up. Once you are done, he picks you up and settles you into the bathtub, allowing your body to relax, as you wash away the tiredness along with the sweat and your juices marking your body.

His face is not going to be softer in the aftermath, but he likes to sit behind you in the tub and plant some chaste kisses along your jugular as you enjoy this peaceful moment of tenderness.

Aizen will make sure you feel good and will personally ask his servants to satisfy each and every request you have to feel comfortable. If you are not at his residence, he will simply ask you what you need and, perhaps, he will be gentle enough to cuddle with you in your bed and give you a glass of water.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner's).

First and foremost, if Aizen sticks around with you, it is most likely because he has developed an addiction to you and your body. He adores you. He is the type of man that, in the privacy of his bedroom, worships the body of his partner like a preacher.

When it comes to his favorite body part of you he is conflicted between your neck and your ass. Aizen loves kissing the tender flesh of your neck. It is not only because he loves hearing your soft moans as he nibbles at that area, or runs his tongue on it. Surprisingly, it is because he thinks it is a vulnerable part of your body. He could choke the life out of you, or snap your neck like a twig, if he wanted, yet he chooses to kiss you.

Your ass is simply his lustful side trying to take over his rationality. He loves squeezing it, spanking it and watching the way it wiggles, as he takes you from behind.

His own favorite body parts are his hands. They are large, calloused, a source of power: they are the hands that hold swords, but also caress your body each and every night.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically).

He does not really like to get his partner and his own body messy and sticky. Therefore, he is always going to release his seed into you. He does not really care where, all it matters is that your body has to absorb it. Yet, he might have a little preference.

Sosuke is truly into making you swallow his cum. Finishing into your mouth grants him an amount of pleasure and satisfaction without precedents.

Do not disappoint him and let this man stare down at you with an unnerving expression plastered over his face. He would probably be the type to groan in pleasure and watch you swallow, as an harsh command, sounding like a threat, left his lips “Do not let a single drop go to waste”.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs).

This man has a thing for mirror sex. Why? It is pretty much self-explenatory. He loves to admire your bodies pressed against each other as you allow lust to envelope you. Yet, he just cannot resist watching the way you moan for him, the way you blush and the lewd faces you make, as he takes you like that.

He likes to grip your hair and force you to watch your reflections in the mirror, because you need to see the way he can easily break you and carve into your mind the picture of him dominating you to exhaustion. It is another reminder for you that no one could ever do the same thing to you.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they're doing?)

Being an handsome and manipulative man, Aizen has a lot of experience and he definitely knows what he is doing. He can make you scream in pleasure and for help to the point where you lose yourself and your senses seem to be completely under his control. Sometimes, it is hard to understand if he is involving his Zanpakuto into it. It feels unreal, too good to be true.

He has also been alone for a long time now. Do not be that surprised. He knows how to break you and put you back together.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

This man does not stick to one position during your sessions. He loves to manhandle you, watch you unravel in pure ecstasy before his brown chocolate eyes and switch positions every now and then. His favorite ones are probably missionary and doggy, but he definitely do not disdain reverse cowgirl.

As for missionary, having you underneath him grants him the chance to look you straight in the eyes as he ruins you. He draws so much pleasure in wrapping his hand around your neck and choking you, as he thrusts into you to chase his orgasm. You look so pathetic and adorable as you scream his name at his face. Also, he can grasp your thighs and drape your legs over his shoulders to push even deeper into you. Bitemarks and dirty talk are a must.

What man does not have a thing for doggy? It is degrading, animalistic and it makes him feel even more in control of your body. Your head is probably going to be pushed onto the pillow as he snaps his hips back and forth into you. The lewd sounds of skin against skin make you feel like a whore and he smirks at that thought.

The reverse cowgirl is the cherry on top. He always have to be in control and if you simply rode him, it would somehow give you the chance to take the lead. He cannot allow that. His chiseled abs and toned chest pressed against your back, his shaft deep into you and his mouth close to your ear are such an addiction. If you whimper too much, he will wrap one hand around your neck and tighten his grip around your waist with the other. You cannot escape him, get that insidr your head.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.).

Aizen has mastered a poker face you could never crack in any way. Even when he indulges in steamy activities with you, he is not going to joke or fool around. He simply focuses his whole attention on you and tries to break you through his sadistic grins and dirty remarks. Do not expect anything else from him. This is all you are going to get.

Maybe, a dark chuckle might erupt from his throat as he watches you crumble on the bed drained by his ministrations. He loves the way you always let him take the lead. Your submission tickles his ego and amuses him quite a bit.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

He loves to he cleaned and tidy. Yet, he does not shave completely as he wants some part of his masculinity to still be present. The carpet matches the drapes but they hair are well trimmed, groomed and short.

The V line has short dark brown trail of hair leading down to his groin and, honestly, when he ambles around the room wearing only his boxers, it is hard not to drool on the carpet.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Aizen Sosuke does not care about anyone, except for you. Despite his algid personality, he deeply cares about you. Intimacy is a must and it is shown through his actions and glances. On some softer words slipping his lips as he reassures and you during your times together.

“You are doing amazing” he whispers as you wince for a slight sting of pain, his tip now kissing your cervix as he grants you some time to adjust to his size.

It might sound corny for someone like him, and he watch himself from talking about it, but he loves holding your hands during the act.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Never. Really. If you are not around, he would rather fight back his carnal urges instead of getting his own hands dirty. He believes it is not his job to drag himself to the edge and he can perfectly live without masturbating anyway. He is also too self-assured and firmly believes he could have anyone at any given time to get him rid of his biological necessities.

He is the type of man who simply likes to have a complete intercourse instead of pleasuring himself alone. If he cannot really resist anymore and you two cannot have a moment of intimacy due to the lack of time, then he would just ask you to do it for him.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks).

This man has a lot of kinks. Most of them aim to make you bend the knee, ensure his dominance over you and make you abandon yourself to him. Aizen is into spanking and, sometimes, even face slapping. It is not like he is going to leave you battered, or badly beaten up. He would never go that far, not when he has come to terms with the fact that he loves you.

He likes to leave some handprints on your arses, though. His hands are large and they are a source of power for him. Using them to tame you is absolutely great. It is a good way to assert dominance too, after all.

