#without being a 'depression meal'

[crazysodomite]

im gonna be honest i need recipe suggestions bc the only thing ive been eating these past months is slop (vegetable stew or soup, basically just chopping vegetables and throwing them together)

im going to bare my soul for the worlds judgement. there is not a single skillet in this house i can cook eggs in without them sticking to it and being nasty so i dont even cook eggs anymore. i used to eat egg sandwiches but uhh i dont remember why i stopped

i do not have 'complex recipes' money. i dont have enough money for cheese. i never buy cheese, ever. and im completely serious. i have potato and carrots money.

[tobeholyistobeempty]

joel miller • be quiet, or i’ll make you

“Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

WARNINGS - smut smut smut mdni, porn with some plot, forced proximity, feral!joel, risky/secret sex, brutal sex, size!kink, dubcon if you squint but mostly a mutual want situation, reader and joel have an unspoken relationship, copious amounts of dirty talk, piv, creampie, daddy dom joel.

The world ended in disaster.

You’ve lived with that knowledge for years now, and you think you’ve finally come to terms with the kind of things you’ll get from it. Pain. Loss. Destruction. The same chaos, day in day out, just in different forms.

You know that at this point you’ll be lucky if you survive until tomorrow; so you take it in stride.

And it’s with that thought that you find yourself following Joel into the city, your steps just as reluctant as he was to agree to this. You don’t particularly want to be out here — and neither does he — but you’ve been wanting to look for more medical supplies for a while now and Joel wasn’t about to let you go alone. Despite how much bitchin’ he did beforehand.

You can’t tell which is more depressing; the streets covered in broken glass and littered with remnants of a life long gone, or the buildings that are nearly crumbling to the ground. Neither are very pleasant to look at, but not many things are these days, so you keep moving. You have a job to do, and you don’t have too much time to do it — the sun won’t be up much longer, and you want to get the fuck out of here before the real dangerous kinds of people come out lookin’ for their next meal.

Or, whatever Joel had said earlier. Mostly just in attempt to scare you.

Minutes feel like hours as you keep your gaze pointed forward, and when you pass a shattered window belonging to some old broken down building, you don’t dare look inside.

You’d rather not know what lingers inside death eaten walls.

But it’s while you’re doing that, keeping your gaze ahead, that you miss the fact that Joel has stopped walking. When it finally registers that the world around you has gotten quieter - and when you finally do turn around - you’re surprised for two reasons.

The first being that he even stopped at all, and the second being the fucking look on his face.

“You alright?” You ask as you edge closer, glancing at the abandoned building that’s in front of him. It doesn’t look like anything remarkable, but there’s definitely something in the way he stares at it. “Joel, you still with me?”

He isn’t saying anything, his expression is rather blank — but you know him well enough to know that he’s not just seeing what’s right in front of him. He’s seeing something else entirely. He snaps back to attention faster than you would have expected at the sound of your voice, and when his eyes land down on yours - there’s something inside them that makes your heart sink.

“Somethin’s wrong.” Is all he says before he’s grabbing your wrist, and yanking you inside.

Your heart starts pounding faster, but you try your best to stay calm. He isn’t the kind of man who would panic without cause, so you know he must have seen something - or heard something - and you’re doing your best not to let that scare you.

“Joel—shit—what the hell—“ you stumble over rubble and pieces of broken furniture. “What’re you—“

He’s pulling you deeper into the building, not giving you a chance to stand still long enough to say more. When you get to a staircase he yanks you down a few steps, waiting for the sound of the door shutting behind you before shoving your shoulders back against the wall.

“You listen to me—“ he’s panting, words spat through grit teeth. “You’re gonna’ shut up, and you’re gonna’ stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

The tone of his voice alone forces you to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from talking. It’s been a long, long time since you’ve seen him this serious. You’d almost forgotten that he was capable of producing this kind of tension - the kind that’s so palpable it could be cut with a knife.

So, you just nod, lips pressed into a thin line, and you hope that it’s enough.

“Alright.” He doesn’t seem certain of your answer, but he nods anyway, reaching for your wrist again and dragging you down the remaining stairs.

When you get to the bottom, he opens the door slowly, eyes darting around until they land on a nearby closet - and it’s only after the first step you take towards it that you hear noises on the floor above you.

Footsteps.

And way too fucking many for you to be comfortable.

The kind of heavy, laden-boot marching you’d dread to hear on good days - nevermind while you’re out in dangerous territory, trying your damnest to flee unseen. It’s only seconds before the steps grow louder, and you can feel your heart rate speeding up again - while Joel is staring at the ceiling with such intensity you think that he might just be able to will it to break if he so much as blinked at it.

Then, in a flash, he snaps out of it - dragging you toward the closet and shoving you inside before you can even think about protesting.

And god, is it fucking cramped.

The closet is small. Small enough that you have to force yourself closer to the wall so that he has space to squeeze inside behind you. And it’s within the first second that he shuts the door, and the darkness swallows you both whole - in which you realize you have a new problem altogether.

“Joel—“ you choke out as a heavy palm snakes around your waist, pressing tight against your belly. He’s a solid wall behind you, his front flush against your back, and all you can fucking feel is his hot breath against your ear - his stubble tickling your cheek. “What’s—“

“No talking.” And then he brings his free hand up to cover your mouth, and you have to stifle a noise that threatens to explode in your chest. “Not a fuckin’ word.”

You take solace in the fact that he can’t see how flushed your face becomes, but your stupid brain is working overtime - overanalyzing the feeling of his calloused palm against your lips, the heat of his mouth way too fucking close to your ear, his free hand that seems to be sliding lower down your abdomen—

“Stop squirming.” He whispers, all heat as his fingers press a little harder against your lower stomach.

You long to bark at him. I can’t control it.

But you can’t. So instead you try to focus on the sounds of the people upstairs. You try to pay more attention to the way your heart is threatening to break free through your sternum. Anything to try and take your mind off of the way he’s touching you - but he makes it so, so hard.

You’re certain you would have a better fighting chance if you were to try and move mountains.

Without even thinking, your hand comes up to wrap around his wrist, and it’s then that his lips curve into a smile against your ear. And when the realization comes crashing down - the realization that he’s fully aware of what’s happening to you - you think you may just collapse.

Oh, god, this is torture.

If it were anyone else, you’d think this was a joke. You’d think that perhaps the way he’s touching you was some kind of attempt at making the terrifying just a little more tolerable, a little more exhilarating for different reasons - but this isn’t just anyone. This is Joel. And you know his mind never works like what. Instead, he simply acts on instinct - in ways that usually leave you reeling and your thoughts in a whirlwind.

You’ve been through this a million times with him.

Unsurprisingly, this time is no different.

And as you try to focus on the footsteps above you - desperately searching for a thought, a train of any kind to follow - his hand moves again, fingertips tracing the waistband of your dirt covered cargos - barely dipping between fabric and skin.

It’s slow, teasing, but it’s enough. And you don’t currently have enough control over yourself to stop your back from arching, pressing directly against the bulge in his jeans that’s growing impatiently despite himself.

And it’s the way he exhales in your ear, the way you hear him inhale right after before his nose brushes the shell of your ear — before his hand dips lower to trace the zipper of your fly — that you find yourself fighting for your life to swallow the moan that threatens to spill because the people on the second floor are now shouting and hollering, and the whole floor seems to quake under the force of their heavy boots.

A second passes. Then two, and then ten — there’s silence. You’re pretty sure the steps are now heading away from where you’re hiding, and you think Joel must agree because he slips his hand from your mouth, sliding it down your jaw.

“Joel—“ you choke out, the last syllables of his name sounding desperate. “I-we—“

And yet again, you aren’t able to finish, because he has a habit of taking the words you think you want to say straight from your chest. You aren’t able to process it until a moment later - when his mouth finds your neck, fingers slipping into your now unzipped cargo pants.

This isn’t what you meant.

You don’t have the chance to tell him that. You don’t have the cognitive ability to push the idea that this isn’t the time. You don’t even have enough room in your head to acknowledge how this could go so badly, so quickly. You’re too drunk on the high of his touch to think straight.

And when his fingers drag the lace of your underwear to the side - all you can do is squeeze your eyes shut and pray to a God you’re sure you’ve never actually believed in that you’ll survive this without the shame over how fucking soaked you are eating you alive first.

His fingers find your clit, making slow, small circles. Just enough to make you keen. Just enough to make you forget who you are, and what you’re doing. You think if he keeps it up for any longer, the sounds trapped behind your teeth are going to jailbreak before you can get a handle on them. He knows it too - because it’s only a split second after that thought enters your mind, that he whispers gravel in your ear again.

“If y’can’t stay quiet, I’ll make you.” And it’s said with enough sternness to let you know that it isn’t a threat, it’s a promise. “Be good f’me.”

You don’t know if you can. You don’t know if you can possibly keep yourself silent. Not when his lips are teasing your burning flesh, not when his fingers are rolling your clit, not when he’s whispering promises of heaven in your ear.

But it’s then, that you hear the floorboards creak, and you know then, that you have no choice.

Either find a way to stay silent, or throw yourself headfirst into danger.

“Mm.” He hums as his fingers slip lower, sliding along your slit until they find your embarrassingly wet heat - to which you find yourself widening your feet despite yourself.

And this time, the noise that slips isn’t audible. Not to him anyway. But you can feel the sound vibrate the back of your throat. You can feel the way it glides over your tongue - and when you have the wherewithal, you bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough that it’s almost painful. He doesn’t seem to notice, and you’re glad because you know he’d only find it funny.

He pushes a finger into you, and holy fuck—

“Oh—“ the sound gets out of your mouth before you can stop it, involuntarily defying his direct order to shut the fuck up.

You hope, foolishly, it was quiet enough for him to not hear.

It isn’t, and as a result the hand that had been sitting lazily around your jaw slips firm over your mouth again, yanking your head back against his shoulder. You feel his fingers tighten as if to let you know that it’ll only get harder as his finger pushes deeper, and then retreats, pumping into you slow and steady.

“F-fuck—“ your whine is smothered against his palm, and you somehow have half the mind to realize the footsteps have stopped. Vanished. “J-joel.”

You’re expecting some type of response, some biting be quiet — but instead, all you get is a deep grunt in your ear and a roll of his hips against your ass as he slides another finger into your cunt, thumb brushing your clit.

And there’s almost no fight in you left to resist this - to resist the pleasure he’s pouring into your veins. You’d curse him if you could, if you could put more than four coherent words together to do it - but all there seems to be left in your mind is his name, which he’s using against you like he always does.

“Good girl.” He praises between slow, steady thrusts and you have to wonder what kind of game he’s playing to get you like this - to get you so undone you don’t even remember your own goddamn name.

Then again, you know better than to think there’s a game, at all. There are no games with Joel. He does what he wants and you’re either the benefit of it, or you’re the object of his ire.

But when a third finger slips into you, stretching and stuffing your cunt wider than you were mentally prepared for - you forget about any of that as you bite down on his hand as hard as you dare because it’s just too fucking much.

“J-joel—“ you try again, shaking your head. The footsteps haven’t returned. You have to believe they’re gone. You know Joel knows it too. “P-please—“

And like someone struck a match in a room full of gasoline, he seems to have decided that you’ve waited long enough. In the blink of an eye, you feel his palm leave your mouth, and move to the limited space between you. He’s unbuckling his belt.

“What’s the matter, huh?” He all but growls in your ear, still pumping his fingers deep. “Three too much for you? How d’ya think you’re gonna’ take my cock if you can’t even take my fuckin’ fingers.”

God. His voice is deep, dripping like sin. It goes straight to the center of your chest and you feel like the walls of your rib cage are cracking open. You have no idea how you’re going to be able to take him like this - especially when he’s so far gone it’s like he’s forgotten himself.

“I-I don’t know—“ and it’s the truth. You have no concept of how you’ll take a single drop of him in this state. But he’s already shifted himself free, pulling his fingers out to yank your pants down and slide his throbbing shaft into the slick space between your thighs. “F-fuck. You’re crazy.”

“Worse.” And you already know what he’s going to tell you just by the way the word drips into your ear. “M’insane.”

Truer words.

You never imagined that you’d ever find the thought of Joel Miller going insane so enticing. You imagine all kinds of ways you would have pictured it if someone had told you back when you first met - but somehow, this was never one of the things that came to mind.

“What does that make me?” You hiss as his fingers find your clit again, as he kicks your legs a little wider to slide his leaking tip against your slit.

“A goddamned fool.” He answers as he sinks into you, and there’s never been a more divine connection in the world. He groans into your ear, and you have to bite your lip again until you’re sure you might draw blood. “But you already knew that.”

And somehow, even still - you do.