The former Captain of the Fifth Division is into choking too. When he feels particularly hungry for you, he would even venture into spitting into your mouth as your lips were parted for gasping for air. He wants you to be his and his alone.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

In the privacy of his bedroom, or anywhere at your place. He does not really mind having his way with you in your residence in the world of the livings. No one will bother him there anyway. Beside your bedroom, he likes to bend you over the kitchen counter. It gives him a feeling of domestic affection, something he is not that used to.

Back in his residence, he does not mind having you riding him on his throne. Anyone could walk in, that is indeed true, but he gets kind of aroused at the thought of his subordinates seeing you in such a vulnerable state on his lap. They can watch, but they cannot touch you.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Wear some black laced lingerie and a red lipstick and you are going to get him on his knees. Not quite literally, because he would never kneel for anyone, but you will definitely get him into the right mood.

Aizen loves seeing you in short dresses that expose your thighs and, probably, high heels do something to him too. Elegance, sensuality, the idea of ruining you and your pretty attire along with your body. That is what turns him on.

N = No (something they wouldn't do, turn offs)

Threesomes. Aizen Sosuke does not share. Once he has set his eyes on you and marked you as his property, he is not going to let anyone else enjoy your body and presence, for what can matter. He is possessive, jealous, almost toxic. Whenever you mention the possibility of allowing a third person to join you in the privacy of your bedroom, he does not hesitate to show you how deeply offended he is by your suggestion.

Marks, bruises and punishments are his love language. Is he not enough for you? Do you want more than what he is giving you? That is perfectly fine by him. He will show you that no one could ever pleasure you like he does.

You will probably not be able to sit and walk properly for a few days once he is done with you.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He has a preference, of course. Aizen would rather sit on his throne and watch you kneel before him, like a worshipper, as you twirl your tongue around his shaft. Suck him off. He does not even need to ask for it. When he walks into the room and sits down, his legs parted enough for you to take on your place on the floor, at his feet, you immediately drop to your knees and bob your head up and down for him.

His grip on your hair is so tight you may think he is surely going to tear them off of your scalp, but as you claw at his thigh, he might loosen it a bit.

He rarely blesses you with his tongue. He loves your taste, actually, yet he is the king. The king does not get down and dirty. Not even for his queen, unless it is a special occasion.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Aizen is rough, but sensual. He loves to take his time with you. Tearing your sanity and dignity apart is an art. According to him, it is like pouring the finest wine into a goblet and sip on it slowly to make sure he can savour and catch all of your nuances. There is no need to rush.

He will thrust into you with a slow and steady pace, but roughly. The yelps and moans falling your parted lips are such a heavenly sight to behold and he definitely loves to brush his thumb on your lower lip, before sliding it into your mouth as he watches your face contort into pleasure.

“What a masterpiece” he whispers, grunting as he ravels into you with a particularly brutal thrust.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

He is not into quickies at all. He loathes them. The rare times he would opt for them are when you feel particularly needy as beg him to have some fun together. He thinks quickies are not pleasurable at all for you two. He is used to last for hours and take it slow.

Honestly, he is the type to fuck you during a meeting with the Arrancar instead of cornering you in a dark alley. He wants things to be done a certain kind of way.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Once you have ventured further into your relationship, he will be more willing to take risks and experiment. Honestly, you do not have to introduce him to anything. Aizen is a man of culture, a man who loves to be informed of the latest trends and practices.

There is nearly nothing you two have not tried. Sometimes, he loves to involve Kyoka Suigetsu into your intimacy to make you believe there someone you know watching you judgementally.

The risk he has never cared about from a certain period of time is getting you pregnant. He would be absolutely glad to make you carry his child. Condoms are long forgotten into a drawer of a nightstand.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?).

If it depended solely on him and his stamina, your spine would be broken. Aizen could go for about five or six rounds without taking a break. Yet, he has to restrain himself. He is a cold, selfish man but he knows he could truly cause you damages and that is not something he wishes.

He will therefore settle for two, three rounds at maximum and if you are still in a good condition for keep on going. He cares about your well-being. He does not really have much trouble in taking them slow and he is perfectly capable of controlling his orgasm to prolong your pleasure. Sitting down after your intercourses is a pain in the ass. Quite literally.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?).

He knows about the existence of toys and he owns some of them, but they are not penetrative at all. He owns blindfolds, ropes and crops he sometimes enjoys to involve into your sexual adventures.

He is a dominant man, thus making him drawn to use them on you. He loves to tie you up on the bedposts of your shared bed and push you to the edge over and over again. Crumble at his feet, chant his name like a holy mantra and he will make sure you will be rewarded. He is a sadist. End of discussion.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

The most pleasurable tortures come from a relationship with Aizen Sosuke. He will have no mercy. Tears might stream down your cheeks as you are laying drained, overstimulated, underneath him but he will continue to tease you until he is satisfied.

Beg him, he loves to hear you begging him to stop. It will not help you out of it, though. He likes to watch your body respond to his touches, to his deft fingers and sinful, but skilled tongue.

Also, pray the Gods for him not to be upset after a meeting. He will take all of his anger and frustration out on your writhing body. Mercy is a privilege and you will certainly not get it.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Aizen is not that vocal. Maybe, he lets out some louder, deep moans when he reaches his climax, but throughout the session he will just grunt lowly, erotically in your ear. You will feel his hot breath fanning your earlobe as he is deep into your core, whispering some dirty praises on how much of a good girl you are, or about your skills when you give him head.

“I will fuck you so good you will be ruined for any man you will have after me” he whispers in your ear, thrusting up into you with swift snaps of his hips. Little do you know he is going to be the last man you will ever have. Aizen will kill anyone who dares to even think about you and, probably, he would kill you too if you dared to betray him.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

The wild card is truly wild. Expect this man to ask for anal. The feeling of pure domain over your mind and body he experiences through it makes him go feral. He would not force you to agree in it, but he would definitely be the type to talk you into giving it, at least, a try.

Being a master manipulator, it is almost impossible to deny him his request.

He, however, enjoys this only with you. His partner, his life companion, his love. He would be gentle at first, making sure you are relaxed to make the deed good for the both of you. Once you are prepared enough, do not expect him to be merciful though.

X = X-ray (let's see what's going on under those clothes)

Under his boxers, this man is impressive. Almost too painful to take and he is proud about it. You will never get used to his size, but he knows you struggle at first and he might give you some time to adjust to his shaft.

Aizen is a grower. When he is soft he is about 8 inches long. As he gets hard he reaches around 10 inches. The girth is considerable and he loves to watch your face contort in a slightly painful expression as he slide into you inch by inch.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?).

It can vary, but you could say it is relatively high. During stressful periods, Aizen believes having sex is a good therapeutic way to steam off some tension. It is more of a duty and a routine for him, although he is absolutely driven by his lust for you.

When he is just having some quality time with you, it is purely based on his affection. It is a good way to satisfy his thirst for you and even inure his darling to him.

Since you two became a thing, he would never lose his chance to bend you over the desk and rail you until you are too exhausted to even moan.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards).

Sleep is a privilege for him. Aizen is restless, really. He probably barely gets some rest anyway, therefore he indulges into his bedroom for quite a bit afterwards. Once he is done cleaning you and himself up, he straight forward goes back to his bed and, draping an arm around your waist to pull you closer, he falls asleep.

Do not expect much of a giver, he just wants you to know that he is by your side and that you should get some rest too. He has chosen you, after all. He won’t let his darling sleep without feeling safe.

AUTHOR NOTE.

Hi there! I have been finally able to post this one. I have an unhealthy obsession for Aizen and I think it shows… However, as per usual, I always try to be as detatched as possible from my fantasy and analyze the character basing purely on his personality, while writing. I hope you enjoyed it! Next to come will be the NSFW alphabet of Urahara. If you want to be tagged, comment below. Likes, comments and re-posts are truly appreciated.

Until next,

x o x o

TAGS: @stygianoir @dcmarvelblog @xxxhorse-chanxxx @electronicwitchcollection

[mybutcheredtongue]

I'll Love You 'til the Grass Around My Gravestone is Deceased

post azkaban sirius black x fem!reader

CHAPTER THIRTY (see full series list here)

warning: bit of an emotional start, sorry

October 31st, 1981

“Hey, love, are you feeling any better?”

After a lot of straining and groaning, you manage to turn your head just enough on the pillow to be able to take in the person who’s just entered the room: Sirius, your husband — and for the past two days, your servant, practically.

You sniffle, one of your nostrils completely blocked, giving a wry smile. “Not at all.” Your voice comes out raspy and it grates against the back of your throat. “I don't know what I did to deserve this but fuck I am never doing it again.”

He chuckles softly, gently stroking your hair out of your face. “Look on the bright side. At least you're not in St Mungo’s.”

“Not yet.” You blink lethargically at him, fighting the urge to drift off to sleep, sighing. “Have we gotten any trick-or-treaters?”

He raises an eyebrow, chuckling. “What are you on about?”

You raise a hand lazily, waving it about in front of him in strange explanation. “It’s a Muggle thing…kids dress up and come to the door…give them sweets…”

Sirius listens while you babble incomprehensibly about Halloween and Muggles, and places a cold wet cloth on your forehead, relieving the immense heat emanating from your skin. You breathe a sigh of relief.

“We don't have any pain relief left,” he says gently, as if he’s worried talking too loud will irritate your body even more. “I’ll pop out and get you some in a little bit.”

You shake your head vigorously, alarm bells going off in your head. “No, no, stay here. Don't leave tonight…have a bad feeling…”

“Probably because you’re sick,” he answers with an amused smile, placing a fresh box of tissues on your bedside table. “I won't be long.”

But you really do have a bad feeling, and you know it's not from the illness. You have a sinking feeling in your stomach of worry, a sense that something bad will happen tonight. You want him to stay by your side just in case.

“No, stay, Sirius, please,” you say weakly, your body betraying your brain as your eyelids get heavier and you have to fight to keep them open. “Please, don't go…something bad will happen.”

He continues stroking your hair soothingly, wiping the cloth across your forehead. “Nothing bad will happen, I promise. I’ll be back before you know it.”

You grab his arm with what little strength you have, your body aching with the movement. “Please, please don't go. I’m being serious, stay here, please…”

He stands up, tugging the covers closer to your body. “Get your rest, love. You’ll feel better when I have your medicine.”

You open your mouth to say more, but this time the words don't come out. You bring a hand to your throat, feeling it burn each time you try to say anything.

“Sirius…”

But he's gone. He's left the room and soon, as your eyelids finally shut over your eyes, you can hear the revving of his motorbike outside and the sound of him driving off into the night.

Bright light when you’re jolted awake by someone shaking you vigorously tells you it’s morning. Your eyes snap open, feeling extremely disoriented, and peer up at the unfamiliar face above you.

“Come on, get up now…”

“Huh…?” You blink, bringing a hand to your eyes and rubbing them, your head pounding. When you open them again, Barty Crouch is wide-eyed, staring back at you. In a mixture of sickness and shock, you let out a string of rattly coughs and he jerks away from you, wrinkling his nose. “Mr Crouch?”

“Get up.”

With effort, you manage to sit up against the headboard and take in your surroundings. You realise that what you had taken for the morning sun streaming in through the windows is actually just the lights in your bedroom, making you squint. Crouch isn’t the only one here — there’s about six other official-looking people — a few other Aurors you recognise from the Ministry.

What the fuck is going on? Are you dying? What was in that medicine Sirius got you?

“Mr Crouch what — what are you doing here?”

“You didn’t hear what happened, then.” He looks back at his co-workers, and they start muttering to each other conspiratorially. Can’t they just leave? Can’t they see you need rest right now? This must be a dream because if it were real Sirius would keep them out of your room.

“You’re going to have to come with us.”

“What?”

Crouch leans to say something to another man, and you manage to catch the end of his sentence: “ — no state to answer questions, we’ll have to take her in.”

You groan, reaching for the water on your nightstand and gulping the glass down. You feel sick, and you don’t know if it’s from anxiety or your flu.

“Where’s…where’s Sirius?” you say, craning your neck to look past the people in case he’s hidden behind them.

Crouch bites his lip and exchanges a glance with the workers, another set of mutterings passing around the group.

“Just…come with us, and we’ll explain everything. We’ll get you a potion for your illness.”

You look around at all the sets of eyes staring at you. One man standing near the back is glaring at you as if you’ve just killed someone.