Yeah. You do. He isn’t the type of man someone can ever know fully. He’s got walls and barriers built high - a fortress, impenetrable and vast - but somehow, you still manage to squeeze your way through it. It isn’t lost on you that you’re the only one who has.

“J-joel—go fuckin’ easy, please—“ you’re grabbing at the wall infront of you as he splits you open without so much as giving you a chance for breath. “It’s—been a while—“

And that stops him for a beat - but not for long, and not long enough. He still doesn’t go easy, still thrusts right to the hilt with the kind of power you’d associate with a man half his age - a man who (if the world hadn’t gone to hell) would be so close to retiring that he could taste the future on the back of his tongue - but you wouldn’t want him to anyway.

“I know, babygirl. I know. Just take it nice n’ deep, f’me. Just take it.”

And then he grabs a handful of your hair, pulling you back so he can get even deeper, your spine arching just enough.

Fucking hell.

The sound that’s almost impossible not to make threatens to rip from the pit of your chest, but you bite down in time and it turns into something between a strangled cry and an elongated whimper. You know you’re going to be walking funny tomorrow - but right now, there’s no such thing as being able to imagine tomorrow.

“You—fuck.” It’s a whisper so pained someone might think you’re actually being impaled. In some ways you are. “Oh, god, Joel. Ohmygod you’re deep—“

“There she is.” He all but growls into your ear. “There’s the tough woman I know.” If he wasn’t holding you so tightly you might’d fall at the way he suddenly slams into you. “Tightest pussy I ever had. Goddamn. You wanna feel good, huh? I’ll make you feel good. Just lemme’ have it nice n’ deep, and I’ll get you back later. Let you sit on my face for hours. Make you cum till’ you’re cryin.”

You almost bite your tongue in half at the very thought of him doing that. Your mind is a wasteland of icoherent thought - and it’s then that you know with all the certainty in the world that you’d been done for the moment he came into your life. He always had a rough edge to him - but back then, when you first met, you thought it was just the product of a shitty life. But now, you know better - now, you know he’s just a good-natured person with an innate drive to protect - and you’d go to your grave knowing that you’d go there loving him for it.

Even though, right now, it feels a lot more like he’s trying to kill you rather than protect you.

“Ohhh, fuck—“ you hiss through grit teeth as he pulls out, dragging slow at tight, wet walls. “M’close to cryin’ now.”

“Mmm.” He all but purrs. “That’ll mean I’m doin’ my job right.” There’s heat in the way he speaks that you swear would burn even the toughest person. But then again, that’s always been something you’d only ever been able to say about Joel. “M’not gonna’ be gentle. You know you ain’t deserving of it right now.”

Another time, you’d tell him he was wrong. Another time, you would have argued that you hadn’t done a single thing wrong - but right now, your thoughts are just as lost as your voice.

Still, you try your best. “W-why? Because I—mmf—dragged you outta’ bed?”

“Wrong.” You can’t see it, but you’re sure there’s a smirk on his face. “You really wanna get into it? Wanna’ make a list?”

You don’t, but you have the horrible feeling that this is going to happen either way.

“Do I have a choice?” You ask with what little breath you can find.

“No.” The word sounds so simple - but in that moment, it might as well have been a dagger. “You don’t.”

He pulls out just so he can drive back into you harder, hand sliding from your hair and back over your mouth.

“First, you dragged me outta’ bed. That right there? Shoulda been spanked for it. Next, you got yourself pinned in a goddamn closet with me after raiders chased us down. Almost got us killed.” Another painfully slow draw out, followed by a hard drive back in - smacking your cervix. “An’ for what? Cause’ you don’t wanna’ listen when I say it’s too dangerous to be out here.”

There are a million retorts you could have - most of them have something to do with you being able to take care of yourself - but none of them even find the beginning of your tongue.

He’ll take that win. Just like he takes everything else.

“Not t’mention you’ve kept this perfect ass from me for far too long.” He’s fucking you hard now, head kissing your cervix with each long thrust and you’re crying out under his palm but the sound doesn’t escape. He makes sure of it. “Mmm, yeah. Far. Too. Long.”

You want to tell him to shut up - that he’s being an ass - but you’re two broken breaths from wailing at the sting on your cervix and the pressure he’s now swirling on your clit. The only thing that’s left for you to do is the only thing you can do.

Take it.

You roll your hips, shoving back against him with every thrust just to have him hit that much deeper - and if he has something to say about it, he doesn’t say it. But he seems satisfied with just that, and suddenly, you think he’s just as close as you are.

“That’s it.” His voice is tight. “Good girl. Just like that.”

His hips snap against your ass so hard you think you might end up bruised tomorrow, but the thought only adds to the haze in your mind.

“Ffffffuck—Joel—“ you mewl, pathetic desperate and needy as a whore, against his palm. His fingers speed up against your clit. “Oh!”

“Take it, baby. Make me fuckin’ proud.” He hisses in your ear, a groan slipping out between it. “So good. Pussy feels so good.”

“Gonna’ make me cum.” You try to speak - maybe another time you’d be embarrassed by how desperate you sound, but this isn’t that time and it’s not the time to be anything other than truthful. “Mmm—gonna cum J-joel—“

“Yeah you are.” He grunts, the rhythm of his thrusts stuttering just a little. “Squeezing my cock so goddamn tight. Fuckin’ cum on it, babygirl. Wanna’ feel you.”

The sound that pushes past his palm at just the last moment doesn’t sound like you - but you know it is. It's the sound of the kind of pleasure that you’ve never experienced before that makes your entire body feel like a rubber band that’s too tight, and you have the vaguest sense of your walls squeezing the life out of him but there’s nothing you can do to stop it from happening at all - becuase your climax hits you like a goddamn freight train and its run you over hard.

You think he’s saying something - you know he is - but you can’t hear anything aside from the blood racing in your ears. Even still, you know exactly what happens next, because you’ve experienced it so many times. The way he loses himself, like he forgets every bit of control he prides himself for having and the need to empty himself inside you takes over.

He spills into you hard - and you love every second of it for the simplicity of the comedown.

It’s the kind of feeling that washes you in warmth. It’s the kind of feeling that tells you that the world is going to be okay, so long as you’ve got him and he’s got you. He groans and his hands come out to brace against the wall infront of you to hold himself up as he shoots hot jets of cum deep inside your cunt - and you can’t remember the last time you’d heard him breathe this hard. Though, truth be told, you can’t remember the last time you heard yourself breathe this hard, either.

Your mouth feels dry, your mind feels hazy, and your legs feel weak - and as he leans over you, he can surely tell all three - but he doesn’t say anything.

Instead, he drags his mouth over your ear with an inhale.

“Mmhmm.” He grumbles as he presses a kiss to your jaw. “Look what you made me to do ya.” Your cheek gets the same treatment, and a breath later as he turns your head slightly, your lips do too. “Gonna’ have my cum leakin’ out of ya all the way back to camp.”

The sound you make doesn’t even seem human, but it’s muffled before it even comes - because he’s kissing you. And it isn’t a hard kiss like you’d expect - it’s slow and steady, and you know he’s doing it in a way to say sorry, as if he realizes he might’ve gone a little too far.

You smile into it, and he does too.

“You really are insane.” You whisper as he pulls back slightly. “My cervix gonna’ need a week vacation after that.”

“M’not a good man, darlin'. If I was, I’d say sorry for that.” He whispers with a small kiss against your lips. “But I ain’t. So, I’ll just tell you I’ll take care of you later as much as you like. That good enough for now?”

There’s only one answer for you. Only one that’s ever been the answer with him.

“Always.” There is a beat of silence, and you smile in the dark. “I love you.”

He pulls out of you, finally, leaving the part of himself behind that tells you how much he loves you too without verbalizing it. Soon as he fixes his jeans, he helps you fix yours.

“And I love you.” He whispers, calloused palm finding your own. “Let’s get outta’ here. The sooner we’re back, the better.”

And that, you can’t agree more with.

[punishedmemelia]

why is being a member of society so difficult. get me outta here!

[colouredbyd]

“Tell Me You Will Believe Me”

poly!marauders x fem!reader

summary: Your visions as a Seer used to be harmless—until they turned dark. Now, you find yourself caught between protecting the people you love and the terrifying truth only you can see.

wc: 3.6k

warnings: emotional abuse, graphic violence, dark themes, angst, betrayal, emotional withdrawal, mental health struggles (anxiety, depression), trauma, past trauma, death of a loved one, remus being a sweetheart, visions of future tragedy, so much hurt/comfort, LOTS of angst but then happy ending <3

authors note: i should be studying but this idea has been on my mind for weeks so i decided to just write it, enjoy the major angst with comfort. Im trying to test my skills, idk should i do part 2 or leave the ending like this?

part 2 masterlist

It started slowly. Almost imperceptibly.

At first, you skipped breakfast. Said you’d meet them later in class. You didn’t.

Then you stopped holding Sirius’s hand in the hallways. Your fingers used to seek his like a reflex—lacing together as naturally as breath. Until one day, his hand brushed yours and you flinched, pretending not to notice. He didn’t say anything, just shoved his hands into his pockets and looked away.

You stopped waiting for James after class too. Where once you leaned against the wall with a playful grin, teasing him about being late, now you left as soon as the bell rang. “Thought you’d already gone,” you’d lie, when he showed up confused and breathless, eyes searching the corridor for you.

You started skipping Hogsmeade weekends, claiming migraines, unfinished essays, fatigue. “I’ll just stay in and rest,” you’d say, brushing kisses onto their cheeks like goodbyes. “You go. Have fun my love.”

They noticed, of course. The boys weren’t blind.

But you were clever.

You still smiled when spoken to. Still said “love you” back. Still sat beside them at meals—even if you barely touched your food, barely looked up, barely breathed. You learned how to be present without being there. An echo. A ghost in your own skin.

The boys watched you like you were slipping underwater, helpless to stop it.

One evening, James sat beside you on the Gryffindor common room couch, his voice low and joking, “You’ve got this whole ‘mysterious tragic poet’ thing going on lately baby. Should we be worried?”

You forced a laugh. “I just haven’t been sleeping well.”

He smiled at you, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “We miss you.”

“I’m right here, Jamie,” you whispered.

-

The smell of fire, of burning flesh. Someone’s laugh twists into a scream that ends too fast.

-

But you weren’t. Not really.

“Take her and RUN, Sirius!” Remus roars, storming forward and grabbing him by the collar, shoving him back like the fire behind him hasn’t already started swallowing everything whole. “NOW!”

There’s blood in Remus’s mouth when he speaks, on his hands when he clutches Sirius, on his temple where something struck too hard, too fast. His lips are trembling but his eyes are terrifying—brighter than the firelight. They burn with something final.

“Moony—” Sirius chokes, voice hoarse with panic, tears already rising. “I can’t—”

“THERE’S NO TIME!” Remus howls, like it’s killing him to say it. “You don’t look back. You don’t come back. You take her and you fucking run, do you hear me? You keep her safe—Sirius, please—

-

-

“Hey hey hey pretty girl, look at me breathe for me come on.”

Sirius’s voice breaks through your fog. He’s kneeling in front of you now, his dark eyes wide with concern. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Dorca and Peter are there too, hovering close by, their faces twisted in worry. They’re all looking at you, their concern thick in the air.

“Are you alright?” Remus asks, voice soft, but there’s something underlying—something urgent in his tone. He crouches beside you, his eyes searching for an answer you don’t have.

You open your mouth to speak, but no sound comes out. You feel pathetic having a panic attack infront of everyone. The vision’s weight is still on your chest, pressing down on you, suffocating you. It feels like the whole world is closing in.

Sirius looks like he might reach for you, but he hesitates, as if afraid to touch you. The intensity of the moment hangs heavy in the air. “You’re scaring me princess.” he says quietly, eyes softening.

And for the first time in days, you feel something like a tremor in your chest—like the weight of their love, their worry, is finally sinking in.

“please just hold me.” you hiccup through sobs, your voice sounding too small, too fragile. But the words feel hollow in your mouth.

And they do, they hold you until you feel safe enough. 

It was Remus who saw through it first.

He’d catch you staring into the fire too long. Flinching when the wind howled against the castle windows. He noticed your fingers trembling when you thought no one was looking. The way your hands hovered just above the boys’ shoulders when they leaned in—like you wanted to touch them, like you were afraid to.

“Are you alright, dove?” he whispered one night, his hand brushing your arm.

You blinked, startled. You hadn’t even noticed him sit beside you.

“Fine,” you said too quickly, too brightly. “Just tired.”

He didn’t believe you. He never did.

But he let you go.

After that, everything became quieter, not the visions though. They got worse, more clear, and more horrifying. 