“No, where is he?” You pull back the covers and feebly swing your legs over the side of the bed, sitting up. “Where the fuck is Sirius?”

The man who’s been glaring at you steps forward from the back of the group to speak to Crouch, though he makes no effort to hide his words. “Stop being so nice, Crouch. Let’s get this over with.”

Crouch looks down at you, frowning, as he takes in your appearance: dishevelled and in your pyjamas, nose and eyes red.

“You’ll need to get dressed.”

You stare around at them, shaking your head. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

“You’ll find out. Get ready.”

“Tell me what’s going on or I’m not going anywhere.”

Crouch hisses in frustration but before he can get another word out, the angry man steps forward and produces his wand. “This isn’t a fucking tea party, Barty. Stupefy.”

When you wake, you're sitting in a chair. Blinking rapidly, you take in your surroundings: Crouch’s office. He sits across from you, hands folded in front of him as he stares at you.

“You're awake.”

You groan, your limbs stiff and sore. “Fuck — barely.”

Crouch sighs and looks behind you, and when you turn around you notice Moody standing behind you, leaning on his staff with a grim expression.

“Sir?”

Crouch pushes a tall glass of water towards you across the desk. “Have a drink.”

Your heart is pounding — what is going on? Have you done something wrong? Oh god, what about that paperwork you forgot to file last week? It was a complete accident, you just lost track of time —

“Go on.”

Nervously, you pull the glass towards your lips and gulp it down, grateful for how it soothes your throat. Oddly, you don't feel sick anymore — your headache is gone, your nose is clear and you don't feel the urge to cough and sneeze every ten seconds. They must have given you a potion while you were out. How long were you out?

Crouch waits while you drink and doesn't speak until you've finished every last drop. Then he clears his throat. “Last night, James and Lily Potter were murdered by He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named.”

The monotone way he says it makes you feel like you've heard him wrong.

“What?”

“They were betrayed by their Secret-Keeper. By Sirius Black.”

You don't say anything. You can't say anything. James and Lily are dead? This can't be happening. This is just a nightmare, right? It's a horrible, terrible nightmare. There is no way that in the real world, your best friends are dead. There is no way that in reality, your best friends are dead and your husband is the reason why. Sirius would never do that, you know he would never do that — he wouldn’t even tell you anything about where they were hiding, he would never compromise their safety like that —

“Sirius Black killed Peter Pettigrew and twelve muggles in one blast.”

Wake up, wake up. This is just a nightmare. Your brain is just playing a cruel trick on you — maybe it was the medicine…yeah, that sounds about right. Potions and medicine always make your brain act funny —

“You got all that?”

“No, I – I don’t underst—”

“Harry Potter survived. No one knows how. He destroyed the Dark Lord. They are calling him ‘The Boy Who Lived’.”

This is all too much for you. You don’t understand — what does he mean James and Lily are dead? And — and Sirius is the reason why? And how could Harry survive, he’s barely a year old — it can’t be real. How could they be dead? And where is Sirius? You need to see him, you need to talk to him, you just need him right now —

Slowly, you look over your shoulder at Moody, still standing silently against his staff.

Your lip trembles and when you speak it's barely audible. “Tell me I’m dreaming. Please, please, please tell me this is a fucking dream.”

His magical eye swivels and stares back at you, studying your face. It feels like he’s analysing your face, like the answer is written on your cheeks as plain as day. There are dark, ashy bags under his eyes. His lip is cracked and split on one side, crusty with dried blood. Did he sleep at all last night? Probably not — Moody never sleeps. But this looks different, not the usual after-effects of his insomnia — it’s worse than that.

He shakes his head and your stomach lurches.

This is happening.

Crouch’s expression remains the same. “I have no tolerance for Death Eaters or anyone who aids a Death Eater in any shape or form, Mrs Black, so I am going to waste no time playing nice. Are you, or have you ever been, a part of the Dark Lord’s following?”

“No.”

The answer comes out of you before you can think — you barely even register the question in your head before your mouth is blurting out the word — oddly monotone for your current state: trembling from head to toe, trying your best not to vomit, eyes stinging.

“Did you know of your husband’s involvement with the Dark Lord?”

“No.”

Again, you don’t even realise what he’s asking when the word falls out of your mouth. It’s like you have no control over what you’re saying at all.

“What — what the fuck — “

“Did you ever cover for Sirius when he was spying for the Dark Lord?”

“No.” You stop, hissing in frustration. “No, no — Sirius, he — he wasn’t a Death Eater, he isn’t a Death Eater, he would never — “

“He is,” Crouch says. “Whether you knew it or not, he has been working with the Dark Lord for quite some time now.”

You shake your head, unable to stop yourself from crying. “N-no, no…Sirius was James’s best friend, they were like b-brothers — he would never sell them out like that —”

“Then how did the Dark Lord find out where the Potters were hiding?” Crouch says sharply. “No one knew that information but Sirius. No one was able to reveal that information but him —”

“No,” you sob. “No, no, no, no, no —”

“The sooner you accept it, the sooner you can move on.” Though his words might seem sympathetic and comforting to some, he says them with little to no sympathy whatsoever.

“There must be a mistake,” you sniffle, skin burning from the tears streaming down your cheeks. “That’s not what happened, Sirius, he — he was just gone to the shop —”

A hand comes to rest on your shoulder. “There were witnesses. They saw him kill Pettigrew and those Muggles.”

You shake your head, sobbing. “No, no, no, no, no! T-that’s not what happened, that can’t be what h-happened —”

“Have you ever acted on orders given to you by the Dark Lord, or any of his followers?”

“No.”

Your hand flies to your throat instinctively, as if there’s something wrapped around it that you want to release, and you stare back at Crouch, the light on his desk pulsing in the corner of your eye. Your eyes wander to your empty glass on the desk.

“Did you — d-did you give me fuck — fucking truth serum?”

A vein bulges in his neck, his lip twitching. “Of course I did. Did you expect me to just take everything you say as truth? You’re married to a Death Eater.”

A million different emotions are coursing through you. You feel like getting sick. “Sirius isn’t a Death Eater, he isn’t — and I’ll p-prove it to you, let me show you his arm, he doesn’t have the m-mark —”

“That is no surprise. He was a spy!” Crouch snaps, voice raised. “If he had the mark he would never be trusted by the Potters!”