You stopped calling Sirius by his stupid nicknames. No more “Padfoot,” no more “Starboy.” Just “Sirius,” plain and clipped.

You forgot James’s birthday. The guilt nearly ate you alive, even as you watched him pretend not to be disappointed.

You stopped reading with Remus at night. Once, you’d fall asleep curled against his chest while he read aloud, voice soft and warm against your temple. Now, you claimed headaches. Stayed in your bed. Doors locked.

They started whispering when they thought you couldn’t hear.

“She doesn’t laugh anymore,” James murmured one night.

“I think she’s scared,” Sirius replied. “Of what, I don’t know.”

“Us?” Remus said quietly.

-

-

“They know. They know, James—run!” and then footsteps and a crash and nothing.

A golden ring in a pool of blood. The sound of Sirius sobbing into Remus’s shirt. “They said she was dead. They said—”

Remus’s breath on your neck. “Run.”

 Smoke curling under a door you don’t recognize.

The sound of chains dragging across stone. Always the chains.

Blood on parchment.

Your name scrawled across it again and again and again.

-

-

You pretended you were asleep, but your pillow was wet.

Until one night, Sirius finally snapped.

You were halfway through dinner in the Great Hall when he slammed his goblet down and growled, “Alright, what the hell’s going on with you?”

You blinked, startled.

“You don’t look at us anymore,” he hissed. “You don’t touch us. You barely speak. If you want to leave, just say so, but stop pretending everything’s fine.”

“I don’t want to leave,” you said, voice breaking.

“You already have.”

And when you looked at him—really looked—you saw it: the shadow of his future, the one you’d dreamed a hundred times. Screaming behind bars. Eyes hollow.

You turned away. “Please. Just let it go.”

And he did. Because even angry, Sirius would always choose you. Always love you, even when it tore him apart.

Then weeks turned into a month.

Then a month turned into two. 

And you kept fading—slowly, quietly, like death by a thousand unspoken words.

Until Remus couldn’t take it anymore.

Until that night in the library when he found you curled into yourself like a broken star, and you shattered in his arms and told him everything.

You were in the library at nearly midnight—eyes hollow, curled in the farthest back corner like you were trying to vanish into the stone.

You didn’t hear Remus at first.

But suddenly, he was there—standing in front of you, pale and shaking, with something desperate in his eyes.

“You’re done hiding.”

His voice trembled. You looked up, startled.

“I tried to give you space,” he said quietly. “I tried to trust you. Its been two months and 4 days (Y/n). I can’t anymore. You’re fading right in front of me. And I don’t care how much you lie and pretend you’re okay—you’re not.”

You stood too fast, the chair scraping behind you. “Please, just let it go rem.”

“No, dammit!” he snapped. “You shut us out. You stopped letting us love you. You look at James like you’re already mourning him. You look at Sirius like he’s glass. And you haven’t looked at me like anything in weeks.”

Your hands were shaking. “I’m trying to protect you.”

“I don’t want protection, I want you!” he shouted.

The silence that followed was deafening.

His eyes were glistening. “Tell me what’s happening. Even if it hurts. Even if it ruins everything. Please.”

You stared at him, throat tightening, vision blurring. 

Remus’s hands trembled as they gently cupped your face, his eyes searching yours for answers. The weight of everything was pressing down on him now, and he could feel the tension in your body, the way you were holding yourself back.

“Please, just tell me,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, pleading. “I need to know, I need to understand what’s happening to you.”

You closed your eyes, tears brimming, throat tight with the truth you couldn’t bear to say. You’d been holding it in for so long, the fear, the guilt. It was all too much.

“Tell me you will believe me,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out. “Please. Tell me you will believe me.”

Remus’s breath hitched at your words, his grip on your face tightening slightly as if to pull you closer to him, as if to anchor himself to you. His heart was racing now, but his voice was steady. “I will,” he promised, his voice raw with desperation. “I believe you. I always will.”

You sank to the floor, legs giving out, and he followed, arms catching you before you could crumble completely. And then, for the first time in weeks, you told someone the truth.

“I’ve been having visions.”

He froze, but didn’t speak.

The words hung in the air between you like a spell. You couldn’t look at him. You couldn’t face his eyes yet. The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, but then Remus exhaled like he had been holding his breath too, his hands moving to hold yours tightly.

“What do you mean? Visions?” His voice was filled with concern, but there was something else there—something dark, like he already knew this wasn’t just a simple problem. This wasn’t something you could brush off with a shrug and a laugh.

You pulled your hands away, holding them against your chest, as if protecting yourself from the storm you knew was about to break.

“It’s like—I see things. Fragments. Pieces. But they’re never in order, Remus.” Your voice broke, and you cursed yourself for sounding so weak, for not being able to keep it together just a little longer. “Sometimes, I’m in them. Sometimes, I’m not. But it’s always horrible. Always the same. It’s—it’s the end, Remus. The end of all of us.”

Remus’s eyes never left you. He didn’t interrupt. He didn’t say a word, but his face twisted with confusion and concern, his brow furrowed like he was trying to make sense of the puzzle you were handing him.

“The night we’re all going to die,” you continued, your throat raw. “I’ve seen it, over and over again. I—I see James… He’s screaming. I see Sirius… He’s… he’s not himself. And you’re—” You stopped yourself, unable to finish the sentence, the emotion too raw to put into words. “You’re not there. You’re gone, Remus. And it’s my fault.”

Remus’s face went pale as he absorbed what you were saying, his jaw tightening with the weight of your words. He reached out, his fingers grazing your arm, but you jerked back, your heart racing as you continued, desperate to say it all before it consumed you.

“I’m not always there, but when I am… It’s like I’m not even alive. I watch from some place far away. Sometimes, I see myself dead.” You let out a shaky breath, trying to hold it together. “I see James and Sirius, and I—God, I can’t breathe. I just… I can’t fix it, Remus. I can’t stop it. There’s a traitor, someone in our circle, someone close, and they’re going to betray us. James dies, Sirius gets blamed. They throw him in Azkaban… And I—I get taken, or worse.”

Remus’s hand reached out, but you flinched away, guilt and fear flooding your chest. You couldn’t look at him anymore. You couldn’t look at anyone, not with this knowledge hanging over you.

“I’ve been pushing you all away,” you whispered. “I’m scared, Remus. I’m terrified. I’ve been trying to protect you, to protect all of you. But I can’t stop what’s coming. I can’t stop it. And it’s eating me alive. I’m watching all of us die and I can’t do anything about it.”

Tears welled in your eyes, but you didn’t dare let them fall. You were already too weak. Too broken. You couldn’t bear to show him any more of your fragility.

“Please, Remus, you have to promise me—promise me you won’t tell them.” Your voice was barely a whisper now, a plea. “Not yet. Not until we know what to do. I don’t know how to stop it, but I have to try. I have to do something, and I can’t do it alone.”

His hand was trembling as he cupped your face, lifting it so that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. His gaze was filled with so much pain, but also an understanding that shattered you further.

“Don’t ever think you’re alone in this, dove,” he whispered. “I’m with you. Always. We’ll find a way to stop it.”

You collapsed into his arms then, the sobs you’d been holding in finally breaking free. He held you tight, letting you cry it all out, his hand rubbing your back in comforting circles.

When the tears subsided, he whispered into your head, “ I believe you, dove.”

And in that moment, you finally allowed yourself to believe it too—believe that together, you might still have a chance to rewrite the ending.

The days that followed were desperate, and the sense of dread hung thick in the air.

The Marauders—Sirius, James, and Remus—refused to leave your side. Remus spent hours with you, pushing you to strengthen your Occlumency, your focus unwavering as he guided you through each mental block. His presence was a steady reassurance, though the unspoken tension between you both never quite lifted. The weight of what you’d seen in that vision was suffocating, and you had to push yourself to stay strong for them. For him.

Every moment, every glance you exchanged with your boyfriends felt charged with the weight of a looming secret. You knew things were changing, but you couldn’t tell them yet. Not until you knew the truth.

And so, you turned to your studies, hoping that if you immersed yourself in magic, in spells that might give you a fighting chance, the gnawing fear would subside.

It was a normal evening. The fire crackled merrily in the common room, casting a warm, golden glow over the four of you. Sirius sprawled out on the couch, teasing James as he flicked through a Quidditch magazine, his signature grin pulling at the corners of his lips. James was laughing, leaning over to nudge Sirius, while you and Remus sat across from them, trying to hold onto a semblance of normalcy.

For a fleeting moment, everything felt right. Remus caught your eye from across the room, and his lips curved into a small, reassuring smile. You returned it, but deep inside, the unease never fully disappeared.

“So, how’s the study session going baby?” Sirius asked, turning his head lazily toward you.

“It’s… fine siri.” you replied, your voice betraying none of the storm inside you. “Just trying to get through all this Occlumency nonsense.”

Remus laughed softly, his gaze never straying from you. “You’re doing great. You’re stronger than you think.”

James grinned. “You’re both scary smart,” he said with a wink. “I’ve been trying to catch up, but it’s been a slow process.”

Sirius chuckled, his usual mischievous energy making it feel like everything was just as it should be.

But then, in the blink of an eye, the room seemed to shift.

The dizziness hit first, so sudden you barely had time to brace yourself. Your vision blurred, and a rush of cold air washed over you. You pressed a hand to your temple, trying to steady yourself, but it was no use.

It wasn’t just dizziness. It was like the world itself was slipping away, replaced by something darker. A vision.

-

-

The world is suffocating—darkness swallowing everything.

The air is thick with screams—raw, guttural, pleading.

James’s glasses fall, shattered into pools of red.

The earth is drenched, soaked with fear, with blood, with everything you never wanted to know.

“Run!” Sirius’s voice cracks as he yanks you forward

You hear Remus, pleading, begging—

“Please, don’t look back. Just go!”

The air is heavy with the crack of spells, the sickening sound of bones breaking.

Sirius’s grip is all you have left to hold on to. You feel the weight of everything pressing down on you, but his voice is a lifeline.

“We need to go NOW.” You don’t look back, but you hear it. That scream.

James.

It’s not just a scream. It’s the sound of everything breaking. The sound of life ending.

It rips through you, through all of you, tearing something deep inside that you can’t even name.

Remus’s eyes lock with yours for a brief second, and in them, you see everything: fear, love, regret. “Don’t look back,” Remus’s voice is barely a whisper, 

The screams keep coming, one after the other. A storm of death and pain. Then, the worst sound of all.

Remus.

You hear him cry out—no, not cry out—begging. His voice breaking, splintering as if his very soul is being torn apart.

The sound cuts through the air like a knife, a desperate plea for mercy that doesn’t come.

The trees are closing in, but you can’t outrun the screams. You can’t outrun what’s happening.

Sirius stumbles, dragging you with him, but you both know it’s too late.

The ground is shaking now, trembling with the weight of death.

Something moves in the distance. Something that’s always been there, lurking, watching.

It’s him.

You hear the soft whisper of a name in your mind, but you don’t believe it.

The world stops.

The truth crashes through you, breaking you wide open.

The traitor.

The one you trusted.

The one who sold them out.

Everything you thought you knew is shattered.

-

-

Gasping for air, chest heaving, you felt the pressure of hands on your shoulders, holding you steady.

“Hey—hey, stay with me. You’re okay.”

It was Remus. His voice was strained with worry. But it didn’t make sense. None of it did.

The world was still spinning, and the faces around you were all blurry—except for one. The one that you couldn’t pull your eyes away from.

Peter was standing by the door. His eyes were unreadable.

And in that moment, you knew.

“Peter.”

The word was barely a whisper, but it hit the room like thunder.

Remus’s grip tightened, his voice full of panic. “What are you saying? What do you mean?”

But you couldn’t answer. Your mind was reeling from the truth. The betrayal that had been right in front of you all along.

It was Peter.

[clairewritesfanfics]

Dragon!Sylus x Non-MC!Reader Part 1

Synopsis: A depressed, transmigrated fan dedicates their life worshipping their favorite character. (Because not everyone can be a badass like MC.)

Trigger Warnings: depression, mentions of self-harm and suicide attempts

Imagine being a depressed and overworked person, on the brink of throwing away your life, when your attempt is interrupted by an ad of Sylus' voice saying, "I adore you. There is no love purer than mine." Broken and alone, the words of a fictional character sends you to tears and you stop yourself from doing the unthinkable.

Finding hope again, if only in the brief moments spent playing a dating sim, you decided to give life a chance. You continued with the same routine, waking up, going to work, eating the same cheap meals from the convenience store and finding happiness with your favorite character. You used any spare money you had to buy Sylus merch and get all his cards. Life wasn't perfect, but you were content.