This is too much. You can’t think in this — it’s too warm in this office, your clothes are sticking to your skin and it's suffocating, your throat is burning, you need some fresh air —

“Where is he?” You gasp. “Sirius. Where is he? Please, let me talk to him, please —”

“He is on a one-way trip to Azkaban,” Crouch spits. “And he will never return. For what he has done, he deserves no better.”

“When can I see h-him?” you say desperately. “His trial, his trial, when is his trial — “

“There won’t be one.”

Your heart feels heavy and you close your eyes, falling back in your chair as you sob. “What? What do you mean there won’t be one?”

“He is a mentally deranged and dangerous criminal,” Crouch says, hatred in his eyes. “We have an eye-witness account for what happened, there is no point in arguing when the verdict is clear. It is a waste of time.”

“No, no, that’s not fair, he deserves a trial just like everyone else.” You’re breathing heavily and suddenly it feels like there isn’t enough air in the room to fill your tired lungs. “You — you can’t just send him to Azkaban like that!”

“I can.”

“But — “

“The man has murdered thirteen innocent people!” Crouch bellows, his face red with anger. “Poor Peter Pettigrew, he was your friend! He tore after Sirius, told him just what he thought of his betrayal, and was murdered for it! Twelve innocent civilians, victims of his sick and twisted mind! James and Lily, betrayed by their closest friend — Harry Potter, betrayed by his godfather!”

His eyes are bulging out of their sockets and his fists are clenched on the desk. The room goes silent but for your uncontrollable sobs and Crouch’s heavy breathing across the desk from you. You screw your eyes shut and silently beg anyone listening to take it all away, to make this day never happen. To turn back time and keep your friends alive. Anything to get rid of this obliterating feeling.

“You got what you wanted, Barty,” Moody grunts from behind you. “Give the girl a break.”

When Moody takes your arm and pulls you out of Crouch’s office, you can barely see straight. You desperately try to process everything that’s going on, but it’s impossible. The very notion that James and Lily could be dead is inconceivable to you. Not your best friend, not your Lily, who promised you’d be best friends until you were old and frail. How could someone so sweet and wonderful, so full of life — how could she ever die? How could someone ever snuff out that perfect, unending light that was her soul? She always told you that your kids would grow up together, that they would be the best of friends just like you were — how can you ever come to terms with the fact that she will never get to see that become a reality? How will you ever adjust to life without James’s grins, without his constant jokes and laughter — who will you and Lily laugh at, how will you watch the way her face lights up when he enters the room if he’s dead?

Workers stare at you as you pass through the halls with Moody, they turn and anxiously whisper with their colleagues, but you don’t even notice. When Moody sits you down in his office, he doesn’t say anything. He says absolutely nothing and lets you stare at the chipped wood of his desk, lets you sob and weep and scream and wail, lets you mutter and babble incoherently.

The next day the Minister of Magic, Millicent Bagnold, gives you more Veritaserum and interrogates you with similar questions to Crouch. You scream and roar about Sirius — you just want to talk to him, you just want to see him — and when it gets you nowhere Moody takes you back to his office and silently lets you stew for hours again.

This routine continues for a week. Every day someone seems to have a new question to catch you out — one that will finally reveal that you knew something, or you helped someone — each new person bringing a fresh glass of water laced with a hefty dose of Veritaserum. You've actually gotten good at tasting the difference between the water they give you and the water Moody gives you, which is clean and potion-less, straight from his hip flask.

When you get home it doesn’t feel like home. You step in the door and cry, hot tears stinging your eyes. You spot a photo on your kitchen counter — it’s you and Sirius, on your birthday. You're sitting at the kitchen table, and his arm is around your waist while you lean into him, a gleeful grin on your face. It sets you off and in a fit of rage you throw it against the wall, shattering it. The second the photo hits the floor you’re filled with regret, and you rush to assess the damage. You try and repair it with your wand but you can’t focus properly on the spell, and spend an hour trying to carefully glue it back together with shaky hands.

You can't do anything. You feel bad doing the things you enjoy, like listening to music or reading a book — Sirius can't do these things in Azkaban. James and Lily can't do these things in death. You have no appetite and the days seem to blur and blur until you have no idea what time it is.

Why did this have to happen to your family?

♡*⁠。♡*⁠。

December, 1995

You don’t think you’ve ever been as excited when Christmas break finally arrives. The last two years have been spent at Hogwarts, and the others at your parents’ house with Remus. Your parents love Remus — he’s like a son to them. And now you finally get to spend it with everyone you love, especially Sirius. However, getting to Grimmauld Place for the holidays isn’t as easy as expected.

A few days before the end of term while you’re helping decorate the entrance hall, Umbridge approaches. “Excited for Christmas, professor?”

It takes you a second to get over the initial shock of her actually speaking to you, and you turn back to your decorations. “Yes.”

“And where will you be staying this Christmas?” she asks. “As Hogwarts High Inquisitor, it is pertinent that I know where all staff are over the period in case I should need to contact them with anything urgent.”

She smiles at you and you resist the urge to gag at the sight of her.

“I’m going to my parents’ house,” you reply, lifting some tinsel in the air with your wand and lining it along a portrait of an elegant woman standing beneath an apple tree.

“How festive!” the woman in the portrait comments.

Umbridge cocks her head with interest. “Your parents? But I have heard that you usually stay at Hogwarts.”

You shrug. “Thought I’d switch it up this year.”

“Is there any particular reason this sudden change was brought on?” she asks, smiling condescendingly.

You pick up the box of decorations with one hand and turn to her. “I miss them.” Before she can interrogate you any more, you march away from her, fixing boughs of holly and mistletoe branches as you go.

You join the rest of the students on the Hogwarts Express back to King’s Cross, taking the time to carefully wrap presents and write cards. It’s a lot of work to get home. You’re not going to risk heading straight to London to Grimmauld Place, not with the chance of being followed — which you expect every time you leave Hogwarts. You go to the house first, pick up some extra clothes, before getting on another train to your parents’ house. You have dinner with them there and trade gifts until nightfall, when you pack up your things again and, disguising yourself as best you can, make your way to Grimmauld Place with Dubh sleeping soundly in your bag as you go.