Until one day, you were sucked into a mysterious wormhole that transported you to a familiar, otherworldly room filled with rare metals, sparkling jewels and all sorts of weapons. 

Lying on a bed of velvet is a back that is all too familiar.

You’ve taken over a hundred photos of that back and have memorized every vein, every muscle, even the way the spine dips oh so deliciously. 

Is this heaven? Paradise?

A place that grants all your hedonistic desires?

Did God take pity on your pathetic existence and decided to give you a second chance?

No, this is probably a dream–”Ow!” You pinch yourself a little too hard. Nope, not a dream.

You glance at your hands and body, you are still you. In the game, this part should be when the Main Character attempts an assassination, but you aren’t the MC here. There is a chance–no, the probability of you dying here is as good as 99%. You have no powers, no system, skill or cheat to help you here. 

But if you were going to die, at least you can go on your own terms.

“Um, excuse me? Hello?” 

The dragon says nothing and you opt to crawl towards him. “Mister Dragon? Are you awake?” Knowing that death is almost certain, you decide to throw away all inhibitions and reach out to trace the curve of his spine. “Hello–!”

His cold, spiked tail wraps around your waist until the tip rests on your chest. You cannot help but gasp when your favorite turns to face you.

No 3D rendered model or painting from your world could capture even a tenth of the true thing's magnificence. Official sources said he was 6'2", but the real thing looks like he surpassed two meters. He towered over you completely. Maybe it isn’t height alone but his very aura that makes you feel so small. 

He is so beautiful. 

“My, what do we have here? A stray puppy?”

That voice is as smooth and deep as melted chocolate. You want to thank God, Buddha, Satan and all other powerful entities for letting you witness this moment. 

He stares down at you, assessing everything. If you had known you’d end up here you would’ve taken a bath and worn something better. 

“How odd. You have no magic power and you lack any muscle that most assassins and warriors have. It’s almost as if you’re an ordinary person.”

Okay, ouch. But he isn’t wrong. 

You raise both hands. “You’re right, I’m as average as they come.” 

“Then tell me what an ‘average’ citizen such as yourself wanted with me.”

You tilt your head in thought before answering, “I wanted to meet you.”

“Surely, you’re joking.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

“You must take me for a fool.”

“No, I truly did want to meet you.” 

“Why are you here? Surely, you didn’t come here to die.”

“No.” Though you were prepared. “I just wanted to see you.”

The fiend watches you closely. His eyes can pierce through any lie, but your gaze is as clear as a cloudless sky and without a trace of deception. He is unsure how to feel about this.

“You’re quite bold. But an ordinary person wanting to meet me for the sake of it feels too odd to be true. Quite stupid, even. Did it ever occur to you that I may not be so polite and just end up taking your heart?”

You raise your head, steady and unfearful as you ask, “Will taking my heart make you happy?” 

You want to tell him that every part of you belongs to him now, but even you would cringe at such cheesiness. You decide to be normal about this. “If my organs will make you happy then take them, but I do have a request.” You wriggle closer. “When you take my heart, please look into my eyes until I die.”

You’ve met your favorite, your savior. In a way, Sylus gave you a second chance at life. It seemed only fitting to perish with him being the last thing you see. 

Sylus stares at you with guarded curiosity. “I’ve never met someone so eager to die before. Either that or you are an excellent liar.” Some humans are trickier than others, they will say anything to get the upper hand. 

“Don’t get cocky, human.” His tail tightens around you. “I don’t know what you’re planning but it’d be all too easy to kill you.”

He expects you to resist, to scream or cry or seduce him. 

Instead, you cover your mouth, the edges curling upwards despite your efforts to appear serious. But it’s not your fault, he’s so cute when he tries to be menacing! You have no doubt that he’d just kill an NPC, but he will always be attractive to you, even as he threatens to rip your heart out.

“This is no laughing matter. Dragons are territorial, you should’ve thought twice before trespassing into my domain.”

“Sy–ahem, Mister Dragon, please remember my request when you end my life.”

“... I’m really going to do it.”

“I know!” You nod your head vigorously, the grin you try so hard to suppress looks ridiculous to him. Compared to throwing yourself in front of a train or overdosing on pills, this is your ideal way to die.

“...” 

“...”

“... tsk.” He releases you and you can’t help but miss the feeling of his tail choking you. Oh, well. 

“Mister Dragon?”

He returns to lying on his treasures, back turned away from you. 

Not wanting him to think that you were going to backstab him, you get down on all fours and crawl towards the fancy bed. “Sir Dragon?” 

He remains silent.

"Amazing, extraordinary, most handsome and venerable Lord Dragon–”

"Enough. Don't call me those embarrassing titles." He sighs and proceeds to give you his name. In the game's canon, the MC couldn't pronounce his name properly and called him Sylus instead. But the MC and Sylus have yet to meet.

Before you are two choices: 1) use his proper name, or 2) pretend that you can't pronounce it and ask to use "Sylus" instead. With the first option, there would be a connection between the two of you due to being the only person alive who knows his name. With the latter, you'd be stealing a defining moment for the heroine. Either way, the consequences will result in you forming a bond with Sylus.

The dragon waits for you to reply.

There is no need to complicate things, so you beam stupidly. "Your name is kind of hard to pronounce... can I just call you 'Sylus' instead?"

"Do what you want."

"Thanks."

“This is the part where you tell me your name.” He can’t believe he was teaching etiquette to a human.

“Er, right.” You give him your name. Though with that voice, he can call you whatever he wants.

“I won’t stop you so go back the way you came and leave me be.”

“I can’t.”

“This isn’t a request. Get out while I’m still being patient.”

“I mean, I literally can’t. I’m not from this place and I don’t know how to get back home.” To be frank, you have little interest in returning. Aside from the next LADS update, you aren’t going to miss anything. No friends, no family, only superiors who took advantage of you and a cold, barren apartment with a rent that was two months due. 

Sylus sighs and rolls over. He lays an arm over his torso, looking gorgeous as he looks at you with eyes full of disdain. “Trying to get me to pity you, isn’t going to work.”

“I’m not.” You don’t need his or anybody else’s pity. You are simply tired, and you were sick of pretending that you aren’t. When Sylus does lose his temper, then at least you could be honest in your final moments. 

Part 2: here Masterlist: here

Edit: Had to tweak the part where Sylus gives his name to Y/N.

[ttjisung]

lover is a day. na jaemin

ex!jaemin x fem!reader

in which jaemin tries his best to make it up to you after months of being apart.

cw: smut ofc... mdni! riding, missionary, he cries while he's inside, p in v (it's not mentioned but they use protection), hurt no comfort :/, angst, the ending isn't happy beware... (wc: 2.8k)

It had been two months and three weeks since Jaemin had seen you, and it felt like he was going insane. Admittedly, it was his fault, considering he was the one who invited you over one night to randomly break up with you after a year and a half together. He wasn’t sure why he did it, all he knew now was how badly he regretted it.

Jaemin was unaware of how boring life would be without the long rants about your favorite show, the lazy naps you’d take together cuddled up, the homemade meals that he tried desperately to recreate in hopes of reigniting past memories – he painfully realized that they didn’t taste the same without you. 

The intention behind his actions was never to cut you out of his life completely, he just felt suffocated at times. You were affectionate, which was an attribute he was once obsessed with; you never failed to make him feel loved, yet it eventually became too much, making him feel as though he was trapped. 

Jaemin could recall the night it happened. He had been at his university’s library, trying to study for an upcoming quiz and it proved difficult when his phone kept buzzing with new messages. He was frustrated, to say the least, when the people around him began to share judging side-looks at the noise. After two more annoyingly loud notifications, a stupid video of a pair of cats hugging with an accompanying ‘us’, he was done. Aggressively stuffing his textbooks back into his bag, he typed out a message asking you to come over before entering his car and speeding to his apartment. 

When he first opened the door for you, you were sporting a smile, immediately throwing your bag on the couch to rush in for a hug. He didn’t reciprocate when you wrapped your arms around him, and after an awkward sequence of pulling away and looking up at him, you noticed the unfamiliar scowl on his face. “What’s wrong?” You immediately asked, stepping closer to place your hands on his face. The action set him off, and before he knew it, he was ripping your hands off of him, whispering the words under his breath yet loud enough for you to hear. I think we should take a break. 

The guilt came almost instantly, seeing you shakily cry as you wiped tears off, reluctantly stepping away from him and leaning over the couch to grab your bag. You never said a word, simply nodding and shuffling to the door to leave. As Jaemin remembers that night, he wishes you would have said something. He wishes you would have yelled at him, acknowledged the fact that he just wanted a break – nothing permanent, begged him to take his words back, anything, yet you did nothing. 

It only took ten minutes for the realization that you were gone to kick in, and his regret to activate as well. He was quick to find his phone, trying to call you and make you come back, so he could apologize and you could be happy together again, yet you didn’t answer his calls. He tried to reach out to you everywhere he could, texting you on every app, calling you on other people’s phones once the paranoia that you might’ve blocked him blossomed, yet all he was met with was radio silence. That was when his depression kicked in.

Jaemin wasn’t eating well, he wasn’t sleeping well, he began to skip out on the gym, and eventually even missed his lectures that he once stressed about eagerly. He didn’t have the motivation to do anything, not when you were out of his life and there was nothing he could do to fix it. Every night, he’d open his phone and scroll past the countless unanswered messages he had sent you begging you to come back, until he’d reach the video of the cats you sent him. He’d embarrassingly watch it on repeat all night, silently crying into his pillow as he realized he could’ve been hugging you like the cats were right now, instead of basking in the loneliness of his cold, messy bed. 

He hadn’t fucked anyone since you – he’s not fully sure he’d be able to even if he tried. Every night, he’d lay in bed with his hand lazily stroking himself, his eyes emotionlessly staring at his ceiling as he tried to feel something, yet it never happened. The only times he was able to cum was when he’d reopen his folder of pictures you had sent him when you were together. After a month, it began to feel creepy so he stopped. He didn’t dare erase the photos though, afraid he’d forget how you looked after a while, so he hid the folder instead. 

It was a rainy day when Jaemin decided to go out again for the first time in a while. The sky was gloomy and grey as his feet led him towards the closest local cafe. His plan of ordering a scone alongside a coffee to take home quickly deteriorated when he stepped into the room, his eyes immediately landing on you. You were alone in a booth, typing something quickly on your laptop while taking a sip of a drink. Jaemin’s heart clenched at the noticeable tired look in your eyes. You looked as miserable as him, probably even worse considering he broke up with you. 

You looked sad, and before he could even think about it, Jaemin rushed up to you, placing a hand on your shoulder to get your attention. He didn’t like the way your expression shifted to panic when you looked up at him, nor did he like the way you lightly shook with nerves as you let out a tiny hi. He felt bad, knowing this was the first time you had ever regarded him with such hesitance. It was your pained expression that reminded him that he was the bad guy in your story, and it made him regret ever even thinking of ending things.

“Hey… It’s been a while.” You awkwardly nodded at his words, avoiding eye contact. Truth be told, you were far from moving on, a part of you shocked because you never thought you’d see him again. You were embarrassed about the ordeal, remembering how annoyed he looked during the last hug you had given him. It made you want to cry when his harsh words would spiral in your head, looping over for hours. You weren’t ready to see him, you didn’t think you’d ever be. This didn’t stop Jaemin from taking the seat in front of you, staring at you intensely with pleading eyes. “Can… Can we talk?” You didn’t want to, but it was hard to decline when he was already leaning over the table, his hands twitching with a desire to reach out and hold yours. 

You nodded your head, appeasing to his request just how you did when he mentioned the break. He breathed out loudly when you agreed, his body flooding with butterflies – this was his chance to apologize and convince you to take him back, and he would rather die than mess it up. 

“How have you been?” He treaded lightly at first, offering small talk to ease you into the conversation but the efforts had the opposite effect as they made you feel more nervous than before. You opted for a small fine, before asking him the same question. Jaemin mirrored your response, neither of you acknowledging the irony behind the answer - the both of you were far from fine. 

“I’m not sure where to start, but I miss you, N/n. So, so much. I… I don’t know if you’ve been getting my messages?” He stopped for a second to gouge your reaction, yet you didn’t respond, looking down at your lap instead with a frown, “I get it. I was really mean, but… But I’m so sorry. I regret it so much, and I want to make it up to you. I really haven’t been the same without you.” You continued to look at your lap, dissociating for a second as you tried your hardest to hold in the tears slowly forming. It was a battle you lost as they began to flow down your cheeks. Jaemin’s heart dropped when you finally looked back up, your eyes swelling up. 

He moved his hands quickly to hold your face, placing his upper body over the table to stabilize himself before he wiped your tears away desperately. You shouldn’t have, but you let him, even leaning into his touch when his movements grew stronger.

The next hour passed in a blur as he moved next to you, letting you cry into his arms for as long as you needed to, walking you back to your apartment when you realized the small cafe wasn’t the place to break down in. You're not sure if it was your loneliness, or the fact that you hadn’t slept with anyone else either, yet you found it easy to melt in his hold as he led you to your bed, placing you down gently.

Jaemin knew this was probably his last chance to convince you to come back with him, yet the hope fluttering in his heart quickly overshined the fear of losing you for good. He let himself drift away from his conflicted emotions as he passionately kissed down your neck, dragging his hand towards the hem of your shirt until he was able to pull it right off. 

You gasped as he lowered himself onto your body, kissing and sucking anywhere he could. It had been so long, and he refused to let any doubt cloud either of your minds. He became determined, deciding the only way he could show you how much he missed you was to fuck you senseless. 

“Need you so bad, baby. I… fuck, I really missed you.” His warm words contrasted the way he moved you around roughly, stripping your clothes off quickly along his as his hands found your waist, pulling your bare body on top of his. 

Jaemin’s back was pushed against the headboard, strands of hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead as he pulled you into a heated kiss on his lap. You reciprocated, smaller hands finding the way to his shoulders, scratching them harshly as he finally pushed into you completely. His moves were calculated yet eager, thrusting into you like his life depended on it – in a way, it did. He knew that if he messed up and ruined the moment, you’d probably decide to avoid him again. 

The thought began to plague him as he ran a hand up your waist, holding you in place as it moved towards the small of your back. He put pressure on your skin, pushing you as close as you could be to him, which made you shift. Jaemin’s mouth opened widely as a moan escaped him due to the added friction when you moved on top of him. 

The familiar feeling of his climax began to flood his mind as he continued to buck his hips into you, pushing his hard cock sloppily inside of your cunt, forcing your back to arch into him. He was so close, too close, when his mind began to run, replacing all of his worries with the overwhelming love he felt at the moment – he finally had his soulmate back.

Perking up, Jaemin leaned into your neck, offering small words of affection alongside his deep thrusts. “I’m so happy you’re back, I haven’t been able to do this without you.” You leaned away from him, nodding your head, “Me neither… I…” You struggled to speak as his pace grew harder, clenching around him in a way that had his mind reeling, “I… Wish this wasn’t the last time.” Jaemin’s hips faltered, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as he came to a stop. “W-what?” 

You frowned at the way his actions stilled, trying to initiate contact by grinding against him yet failing as his large hands moved back onto your hips, pulling you down onto him to stop you completely as well. “Jaemin, what are you doing-” “What do you mean last time?” His voice was frantic, along with his wide eyes that were trying to find yours. 

“Why did you stop-” “Y/n, please… What do you mean by last time?” The panic in his voice grew as he moved his face in an attempt to get closer to you. His feelings began to spread to you as you pushed yourself away from him, trying to further the distance. “I just… Well, you broke up with me so… We can’t do this again, you know?” You tried to appear calm and collected, yet the grip he had on your hips increased, and his breath grew uneven. 

When you finally gained the courage to look back at him, his head was shaking, small tears swelling in his eyes as he mindlessly sniffled. There was a flip in the atmosphere as he began to cry out, “Y/n… Baby please, you can’t do this. I-I love you… This can’t be the last time.” He was disheveled, holding your body as close as he could. Your arms that rested on his shoulders hesitantly moved until you weren’t touching him anymore. You weren’t hugging him back. The choked sobs he let out festered in the air as he held you tightly, your arms unsure of where to go. It felt like hell for Jaemin – maybe he was being punished for what he did to you, the ironic scene reminding him of when he refused to return your affection, taking it for granted and not realizing that he would be deprived of it for too long. 

“I thought you knew we… We weren’t going to get back together.” Your quiet words did nothing but tear his heart more, the finality in your tone feeling like a punch to his gut. It wasn’t until you began to shift uncomfortably that he noticed he was still inside of you, his hands not letting you go.

“I can show you, baby… I’ll make it up to you, I swear.” Jaemin begged you to consider what he was saying, an anxious pit in his stomach forming when you didn’t respond. It was then that he finally moved again, this time gently as he shifted the both of you around until you were under him. 

You hummed lightly in surprise as his hips met yours again, his rough pace now completely replaced by softer movements when he leaned down into you, his face hovering right above yours, eyes drilling into your own. His lips met yours, passionate yet caring as his cock pushed in and out of you slowly. It was hard to act like you couldn’t hear the small I love you’s he muttered beneath his breath with every snap of his hips. One arm being used to balance on top of you, his other moved to your face, cupping your cheek.

The way he fucked you tenderly reminded you of when he’d come home from a long lecture, releasing his stress by making love to you. It was intimate, something you had forgotten about during the months you were apart. You tried to ignore the way tears rolled down his cheeks, mixing with your own. You tried to ignore the way he held you closely as you both came. The hardest part to ignore was after, when he moved to lay next to you on the large mattress, holding you close how he used to when you were together. You missed it as much as he did, yet the weariness never faded as he cuddled into you, refusing to leave until you both fell asleep. 

Jaemin felt his world collapsing when he woke up to an empty bed, the lack of your warmth imminent. Your room was silent, the small chirps of a bird outside of the window providing the only noise he could hear as he stood up frantically, searching for you. You weren’t there, though, as he fell back into your bed, tears overwhelming him again. 

With labored steps, it took Jaemin an hour to find the effort to finally get up and leave your apartment. He took the familiar key from under your doormat, locking the door behind him. His movements were sluggish, similar to how he had felt ever since you slipped away from him the first time. 

It wasn’t until he finally reached his own home that he let himself go, tears falling rapidly as he threw himself onto his own bed, clutching the pillow on the right side of the mattress – what used to be your side. He had refused to even touch the pillow before, fearing the comforting scent of your perfume would disappear, yet now he couldn’t hold himself back, clutching the fabric in his arms as he tried his best to imagine it was you he was caressing. The pillow laid flat against him, resembling the way your arms draped next to you when he hugged you close for the last time, unreciprocated and cold.  

a/n: if any of you have read my other stories you’ll think i’m real repetitive bc i’ve overdoneeee the hell out of this trope it’s getting out of hand… that being said i might make a part 2 with a happy ending if the people ask for it :3

[gaywineauntsstuff]

Headcanon that when extremely sleep deprived Dick tells Jason wayyy too much traumatizing lore about his life.

Bc he kinda forgets that Jay wasn’t there for it

Since he was hallucinating the bastard (yeah I know in canon it was obviously a hallucination idk)

So Dick will accidentally just lore dump about the most insane shit bc well Jason was there (no he wasn’t)

And when he’s offensively sleep deprived it goes the other direction and he forgets that Jason ever came back.

So he’s just in the corner watching what he believes to be a hallucination of his baby brother except for some reason his mind decided he needed to see what Jay would look like grown up.

Dick on day 7 without sleep watching Jason beat up a gang member: maybe my therapist was right

Jason: the fuck are you-?

Dick: Maybe I DO need to go back on anti-psychotics

————————————————————

Dick alone in his apartment with a bag of shredded cheese and a plain cereal box in one hand ready to have what is probably the Most depressing depression meal: hmmm hmmmm hmmm

Jason who climbed through a window while dick was distracted: Sup

Dick: ah look a wild hallucinajason appears

Jason: what the fuck did you the call me

Dick patting Jason’s cheek: oh they’re somatosensory now too! That’s new! Anyway bye bye baby bird

Jason watching his brother leave the kitchen: ….okay what the fuck?

——————————————

Dick only on 3 days without sleep: this reminds of the time I was about the sign my marriage license!

Jason: two things 1) why does a shootout remind you of being at the courthouse 2) WHEN THE FUCK DID YOU GET MARRIED

Dick: I didn’t get married?

Jason: then what the hell are you talking about

Dick: idk the last time I tried too get married way more guns than necessary were involved and you know when I tired to get married Jay you were there!

Jason “was dead at the time” Todd: what the fuck are you talking about?

Dick: yeah! I mean you really hated her so you told me I’d be a disappointment if I married her and then disappeared. Which like granted I also didn’t wanna marry her but that was harsh

Jason: ….. I? I don’t even know what the appropriate response is? Here

Dick: an apology would be nice?

Jason who is now 50% sure his ghost haunted his brother 25% sure his brother was hallucinating and like 25% sure Bruce used his image as a tool to get dick to do what he wanted: ……. You know what… nah she was a bitch and I’m glad you didn’t marry her

Dick: I mean.. same

—————————————

Dick has a caffeine IV Grayson : this brings me back to the good old days

Jason dodging an alien: ??? When you were Robin ? How?

Dick: no! When Donna died and I didn’t have to worry about saying alive so I could do insane shit like infiltrating an alien spaceship with no protective gear

Jason:??????????????? Dick what the fuck

Dick: OH come on??? You were there! Very quippy 10/10 would be haunted by again

Jason:…. I- yeah you know what I’m not touching this one



[lunajay33]

Waiting🖤

Summary: After decades of being alone without a love of his own he finally finds her in a gloomy town of forks, his brother Edward isn’t the only lucky one

Pairing: Emmett Cullen x f! Swan reader

Warning: angsty, fluffy sunshine Emmett

•Masterlist•

I never thought much about the future until suddenly the friends I adored most started relationships and left me in the past as if our friendship never even mattered, like their boyfriend was the most important thing

My sister and I use to be close as kids but when she moved away with our mom and rarely visited me and dad, who she regularly called Charlie, we grew apart leaving me feeling like I lost all my friends and my sister, after a while I grew depressed and I never wanted to leave the house, dad grew concerned and after many absent calls from school he allowed me to start home schooling myself and my grades have never been better

Most nights it was just me and Charlie some days I’d get the courage to go down to the reserve hang out on the beach with Leah, Seth and Jake, sometimes I’d go for hikes in the forest behind the house just to clear my head, but other than that I’d stay in my room listening to music, reading the books dad would bring home for me, and doing school work

That’s how life was for so many years, it was routine and it never bothered me and dad loved having me around, after Bella and mom left he was so broken and with my help, even as a little girl, I pulled him out of that deep dark hole and he became that Charlie that joked around and made me smile

But then dad got the call that Bella was moving back for the rest of highschool since mom would be traveling with Phil for baseball, hopeful that I could reconnect with my sister again

Dad and I picked out a new bed spread for her hoping she’d love it, and he even let me pick out a new book as a thank you for helping him out with getting everything ready for her arrival, after a few days it was time for dad to go pick Bella up from the airport in port angeles, I was a nervous wreck which was crazy I mean she’s my sister why should I be nervous

Finally the familiar sheriff cruiser pulled up in the drive way, I walked out the door with an umbrella quickly shuffling over to Bella to cover her from the rain knowing how she favoured the warm dry weather, complete opposite of me

“Welcome home Bella!” I smiled as we walked back inside as dad got her bags following closely behind

She shook off her coat and placed her little cactus down on the counter

“You’ve grown so much you’re a year younger but you’re already taller than me” she said as she hugged me

“Come on bells we’ll show you your room!” Dad said as he walked up the stairs with her bags

She settled in for the rest of the day until it was supper time, I set out the table and dished up our meal, dads game playing in the background as we ate

“So are you excited for school on Monday?” I asked

“Not really but atleast I’ll have you there”

“What? No im homeschooled remember”

“Well…..” dad drawled out

“Dad what did you do?” My heart was racing now at the implication

“I thought since Bella’s back now it would be good for you to get out there again, you need some experiences honey”

“But you know I have no one there, no one wants to be friends with me we’ve been over this”

“You might make new friends honey, give give it a chance for your old man” I sighed slumping back in my chair trying to wrap my head around having to socialize again

“Atleast you’ll be with me, dad said since your grades are so good you got bumped up a grade and can have some certain classes together, depending on our courses” that settled my anxiety a little

Bella and dad cleaned up from dinner as I sat out on the porch, in desperate need for fresh air to do its magic, only 2 more days and I’ll be back in a school again, who knows maybe some new kids have arrived and aren’t too set in their groups yet

Monday came quickly and I was a ball of nerves, I glanced in the mirror as made sure my hair was just the way I wanted, wearing a casual outfit, simple flared black leggings, a dark rich blue longsleeve with my old worn out dark brown carhartt jacket, quickly spraying my vanilla perfume

I walked down stairs to meet Bella in the kitchen, she grabbed an apple as she picked up her backpack from the table

“Are you ready to go?” She asked

“Almost can I make a tea quickly?” She nodded and I quickly wiped together a chai tea latte, grabbing my lunch from the fridge and meeting her in the truck dad had gotten for us but since I didn’t have my license, seeing as I never needed one before now, she would be driving us

The drive to school was calming, hearing the steady rain fall against the windshield, pulling into the parking lot everyone stared until we got out, I kept my eyes down as Bella led me to the schools main office

“Okay here’s your schedule, we have math together at the end of the day, the bells about to ring so I gotta head to world history are you good to find your way to chemistry?”