“Well, you better be honoured that I went through all that zig-zagging across the country just to see you,” you say when Sirius greets you at the door. You don’t think the grin on his face could be any wider when his eyes meet yours. Remus follows him through the corridor, smiling.

“Believe me, I’m more than honoured,” Sirius says, striding forward to place both hands on your cheeks and bring your mouth to his, kissing you desperately. You drop your bags in surprise, chuckling against his lips. When you pull back, his head follows you and you laugh, putting your hands on his shoulders to gently push him back.

“Easy, Sirius, we’ve got company,” you tease, nodding at Remus, who rolls his eyes.

Sirius turns to Remus, grinning. “Can’t let me have a moment, can you?”

He shrugs. “Guess not.”

You give Remus a hug before heading into the kitchen, where Mrs Weasley is busy preparing dinner. There are bags under her eyes when she turns to greet you, the stress of Arthur’s injuries clearly getting to her.

“Let me give you a hand, Molly,” you say, and though usually she would tell you not to be silly, this time she accepts your help gratefully, allowing you to take over most of the workload while she busies herself with setting the table.

Sirius is in a brilliant mood, singing Christmas carols as he sets about the place putting up decorations. You don’t think you’ve seen him this happy in a long time and it calms your anxious heart. He works tirelessly up to Christmas Day, determined to make the house unrecognisable — and he actually manages to do a pretty decent job of turning the dusty old place into a warm, cheerful home. Garlands of holly and gold and silver streamers hang from the chandeliers, and a great twinkling Christmas tree, acquired by Mundungus, hides the Black family tree from view. Mistletoe branches are placed over the entrances to different rooms, and every chance he gets Sirius is pulling you under one to steal a kiss. Even the elf heads on the wall are wearing little Santa hats and beards.

He wakes up early on Christmas Day like a child desperate to unwrap their presents and shakes you awake, much to your annoyance.

“Sirius, this better be good —”

“Just look.”

He points at the window, grinning, and after rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you turn to look at what he’s pointing at.

There, at the window, is a brand-new telescope, aimed at the sky above. A glittery gold bow has been stuck to the top of it.

“You were complaining about not having your telescope here over the summer, that the one at home is too difficult to transport, so —”

You beam, throwing your arms around him gleefully. “Oh, I love it, Sirius!”

You kiss him, lingering for several moments to relish in the feeling of his lips on yours, unable to fight the smile on your face while you do. You thread your fingers through his hair, giggling.

“How did you even buy it? Don’t tell me you left —”

“I didn’t leave the house, no,” Sirius says with a roll of his eyes. “I sent Remus to get it and gave him the money.”

You smile good-naturedly at him. “Poor Remus.”

He snorts.

You kiss him one last time. “You are the absolute best. I love you.”

He smiles and you pull away to reach under the bed and produce his present, neatly wrapped in red and gold wrapping paper. Curiously, he unwraps it to reveal a small bottle of dark blue liquid, turning it around in his hands before his eyes widen in shock, laughing.

“I — how did you get this?” he says in disbelief. “I thought it would be discontinued by now.”

You beam. “I never reveal my secrets.” You nod at him, smiling. “Go on, test it out. I want to see if it’s actually the same.”

Sirius pulls the cap off the bottle, aiming the nozzle at his wrist and spraying it, rubbing it in with the other before holding his wrist out to you to test. Leaning forward, you sniff and laugh, grinning at him. It’s the cologne he used to wear for years before his capture, he used to say it was his signature scent. The same cologne you remember smelling inside your Amortentia potion in sixth year.

“Perfect.”

He smiles at you, pulling you towards him to kiss you again. “Thank you,” he breathes between kisses, smiling against your lips. “You’re perfect. I love you.”

When you finally disentangle from each other, you get dressed and head downstairs — though not before you’ve thoroughly inspected your new telescope, delighting in the cleanness of it and the crystal-clear focus of the untouched lenses.

In the kitchen, Harry, Ron, and Hermione are peering into Kreacher’s den opposite the pantry and Mrs Weasley is standing at the stove, sniffling when she wishes you both Merry Christmas. You’re about to check what’s wrong when Sirius taps your side, silently shaking his head.

“Percy,” he whispers near-imperceptibly into your ear, and you nod in understanding. Then he raises his voice, “I’ll get the turkey.”

He heads into the pantry and you make your way over to the kids, smiling. “Happy Christmas, guys. What are you up to?”

“I have a present for Kreacher,” Hermione explains, laying a package on top of the rags and blankets in the dingy cupboard, right beside the glass photos Kreacher hoards of Sirius’ family. She frowns. “But he’s not here…I guess he’ll find it later, it’s fine.”

“Come to think of it,” Sirius says, emerging from the pantry carrying a large turkey as Harry closes the cupboard door, “has anyone actually seen Kreacher lately?”

“I haven’t seen him since the night we came back here,” says Harry. “You were ordering him out of the kitchen.”

“Yeah…” Sirius frowns. “You know, I think that’s the last time I saw him, too…he must be hiding upstairs somewhere…”

“He couldn’t have left, could he?” Harry suggests. “I mean, when you said ‘out’, maybe he thought you meant get out of the house?”

Sirius shakes his head. “No, no, house elves can’t leave unless they’re given clothes, they’re tied to their family’s house.”

“They can leave the house if they really want to,” Harry contradicts. “Dobby did, he left the Malfoys’ house to give me warnings two years ago. He had to punish himself afterward, but he still managed it.”

Sirius looks slightly disconcerted for a moment, meeting your eyes, before he shakes his head. “I’ll look for him later, I expect I’ll find him upstairs crying his eyes out over my mother’s old bloomers or something…of course, he might’ve crawled up into the airing cupboard and died…but I mustn’t get my hopes up…”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you, though Hermione looks reproachful.

“Thanks for the presents, by the way,” Harry says, smiling at the two of you.

You beam back at him, thinking of the book on defensive spells and the treats from Honeydukes you had left at the foot of his bed last night. “You’re very welcome!”

You receive an assortment of different kinds of magical teas from Remus, noting with interest the box of earl grey that apparently makes the drinker see everything in black and white for a few minutes, and the green tea that gives levitation. In return, you buy him a set of expensive oil paints which he delights in, promising that you will be the first person to get a painting made with them.