“Oh ummm yeah I’ll be fine”

“Okay see you at lunch” she smiled gently before she left down the hall

Looking at my schedule I memorized the room number hoping it wouldn’t be too hard to find, turning the corner I rammed into what felt like a brick wall, dropping my books I look infront of me to see the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen, his eyes a golden amber, hair as dark as night and his skin as pale as snow

“Sorry about that, I haven’t seen you around before” he said soothingly as he handed me the books that had momentarily scattered the floor, not even realizing he had picked them up, too busy oogling him I suppose

“Oh yeah I’m just re-enrolling here again, just trying to find my class” he looked down at my schedule a striking smile adorning his face

“Come this way gorgeous, got the same class” walking along the mostly bare hallways I noticed his gentle glide, I’ve never seen such a…..well such a perfect human, obviously I was way out of my league if I could think he’d ever be interested in me, I mean I’m plain and simple what would he ever see in me, best I stay in my lane, but dad did want me to make friends so that couldn’t hurt….right?

We got to the classroom and the teacher assigned us to sit together, the class went by pretty boring, every now and then I’d take glances at Emmett and I swear he did the same but he was probably just looking at someone else, moments like this made me wish I was a beautiful as my sister, she never had a problem with guys wanting her, they basically drooled over her, even if she never acted on any offers she was still wanted

It felt like I was a living ghost most days, no one noticed me anywhere I’d go, a big reason I wanted to be homeschooled, now I’m thrown back into this miserable place, I’ll bet by lunch time Bella with have a table full of new friends while I sit alone, not even a second glance from anyone

Lunch time rolled around and as I entered the cafeteria I searched for Bella and just as I guessed she was surrounded with bright smiles, excited to get to know her, she glanced my way and I waved hoping she’d wave me over to sit but she just gave a half assed smile and got back to talking with her new friends, I felt my heart rip at that, thinking things would be different this time with her here but I guess I was wrong

I found an empty table near the windows and made myself comfortable for another lonely lunch, I pulled out my bag from my backpack but my appetite was lost and I had no desire to eat so I just pushed my lunch to the side and looked out the window just wanting to go home

{Emmett’s POV}

I couldn’t get her out of my head, she’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and her blood sings to me, when she bumped into me in the hallway I felt my whole world shift, she didn’t talk much but just being near her felt right

Lunch came, my least favourite part of the day, having to pretend for an hour, I glanced around the cafeteria hoping to catch a glimpse of my mate again, my eyes landed on her sat alone looking glum a few tables down, the others followed my gaze and smiled knowingly

“Who’s she?” Rosalie asked

“I think she’s my mate”

“Her thoughts are overwhelming loud” Edward stated

“What do you mean?” I asked nervously

“She’s not the happiest girl, I can hear how depressed she is, how unwanted she feels”

“I can feel how broken her heart is” Jasper added

This has to be the worst feeling knowing the one I’m suppose to love unconditionally and she is quite perfect in my eyes, has been broken and feels unloved

I got up from the table and made my way to her sliding in the seat across from her, her eyes were so glazed over with sadness she didn’t even realize I sat down

{Normal pov}

“So how’s your first day?” I jumped snapping out of my thoughts noticing Emmett is sat across from me

“Oh sorry I didn’t see you, ummm today has been fine I guess, thanks again for helping me earlier”

“It’s not problem, umm I was wondering maybe if you’re not too busy this weekend if you’d wanna hang out?” My heart raced at this

“Really? You wanna hang out with me?”

“Yeah of course, who would wanna spend time with the most beautiful girl in the school” his smile warmed my heart but quickly faded at a realization

“Is this a prank, because if it is it’s cruel” I said as my bottom lip wobbled

“No what? I would never do something like that I really wanna get to know you, so how about after school on Friday I’ll meet you in the parking lot and we can go do something?”

“Okay……sure id really like that” his face beamed with excitement

“Perfect it’s a date then gorgeous”

This felt surreal there’s no way there wasn’t a catch here, how could someone wanna spend their free time with me, but like Charlie said it doesn’t hurt to try, I just hope this doesn’t break my heart more

Part 2

[delulujuls]

healing sessions | aegon II targaryen

hi, it's been a hot minute since i posted here, the last weeks were pretty intense for me and since i have a summer break now, i would like to start writing again and do it more regularly.

this is something new here and since new episode of hotd dropped, im in my westeros era, so please prepare for something other than my last shots (i will still write for f1, don't worry)

and lemme set this straight, im team black till the day i die but those green bastards are FINE AS HELL lmao. also @alicenthightcwer is author of those gifts

summary: aegon isn't dealing well with his father loss, but gladly there is someone who's gonna do her best to lift his spirit a bit

warnings: it's fluff without basically any plot, sister x brother romance so targaryens at their finest, mentions of death, depression, alcohol, drugs

pairing: sister!reader x aegon targaryen

The news of King Viserys's death did not surprise the residents of King's Landing. Nonetheless, the loss of the kind ruler dealt a painful blow to the city, which seemed to freeze in time with the king's passing. The capital plunged into mourning, and in addition to the banners, black flags were hoisted. Westeros was left without a king.

Viserys's successor, his second child and first son, Aegon Targaryen, had not been seen since the king's funeral. Aegon had lost not just a king but, most importantly, a father who, unfortunately for him, named him the future ruler on his deathbed.

Aegon would have gladly given the throne to Rhaenyra, his older half-sister. He would have done it without hesitation, even placing the crown on her head himself. Unfortunately, his mother Alicent, who was with her dying husband and heard his wish to elevate their eldest son to the throne, decided to fulfill her beloved husband's last wish at any cost.

To be honest, Aegon couldn't care less about being king. The young prince had not left his bed for several days, thick curtains blocking any light from outside. Occasionally, servants were allowed into his chambers, but only with wine and poppy milk. Aegon did not eat, allowed no one near him, and slept. Sleep was his salvation. Even the prostitutes, who once outnumbered the rats in the castle, were no longer summoned. The fiery prince had dimmed.

Alicent knew she needed to give her son time to grieve. She didn't bother him, only inquiring about his condition from the servants who managed to enter his chambers. It was enough for her to know that he was alive. Aegon's siblings dealt with their grief in their own ways, and his condition hardly impressed anyone. Except for Y/N, who, despite her own pain, worried about her brother. Sitting at breakfast, she silently observed Aegon's chair, which remained empty. After her husband's death, Alicent decreed that all meals, not just dinners, be taken together. The firstborn had not appeared at any of them since.

After a silent breakfast punctuated by brief, formal conversations, Y/N stood up and grabbed a plate, filling it with Aegon's favorite croissants and a portion of strawberries. She was done pretending nothing was wrong. This had to end.

"You shouldn't go to him," Alicent said quietly as the servants began clearing the table. "You know him, he'll come out when he's ready."

"Or he'll drink himself to death first," she replied, not even glancing at her mother. Alicent clasped her hands and pressed them to her lips, watching her family fall apart without knowing how to stop it.

Y/N left the dining room and went to Aegon's chambers. She knocked first, wanting to maintain decorum, but knowing it was futile, she grabbed the handle and pushed the heavy door open. Inside was darkness. Only a nearly spent candle by the bed gave off any light; the room looked like a cave. She blindly set the plate on a table, and with arms outstretched, she made her way to the windows. With a swift motion, she drew the curtains, and even she was blinded by the sudden light that flooded in. Not hearing any curses from her brother, Y/N looked over her shoulder. On the large bed, a figure lay curled up, back to her. From the waist down, he was covered with a sheet that blended with his pale skin. White hair in disarray touched the crumpled pillow. Aegon was either in a deep sleep or dead.

Y/N opened the curtains at every window, flinging some open. The room was stuffy, reeking of stale alcohol, sweat, and the sweet scent of poppy milk. She circled the bed, crouching opposite her brother. He was indeed asleep, but his breathing was shallow. His lips were cracked, stained with dried blood. His eyelashes were matted with tears, and dark circles marred his eyes. There was a bruise under his left eye that was different from the ones under his eyes, as it began to fade and turn from purple to green. Y/N remembered her mother, who had been rubbing her hand while sitting at the table for several days. She could only guess that Alicent was trying to shake her son off in her own way.

Aegon slept, lying on his side and hugging himself, seeking comfort only he could provide. Y/N brushed the tangled strands from his forehead and kissed him. Aegon did not stir.

The princess knew he wouldn't allow servants to tend to him. She left the room quietly, asking the maids to prepare a hot bath quickly and silently. Y/N returned and sat beside him on the bed, gently stroking his head.

Aegon wasn't the bad person many thought him to be. True, he was unique, and in a room full of people, he was impossible to ignore, but no one is born evil. Now, Aegon was simply engulfed in darkness from which he couldn't free himself. The slender, sticky fingers of depression had tightened around his throat, allowing only alcohol to pass.

After some time, a maid stood by the bed, whispering that the bath was ready, nervously glancing at the sleeping prince, afraid of waking him up. Y/N thanked and dismissed her, then leaned in and kissed her brother's forehead again.

"Aegon..." she began softly, close to his ear. "Wake up, I have strawberries for you."

He furrowed his brow, feeling her hair tickle his face. At first, he thought it was a dream or a drunken hallucination, but when he felt the urge to sneeze, he wiped his face with his hand. When he opened his heavy eyelids and saw how bright it was, he pulled the pillow over his head.

"I said no one was to come in," he muttered, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I'll have you killed for this."

"It's nice to see you too, considering I haven't seen you in over a week," she replied, sitting back on his bed and placing the breakfast she brought on the table beside him.

Hearing the familiar voice and wanting to ensure it wasn't a drunken hallucination, Aegon removed the pillow from his face, clutching it to his chest. From squinted eyes, his violet gaze spotted a well-known figure.

"Y/N?" he asked hoarsely, his voice betraying that he'd only spoken to chase away servants in the past days.

"Yes, it's me," she nodded. "And if you still want to kill me, you'll have to get out of bed, which I doubt you can do."

Aegon sighed, more of a grunt of dissatisfaction. He wanted to cover his face with the pillow again, but his sister took it and easily pulled it from his arms.

"Did you come here just to make my life more miserable?" he groaned, looking at her with displeasure.

"I came to stop what you thought was the best solution," Y/N explained. "I brought you breakfast and a hot bath."

"I don't want breakfast or a bath," Aegon replied, turning onto his other side. "And you can leave. Tell mother I'm not dead yet."

"I'm not leaving until you get out of bed," she informed him, staring at his back.

"Then enjoy your stay," he muttered, closing his eyes again.

Y/N sighed. She knew it might be hard, but in a few days, she had almost forgotten her brother's character. And Aegon's character was sometimes the textbook definition of a Targaryen.

"I came here because I want to help you," Y/N began, feeling a lump in her throat. "No one talks to each other, and when they do, it's just some fucking formalities. Aemond flies on Vhagar every day, Helaena spends hours in the garden with her books, Rhaenyra has been on Dragonstone since the funeral, mother is banging with Cole at every turn, and I don't even know if you're alive," she said in one breath, feeling tears prickling her eyes. Only when she said it all out loud did she realize what was happening. It wasn't just about informing Aegon; it was about making herself understand. The truth hurt her even more than she expected.

Hearing his sister's trembling and upset voice, Aegon sighed and turned onto his back, sitting up and leaning against the headboard. Only now could his sister see his full appearance. It was the image of a boy deep in mourning and struggling with unimaginable pain.

For a moment, they exchanged looks in silence until Aegon glanced at the nightstand beside his bed.

"Did you bring strawberries?"

She reached for the plate and placed it on the bed next to her brother. Aegon weakly lifted his hand and took one, eating it whole, including the stem.

"Croissants with filling?" he asked, chewing. Y/N nodded again.

"Nut and chocolate," she answered. Aegon silently took a croissant and slowly began to eat.

Y/N quickly wiped her cheeks as two single tears escaped from the corners of her eyes. The young prince looked at his sister, who also seemed different than he remembered from a few days ago. Her hair was still neatly combed, with a few small braids woven into it. The dark red dress, which he thought he had seen her wear before, now seemed to hang a bit loosely on her shoulders and wrinkle at the stomach. The color of the dress reminded him of the bloody cuticles around her nails, which she must have bitten out of nerves. Her face, still beautiful, was now paler than usual, almost as white as her hair. Her swollen eyes lacked their usual sparkle, and her lips seemed to have completely forgotten what a smile was.