After you have dinner, the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione, head to St Mungo’s to visit Arthur along with Moody and Remus to escort them. You had intended to go, but upon seeing the look on Sirius’s face when everyone leaves, you decide against it.

Before they go, you shove two small bags into Remus’ hands. “Give these to Frank and Alice, will you? Oh, and give this to Arthur.”

You hand him a paddle with a ball attached to it by a string — another Muggle game you hope will keep him entertained in St Mungo’s.

“Of course.”

The place is oddly quiet without everyone else, and you feel a rush of sympathy for Sirius at how lonely the house feels without anyone in it. It reminds you of the silence in your home without him there.

But at the same time, it’s nice. You stand side-by-side as you wash the dishes, handing them to him so he can dry them with a tea towel, and relay all your grievances about Umbridge.

“And then she said, ‘I know you’re hiding something…or should I say someone?’ and she smiled — you do not want to see her smile, by the way, it’s unnerving — but she thought she was well clever, as if she’s the first person to ever think that I could be hiding you away somewhere —”

“Well, you are, to be fair.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t know for sure. She just thinks I am,” you say matter-of-factly, handing him another plate.

The scene is so domestic, that it’s almost foreign to you. You went over a decade without him and strangely, it’s little moments like this that you missed the most. Quiet, everyday things.

“Oh, and Mam and Dad said to tell you they said hello,” you say, smiling. “I think my dad misses you quite a lot — or maybe he just misses having someone to order around.”

Sirius chuckles, plates clinking as he returns them to the cupboard. “He always made me work every time we visited. And it’s not like I could say no, either — don’t want to get on the wrong side of the in-laws.”

“A flawless plan, really.”

He hums in agreement, sighing. You hand him the last few cups and he places them in the press before dusting his hands off. “I suppose I should look for Kreacher, before he decides to turn our bedroom into a shrine for my mother…”

Later, it's revealed that Kreacher had been hiding up in the attic — Sirius found him covered in dust, no doubt searching for more Black family relics.

When everyone else turns in for the night, it's just you and Sirius left in the kitchen. You let out a yawn as he drums his fingers on the table, before his face lights up with intent and he stands up and moves away from the table. Curious, you watch as he produces an old record player and blows the dust off of it, then he carefully pulls the needle onto the record and with a crackle, soft music starts playing.

Sirius extends a hand to you, smiling. “Care for a dance?”

You laugh, looking up at him in disbelief. “Oh, you're not serious…I haven't danced in forever —”

“That doesn't matter. Neither have I.”

He pushes his hand further to urge you, and you hesitantly place your hand in his and allow him to pull you out of your seat and into the middle of the floor. The space you have in the kitchen is limited, but it doesn't seem to bother Sirius at all.

Gentle but firm, he places the hand not holding yours on your lower back, and you place your free hand on his shoulder, your face inches from his.

He starts to lead you in a slow sway, and strangely enough you find yourself moving without thinking, muscle memory kicking in. Sighing contentedly, you slot your head into the crook of his neck. You can smell his new (or old?) cologne on his skin.

“Do you think we would’ve been good parents?” you ask softly. “If we had got the chance.”

You feel the nod of his head as he hums. “We would’ve been the best parents, love. And our kids would be lucky enough to inherit all our incredible genes.”

You chuckle, reaching your hand up to his hair to gently pull at the soft strands. “I think they would get your hair.”

“And your eyes, I hope.”

“They’d be clever.”

“And funny — and they'd all be Gryffindors, no doubt.”

You raise an eyebrow. “They’ll all have my smarts, you know. They could be in Ravenclaw.”

Sirius laughs. “Oh, really? Well, if you were so smart then why weren't you placed in Ravenclaw?”

You shrug, biting back a grin. “I look better in red.”

He gently spins you around to the music, and your eye catches on one of the Weasleys’ scarves on the kitchen counter, red and gold sparkling in the light.

“Everyone would love them,” you say, smiling sweetly. “They'd ace every subject and brag about how cool their parents are.”

“They'd dress cool and have incredible taste in music.”

You chuckle, heart aching at the what-ifs. The what could have happened. “They’d be kind to everyone.”

“But not afraid to stand up for themselves.”

“They'd be like you.”

“They'd be just like you.”

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

On the very last day of the holidays, you sit at the kitchen table beside Sirius, the room completely silent, as he glares across at Snape. You're not sure, but you think he might be trying to incinerate the man with just his eyes — though so far he has made no progress.

Harry enters the kitchen, looking quite puzzled and nervous to see Snape sitting there. “Uh.”

“Sit down, Potter.”

“You know,” Sirius says, leaning back on the rear legs of his chair as far back as he can and looking up at the ceiling, “I’d prefer it if you didn’t give orders here, Snape. It's my house, you see.”

An ugly flush rises in Snape’s face. Harry sits down on Sirius’ other side, the three of you facing across at Snape.

“I was supposed to see you alone, Potter,” Snape says, a familiar sneer curling his lips, “but the Blacks — “

“We’re his godparents,” Sirius says loudly.

“I am here on Dumbledore’s orders, but by all means stay, Black, I know you like to feel…involved.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Sirius lets his chair fall back onto four legs with a bang.

“Merely that I am sure you must feel — ah — frustrated by the fact you can do nothing useful for the Order.”

Snape's lip curls in triumph and your fist clenches under the table.

“Asshole,” you mutter under your breath, though still loud enough for Snape to hear, based on the way his eye twitches slightly.

Snape turns to Harry. “The Headmaster has sent me to tell you, Potter, that it is his wish for you to study Occlumency this term.”

“Study what?” Harry says blankly.

“Occlumency, Potter. The magical defense of the mind against external penetration. An obscure branch of magic, but a highly useful one.”

“Why do I have to study Occlu — thing?”

“Because the headmaster thinks it a good idea,” Snape says smoothly. “You will receive private lessons once a week, but you will not tell anybody what you are doing, least of all Dolores Umbridge. You understand?”

“Yes,” Harry says, thumbing the sleeve of his jumper nervously. “Who's going to be teaching me?”

“I am,” Snape answers.

“Why can't Dumbledore teach Harry?” Sirius says aggressively. “Why you?”

“I suppose because it's a headmaster’s privilege to delegate less enjoyable tasks,” says Snape silkily. “I assure you I did not beg for the job.” He gets to his feet. “I will expect you at six o’clock on Monday evening, Potter. My office. If anyone asks, you are taking Remedial Potions. Nobody who has seen you in my classes could deny you need them.”