"How are you feeling?" he asked after a moment when he had finished eating. Y/N pushed the plate closer to him, and as he reached for another croissant, she only shrugged.

"I'm sad. And I sleep poorly," she replied, staring out the window.

"You know, poppy milk—", "I won't drink it," she interrupted him.

Aegon raised his hands in a defensive gesture, taking another bite of the croissant.

"And you?" she asked, looking at him. "How are you feeling?"

He also shrugged.

"I don't even know. Now I think I feel nothing," he said, looking back at her. "Most of the time I feel nothing, except when a wave of sadness hits, and then I cry like a child until I fall asleep again."

Y/N nodded silently. She could tell that Aegon had spent many hours crying.

He put the last piece of croissant in his mouth and reached for a strawberry, handing it to his sister. She took it and ate it, nodding with appreciation.

"Not bad, right?" Aegon said, seeing her reaction. "Unusually sweet for this time of year."

Y/N let out an involuntary snort, lowering her head. Their father was dead, the country was without a king, the family was falling apart, and this idiot was talking about how great the strawberries were.

"They really are good, I don't know what you mean," he replied, taking the last strawberry and popping it into his mouth. The girl smiled, for the first time in a long while, then looked at her brother.

"I miss you, you know?"

"I'm not dead yet," he said sarcastically, rubbing his face with his hands. Y/N set the plate aside, and Aegon extended his arm toward her, silently inviting a hug. The girl shook her head and stood up.

"Maybe I miss you, but not enough to hug you after so many days without a bath," she replied, nodding her head towards the bathroom.

"You've got to be kidding," he snorted, but she shook her head again and pointed to the bathroom. Aegon sighed and slid off the bed, looking at her reproachfully the entire time. When he stood, the sheet slipped off completely, and he, naked and unbothered, walked unsteadily toward the bathroom. Y/N asked the servants to change his bedding and clean the room while she locked herself in the bathroom with him. As he sat in the water, she perched on the edge of the tub, rolling up the sleeves of her dress.

She reached for the nearby comb and slowly began to untangle his matted hair. They both remained silent, as words were completely unnecessary at that moment. After a while, she put the comb down and picked up the sponge, wetting it and pouring water over his hair. Aegon closed his eyes and tilted his head forward.

Y/N grabbed the soap and lathered it in her hands, adding a few drops of lavender oil. Aegon smiled as the familiar, pleasant scent filled the air, while she began to wash his hair. He sat there with his eyes closed, allowing his sister to take care of him. Aegon felt that of everyone in the family, only Y/N truly cared about him. Despite being the second youngest sibling, just after Helaena, he had always gotten along best with her. They were almost inseparable, always sitting together at feasts, stuffing sweets into their pockets to eat later in the garden when they managed to escape the table. Rhaenyra, their half-sister, was always the oldest and most composed. Aemond, younger than Aegon, was calm and collected but could stab a knife into someone’s neck without blinking if provoked. Helaena lived in her own world, surrounded by books, flowers, and maesters who had tried to help her ever since they noticed something was off with the growing princess. Aegon was often irreformable, acting and speaking first and thinking later. When he was younger, he was incredibly unruly, the mastermind behind every wild idea that Y/N almost always eagerly supported. The young princess loved her brother, who always tried to make her smile. Aegon loved his sister and knew that of all the people in the castle, she was the only one he would kill for and die for either.

Young prince winced quietly when Y/N, massaging his tense shoulders, ran her thumb over a particularly tight muscle.

"You're as hard as a rock," she said, continuing to massage his back. Aegon smiled to himself.

"Not quite yet," he joked.

She rolled her eyes and soaked the sponge again, rinsing the soap off his back with warm water. As she got up to stoke the fire, Aegon submerged himself in the water, washing the soap off himself and his hair. After a moment, he sat up straight and wiped his face off, leaning on the sides of the tub. He silently watched his sister, whose silhouette was highlighted by the flickering fire in the fireplace. Her white, slightly wavy hair cascaded down her back. The young prince smiled and bit his lip. Blood of my blood.

When Y/N finished tending to the fire, she stood up and dusted off her hands. She looked up, feeling her brother's gaze on her. He watched her in silence.

"Care to join?" he asked, glancing at the tub before looking back at her.

She shook her head, stepping closer and looking at the murky water. "I think I'll pass this time."

Aegon extended his hand toward her, and she gave him hers, which he pressed to his lips, planting a wet kiss on her skin. She smiled at his gesture.

"I'll go dismiss the servants," she said, stroking his cheek. "Make sure you wash away all the sadness."

The princess left the bathroom and returned to the chambers. They looked much better now, with two servants finishing changing the bed linens. When they were done, she thanked and dismissed them. She approached the large wardrobe, looking for clean clothes for her brother. She planned to get him outside for a walk, even if just a short one.

She placed the clothes on a chair and sat on the bed, running her hand over the freshly made bedding. Shortly after, Aegon emerged from the bathroom, not bothering to cover himself with even a towel.

When he stood in the doorway, Y/N involuntarily looked up at him. She looked him up and down, causing Aegon to smile.

"Like what you see?" he asked, approaching the bed without taking his eyes off her.

"I'm just checking if you washed yourself properly," she retorted, lifting her head to meet his gaze when he stood right in front of her.

Aegon still wore a faint smile as he cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. His pale skin had gained a bit of color from the hot bath, but he had goosebumps from the cool, fresh breeze coming through the windows. The dark circles under his eyes were still visible, but his gaze was now clear and certain, darkening as he was looking at his sister.

"I missed you too," he said after a moment of silence, during which they exchanged looks. He brushed his thumb over her lower lip. "Make love with me."

It wasn't a command or even a request. It was a quiet murmur filled with desperation, almost sounding like a plea. Aegon needed to feel her warmth, needed to feel something other than the alcoholic breath of death that placed cold kisses on him.

She silently stood from the bed, and before he could say anything, she touched his cheek and kissed him. Aegon wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, returning the kiss. Blindly, he started to fumble with the ties of her dress, but seeing his struggle, she began undressing herself. He cupped her face in his hands, kissing her tenderly. When she loosened her corset, Aegon grabbed the bottom of her gown and quickly pulled it over her head, tossing it aside. She shivered at the sudden chill but soon felt Aegon's warm body against her skin. He smiled into her mouth.

"You're so soft," he whispered between kisses, holding her tightly as if he wanted to lock her inside his ribcage. "Go on, lie down."

She obeyed, positioning herself comfortably on a pile of pillows. Aegon hovered over her, kissing her gently. Their hands tangled in each other's hair, touching and grasping every bit of skin they could reach. Lips swollen from kissing released soft sighs and moans mixed with tender words.

Aegon could be gentle, delicate, and caring. He wasn't like this with the whores he sometimes brought to his chambers to relieve himself and kill boredom. But he loved his sister dearly and would never harm her.

The young prince couldn't remember the first time his sister came to his chambers and stayed the night. It was probably before their father's illness. One autumn, Aegon caught a terrible cold. He couldn't sleep at night, and his cough kept the entire western wing of the castle awake. One night, a sleepy Y/N went to his room, silently took the nearby laying ointment, sat on his hips, and began rubbing it on his chest. Aegon, feverish, thought he was hallucinating. But when he woke up the next morning and saw his naked sister asleep in his bed, he knew the events of the previous night hadn't been a fever dream.

Now, too, Aegon had to think twice if the soft body in his arms was really there or just a trick of his drunken mind.

"Are you real?" he whispered, pulling away from her lips and looking at her face.

"You'll have to find out for yourself," Y/N replied just as softly.

Aegon smiled involuntarily and hurriedly disappeared between her thighs.

At dinner, not only Aegon's chair was empty. The chair next to his, Y/N's, was also vacant.

Aemond glanced sideways at his sister, who tried to hide her smile behind her hair. Otto looked at her as well, then at her mother.

"Helaena?" Alicent spoke, looking at the blushing face of her daughter. "Is something wrong?"

"Aegon is feeling much better," she said. The young princess knew this first because the garden she particularly liked was just below her brother's chambers, and the windows, this time, were wide open.

[yukioos]

APOCALYPSE

SUMMARY: jayce talis x reader // after dealing with much criticism from heimerdinger and complaints from viktor about hextech, he finally walks home and ends his day peacefully lying on your chest.

AUTHORS NOTE: hi guys! i’m working on a viktor x vampire reader fic so that’ll probably come out this or next week. happy holidays, have a good day! this is 1.6k words

WARNINGS: not proofread, angst, jayce is going through a lot, depression, stress, anxiety, reader n jayce are married, pet names, reader is referred to as ‘mrs.’ and ‘wife’

jayce had to sit in a room and listen to heimerdinger criticize and critique his work for three hours. three whole hours were spent listening to him complain about hextech, and the professor wouldn’t let the scientist utter a single word. eventually, he just tuned out the sounds and words from the elder, and instead tried to think about you, his wife.

most of his days were spent thinking about you anyway. but sometimes your relationship would go through rough patches because of how little time jayce was at home. you understood he couldn’t be home all the time, he was a scientist, after all. the city of piltover heavily depended on him, and you knew this put major stress on the man.

sometimes he would become distant, and you would become worried for him and his health. days without hearing a word from your husband were common, you became accustomed to it. because of this, you cherished your days with him, and continue to do so whenever you encounter him.

jayce didn’t know how much of an impact he had on you by not being in your life as often as he wanted to. you were everything to him. you were the reason he did everything for piltover, it was all to protect you.

but he didn’t know how unhealthy it was for him to skip meals and hardly get any sleep just to keep the city safe. he knew the city wouldn’t be as developed without him, but he always felt the need to do better. when heimerdinger critiqued his work constantly, he began to feel overwhelmed and anxious with every step he took, in fear of not pleasing someone.

he once snapped at viktor for incorrectly solving a formula used for the hextech. unfortunately, he hadn’t noticed how agitated he had become because he was too focused. he began to hate himself more and more with every mistake he made and overworked himself past his limits.

as the days passed, you hardly heard from jayce. worry clouded your mind, and your heart raced quickly once your phone rang. you picked it up and glanced around your bedroom.

“um, hello?” you stuttered, seeing professor heimerdinger’s contact on the screen. you tilted your head and thought to yourself why the professor would be calling you at this time, at eleven at night.

“ah, mrs. talis! i wish we could speak on better terms, it is nice to speak to you again. however, eh, your husband has… collapsed. i was wondering if you could bring him back to your residence once we wake him up?” his chirpy voice seemed duller than usual, with a hint of dissatisfaction. he glanced at viktor, who gave him a halfhearted smile as he continued pacing around the room.

“wh— huh? i’ll pick him up but why has he passed out? i’m confused, professor, is he—”you began to ramble, overthinking all the scenarios that could have happened to your loved one. he hasn’t come home in days, you should’ve been at the academy with him. you should’ve been by his side, maybe this wouldn’t have happened if you were.

“please, mrs. talis, do not worry. i believe he hasn’t slept for a healthy amount of time, so he just passed out. no biggie, do not feel frightened for him. he is okay, he may just be… taking a power nap.” another voice is heard on the other end of the line, and the professor pauses, “ah, i apologize. i must leave now, as i have more work to do. please head over to the academy and pick him up. thank you, goodbye!” he replies, speeding up his words near the end of the call. he hangs up, leaving you with unanswered questions.

you slowly take the phone away from your ear and stare at the frame on your nightstand. it’s a photo of you and jayce getting married, and he looked as handsome as ever. tears were visible on both of your faces, mascara ran down your cheeks. it was the happiest day of both of your lives.

you really hoped he was okay.

when you arrived at the academy, you walked up to the professor’s lab, as you had studied there years ago. your heels clacked against the tiled floor, having to use a flashlight to see through the dark hallways. you gently knocked on the professor’s door and were met face-to-face with jayce’s lab partner, viktor.

“hello, mrs. talis. it is nice to meet you. as the professor also said, i wish it were under different circumstances.” he smiled and turned his head toward jayce, who ashamedly looked down at the ground. heimerdinger was gently speaking to him, but it seemed as if jayce wasn’t listening, like he was in his own headspace.

he had dark eyebags and had lost weight, his skin became more pale and ghostly. it was clear he wasn’t taking care of himself.

your eyebrows turned upwards, and you slowly approached your husband with worried eyes. heimerdinger cleared the path to him and nodded, permitting you to speak to him.

“jayce, sweetheart,” you mumbled, looking up at his form as he sat on the stool, you bent down so his eyes would look at yours. you brought your manicured hand up to his face and rubbed his cheek.