He turns to leave, his black travelling cloak billowing behind him.

Sirius sits straighter in his chair. “Wait a moment.”

Snape turns back to face you, sneering. “I am in rather a hurry, Black…unlike you, I do not have unlimited leisure time…”

“I’ll get to the point, then,” Sirius says, standing up. “If I hear you're using these Occlumency lessons to give Harry a hard time, you'll have me to answer to.”

“How touching,” Snape sneers. “But surely you have noticed that Potter is very like his father?”

“Yes, I have,” Sirius answers proudly.

“Well then, you’ll notice he's so arrogant that criticism bounces off him.”

Sirius pushes his chair aside roughly and strides around the table towards Snape, pulling out his wand as he goes. Snape whips out his own. They square up to each other, Sirius looking livid, Snape calculated, his eyes flicking between Sirius' wand to his face.

“Sirius!” You say loudly, but he appears not to hear you.

“I've warned you, Snivellus,” he says, face barely a foot from Snape’s, “I don't care if Dumbledore thinks you're reformed, I know better —”

“Oh, but why don't you tell him so?” Snape whispers venomously. “Or are you afraid he might not take the advice of a man who has been hiding inside his mother’s house for six months very seriously?”

You would jump in but before you can even think about opening your mouth, Sirius is biting back at him.

“Tell me, how is Lucius Malfoy these days? I expect he's delighted his lapdog’s working at Hogwarts, isn’t he?”

“Speaking of dogs,” Snape says softly, “did you know Lucius Malfoy recognized you last time you risked a little jaunt outside? Clever idea, Black, getting yourself seen on a safe station platform…gave you a cast-iron excuse not to leave your hidey-hole in the future, didn't it?”

Sirius raises his wand.

“No!” You yell, moving to try and get between them. “Don’t be stupid —”

“Are you calling me a coward?” Sirius snaps at Snape.

“Why, yes, I suppose I am.”

The door opens and the entire Weasley family, plus Hermione, enters the kitchen, all looking very pleased with Mr Weasley walking proudly in their midst, dressed in a pair of striped pajamas.

“Cured!” he announces brightly to the room. “Completely cured!”

He and all the other Weasleys freeze when they take in the scene before them: Sirius and Snape with their wands drawn and pointing into each other’s faces, and you and Harry beside them, watching on in shock.

“Merlin’s beard,” says Mr Weasley, the smile sliding off his face. “What's going on here?”

The two men lower their wands, both wearing twin expressions of the utmost contempt. Snape pockets his and sweeps across the room, saying nothing to the Weasleys as he passes, and pauses at the door.

“Six o’clock Monday evening, Potter.”

He leaves, and Sirius glares after him, wand held tightly in a white-knuckled grip at his side.

“But what's been going on?”

“Nothing, Arthur,” you answer, stepping forward to greet them, “nothing to worry about.” Over your shoulder, you shoot Sirius a reprimanding look, before turning back and plastering a smile on your face. “So, you're cured? That's brilliant, Arthur, really! Great news, honestly…”

“Yes, isn't it?” says Mrs Weasley, leading her husband into a chair, beaming. “Healer Smethwyck worked his magic in the end, found an antidote to whatever that snake’s got in its fangs, and Arthur’s learned his lesson about dabbling in Muggle medicine, haven't you, dear?” she adds, rather menacingly.

“Yes, Molly, dear,” Mr Weasley responds meekly.

Dinner that evening is a cheerful one, though you can tell that Sirius is far from the happy face he's putting on at the moment. When he's not laughing at loudly at Fred and George’s jokes, or offering everyone more food, he falls back into a sour expression.

When you get ready for bed that night, taking off your jewellery, you look over at him.

“I thought you would know by now not to listen to Snape’s goading,” you say. “He only says that stuff to rile you up.”

“I know, I know—”

“Didn't seem like you knew that,” you say, a bitterness lining the edges of your words.

“You heard what he said about James, about Harry,” he mutters angrily. “What kind of person would I be if I didn't defend them?”

“You don't need to defend them with your wand. He only wants to get a reaction from you, and you're giving him exactly what he wants. Leave the wand in your pocket next time. He has nothing on you.”

With a clink, you drop your earrings into the little ceramic plate on your nightstand.

He huffs in disagreement. “He's right about one thing: I’m of no use to the Order sitting here.”

You turn to him sharply, moving forward to sit on the bed beside him. “Forget the Order. Sure I'm not much use to it either, staying at Hogwarts all the time, am I?”

He opens his mouth to refute this but you continue talking before he can say anything.

“You’re of use to Harry. You don't realise how much he needs you,” you say softly, pulling a lock of hair behind his ear. “He really loves you, Sirius, and he is a lot better off now that you're in his life. Nevermind what Snape said — he might be doing the most for the Order, but that doesn’t automatically make him a good person. He is cruel and enjoys ruining the happiness of others. You do not, and for that you are a million times better than him.”

He leans into your touch, sighing. “I would have killed him.”

You snort, laughing. “He would've killed you. You might've been good with your wand when you were twenty, but Snape’s got a decade of practice over you while you were in Azkaban.”

He moves against your hand to press a kiss to the inside of your palm, before falling back on the bed with a loud, exasperated sigh.

“I hate him.”

You laugh. “Me too, Sirius, me too.”

⁠✧⁠*⁠。✧⁠*⁠。

→ all kinds of interaction greatly appreciated! ♡

not to sound like a broken record...but sorry for the delayed upload. also sorry for the sad start to this chapter, hope i made up for it later on :) happy christmas everyone! I can't begin to describe how kind everyone who has read this series has been to me. You have all been absolutely lovely and writing this would not be possible without all your endless support. I love you all ❤️

As always, the biggest hugs and kisses to my taglist loves:

@mothraantics @wholelottalove05 @izuoyarmin @devoid-swanky @carpe000diem @mooonyxoxo @navs-bhat

@hyperspeedo @idkman5335 @elanna-elrondiel @murielisacertifieddilf @penelopied @imgondeletedis @wooyoungsrightsock @jennifer0305 @wolfdragon0424 @lovemesomevesey @aylinnmaslow @boiolay