“we’re gonna go home, okay? you gotta take a break,” you persuaded, continuing to comfortingly rub his pale cheek. it was always one of the things that made him feel warm and cared for.

he nodded and mumbled an, “okay,” before slowly standing up and waiting for you to lead him outside. you gently placed your hand in his, and he weakly curled his larger hand around yours. you mouthed a ‘thank you’ to viktor and heimerdinger, then walked the path toward your shared house.

once the two of you arrived, jayce slipped his shoes off, and you did as well. you lead him up to your bedroom, where you suggested he’d properly sleep for at least eight hours.

the both of you slipped off your clothes and changed into comfortable ones, but what bothered you was that jayce hadn’t said a word since you brought him to the house. so when you dimmed the lights and laid on your side of the bed, you were surprised to see jayce hadn’t curled up into your side yet. he was normally a cuddle bug, but maybe he’s changed.

his eyes looked sullen as he stared at the ceiling. he sighed and turned his head towards you without a smile or word, staring deep into your soul, as if he was trying to tell you something.

you could guess what he was thinking, so you opened your arms up to him. he slowly moved to your side of the bed, and laid his body on yours. he let out a large sigh and perfectly laid his head on your chest. his breathing suddenly became more relaxed once you began to scratch his scalp, a gesture he loved ever since you two settled into a romantic relationship.

you began to feel cold drops of liquid on your chest, ones that you could only guess were tears. when you glanced down, you saw him biting his trembling lip. his body was shaking and holding onto you for dear life, and your heart broke at the sight. you would never want your husband to feel whatever he must’ve been feeling at that moment.

“jayce, baby, what’s wrong? i’m getting worried about you,” you mumbled, tilting his head up with your free hand. he began to let out sobs and whimpers, trying to hold them back but failing miserably. his walls broke down just at the caring words from his wife.

“‘m sorry ‘m not good enough,” he gasped, trying to take in more air. you and his mother always told him he was perfect, that he didn’t need fixing. hell, he even started telling others that, but he never would’ve believed he would’ve stopped thinking he was good enough for himself. his world came crashing down, all the stress plummeted to his heart, and in his lover’s arms.

“jayce, you’re perfect. you’re good enough for me, you’re good enough for the city, you should be good enough for yourself. you’re amazing, do you even know how much you’ve done for this city? you should be proud of yourself, honey!” you praised, causing his whimpers and sobs to become quieter, as he felt loved by your words.

“do you have an idea on how to not… dive into the headspace you’re in again?” you asked, wanting him to have control over the situation. maybe he would feel a bit better that way.

“can you make that decision for me?” he mumbled, not wanting to think too much. he just wanted to rest on your plush chest, with your warm arms trapping him in your hold.

you giggled, “mhm. how does a couple of days or a week off work sound? i’m sure the professor would let you have a break, baby. you need it.” you felt a smile and nod against your chest, and glanced down to see his almost asleep figure. his grip on your body became loose, even as his hand lingered on your thigh.

you were glad he was back home and safe. hopefully he would feel better and take it easy by the time he got back to working on the hextech.

even though he was almost asleep, you murmured soft praises to the man, including quiet ‘i love you’s,’ hoping it eased his mind. he fell asleep happy and peacefully in your arms, knowing he was loved and perfect in your eyes.

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 17: Alone

Summary: Your pack has left on their first deployment since you joined them, leaving you alone on base.

Pairing: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 6,866

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, ANGST, anxiety, fear, nightmares, PTSD, trauma, just super depressing overall.

A/N: I'm so ready for these next two chapters, you have no idea. Things are happening, things are gonna happen, it's just...so good. You'll see 🤭. They're pretty heavy chapters emotionally, but don't worry fluff will be coming very soon. I won't leave you hanging too much for too long.

MASTERLIST | <- Previous | Next ->

“We'll only be gone for a few days. A week at most. Dr. Keller will take you to and from meals and anywhere else you may need to go. If you need anything, contact Kate. We'll call when we can.” 

He leaves you with a kiss to your forehead. You’re forced to stand there and watch his back as he boards the plane, the ramp closing and sealing you off from them. They all looked guilty, as if it was their fault they had to leave, as if they were suffering as much as you at the idea of parting, even just for a short period of time.

You don't sleep that night. You lay in your bed and stare at the ceiling until far too late when you decide to abandon it for John's room instead. You slip under the covers, disrupting the immaculately made bed as you surround yourself with his scent. You’re on edge, the barracks far too quiet, far too empty. Every little sound has you tensing, holding your breath. The door is locked, yet it’s not the same without your pack there to protect you. If you scream, no one will hear you now. 

You manage to fall asleep at some point in the early hours, your mind plagued with horrible nightmares of monsters devouring and tearing you apart. 

You wake with the sun, dragging your feet back to your room. You miss the quiet sounds of your boys getting ready in the morning after their workouts, taking extra care not to be too loud. Now you wish for it. You want them to be loud and wake you, because then they’d be here with you. The hallway feels too empty, the barracks too large. You’ve spent plenty of time alone in the barracks, but it’s never felt like this. They’re not just across base from you, they’re probably in an entirely different country. 

You stare at their closed doors, all four of them feeling like voids knowing the rooms behind them are empty. Even Ghost’s closed door feels particularly empty. 

You shuffle into your room, locking the door behind you as you get ready for the day. You’re not quite sure what you’re going to do, now that you don’t have them around. You suppose you could just go about your day as you usually do while they’re at training, except you won’t have their inevitable return to fetch you for meals to look forward to. 

It’ll be days before you see them again. 

If you see them again. 

You force that thought back into the recesses of your mind. You won’t entertain it, not now while you’re still trying to process the fact that they’re gone. Even if it is a possibility. 

You’re sitting on your bed when the knock comes, clutching your phone in your hand. You don’t want to be without it, in case they call. You don’t want to miss a chance to talk to them, especially if it’s your only chance. Or a call from Kate telling you something happened.

You open the door, Dr. Keller standing in the hallway with a small smile on her face. It doesn’t feel strange having her in this space, even with the rest of your pack gone. She’s been here before, and you trust her. 

“How are you doing?” She asks as you step out of your room, closing the door behind you. 

“I don’t know.” You say, letting out a sigh. “I couldn’t sleep last night.” 

“I don’t blame you. Feels strange, being alone here, huh?” 

You nod. “Yeah. It’s too quiet. Too empty.” 

“I bet.” You follow her out of the barracks and into the cool morning air. “Let’s get some food in you and then you can take it easy for the rest of the day. I know this is a big adjustment, and it happened rather suddenly.” 

“Was gonna happen eventually, though.” You say. “For the three months I was with the CIA, they drilled it into my head that their job would always take priority over everything else. Still sucks.” 

“It does. Separation is hard for everyone in a pack, even if it’s short term. Add on the stress of their jobs and I can only imagine what it’s like.” 

“I’m trying not to think about that.” You say. 

“I think that’s the best thing you can do right now.” She squeezes your arm. “Come on, we’ll get the food to go and we’ll eat in my office. I usually do that anyway. It’s much quieter than the mess.” 

You get your breakfast, following Dr. Keller to the medical center. You are silently glad you won’t have to eat in the mess without the protection of your pack. The stares from the others might have been your tipping point, and without Ghost to scare them off, you’re sure it would have only been worse.  

“Make yourself at home.” Dr. Keller says, letting you into her office. “You can sit at the desk to eat, if that’s more comfortable. I don’t mind.” 

You take her up on the offer, sitting in the chair across from hers at the desk. She moves some papers out of the way before taking a seat herself. It feels almost strange, being so informal in her office, but then again, she’s always been more laid back with the formality between the two of you. 

“If there’s one thing I miss, it’s good diner food.” Dr. Keller says as the two of you begin to eat. 

You stare down at your porridge for a moment, having gotten used to the change in food over the last almost nine weeks. “I miss a lot of things.” 

“Would you ever want to go back and visit America?” Dr. Keller asks. 

You shrug. “I don’t know.” 

“I’m sure they’d take you, if you asked.” She smiles as you stare up at her in surprise. “I don’t think there’s much they wouldn’t do, if you asked. They care about you a lot.” 

“I’m starting to realize that.” You say. 

“Good. It’s reassuring to see such strong, natural bonds forming between all of you, despite how the situation came about. You’ve made a lot of good progress already, even with the few bumps in the road.” 

It falls silent between the two of you as you eat, finishing your breakfast. Your stomach churns with anxiety, hand closing around the phone in your pocket as if it might ring at any moment. It makes you sick, the thought of what they might be doing, what might be happening right at this very moment. 

“Can I ask you something?” You break the silence, needing to take your mind off your swirling thoughts. 

“Of course.” She says, looking up from the papers she’d been looking through. 

“Since I’m your only patient, what do you do all day?” You ask. 

She smiles. “I do a lot of things. After our sessions I log the notes I take and read over them, I make sure your medical chart is up to date, I read through a lot of studies and journals on new research and methods that may be helpful, I talk to colleagues all over the world, including here on base, and I sometimes go around the medical center and sit in on meetings and classes to keep my skills sharp.” 

“Do you ever feel like you’re wasting your skills here?” 

She shakes her head. “No. Before I took this job, I was caring for sometimes over one hundred omegas at various institutes. It was a high stress environment with long hours. While it was fulfilling work, there’s a high turnover rate for Omega Specialists in that field for a reason. Being a private doctor is a bit of a relief after that, and truthfully, the pay is considerably better.” She folds her arms on her desk, leaning forward. “It’s no less fulfilling than working at institutes. It’s nice to have the time to put together the best care plan for you and your needs.” 

“It is nice having an Omega Specialist to myself.” You say. “There were several at the institute, a lot of students doing their residency. They weren’t always...good at their jobs. A lot of them were just going through the motions, doing what the more experienced specialists told them to do.” 

“Unfortunately that’s rather common with residents.” She says. “Most of them don’t make it past residency. Like a lot of specialities in medicine, it takes a certain kind of personality to succeed as an Omega Specialist. Not everyone has it in them. I wish more schools and programs would take notice earlier before they get to their residencies and steer them down a different path.” She smiles at you. “Now my question for you. Would you rather hang out in here today, or would you prefer to go back to the barracks? You won’t hurt my feelings either way, nor will you be a bother.” 

You think about it for a moment. While your knee jerk answer is to go back to the barracks, what are you going to do? Sit alone in the silence and worry until it makes you sick? Sit in the rec room and watch TV alone and worry about your boys until the next meal time? As much as you want to be alone, you also don’t want to be alone. 

“I’d...like to stay here, if that’s okay?” You finally say, making your decision. 

“More than okay.” She smiles. “Make yourself at home, do whatever you’d like. Watch YouTube videos, dig into some books, take a nap. You won’t bother me in the slightest. You’re always welcome to hang out in here.” 

You look over the titles on the bookshelf, picking one that looks interesting before settling on the couch. You spend the day with Dr. Keller, relaxing in her office and going to meals with her. It doesn’t calm the anxious thoughts by much, but at least the loneliness is abated a bit. 

You return to the barracks after dinner, debating whether you should sit in the rec room or just go to your room. The rec room feels too open, too exposed without the safety of your pack, so instead you choose to retreat into your room, locking the door behind you. 

You let out a sigh, your shoulders slumping as tears gather in your eyes. Another night without them, another night without the safety and comfort of their presence around you. Another night knowing they’re not on the other side of the wall, a knock or a yell away. 

You fight the panic starting to bubble as you get ready for bed, your mind swirling with thoughts of something happening, someone breaking in, someone taking advantage of their absence to get to you. You know it’s an irrational fear. Most of the alphas on base ignore your existence, aside from the couple incidents you’ve had with them. The most they do is stare, though that’s to be expected as an omega. 

What if they’re holding back something more sinister, though? What if the only thing stopping them is your pack? This would be their opportune moment. 

You’re shaking, eyes wide in fear as you stare at yourself in the mirror. Sure, you’ve learned a few ways to defend yourself, but could you really utilize them? If the moment called for it, could you defend yourself enough to get away? Where would you go? Dr. Keller won’t be in her office all night. Could you run and seek protection from another medical professional that was still working? Could you find a different high ranking official on base and hope they’d help you? Could you go for the guards at the gate and hope they help you? 

Or would it be safer to run for the woods? Try to lose whichever alpha decided to attack you and hope you don’t get lost in the trees? You would just have to survive the night, and Dr. Keller would notice you missing come morning. What would she do, though? Call Kate? It’s not like the guys could just come home and help you. Would Kate even tell them something happened and put them at risk of getting distracted? What if something happened to them because of you? 

You turn the shower on as cold as it will go, stepping under the spray in your pajamas. You sink to the floor of the shower, letting the cold water snap you out of your panic and prevent you from distressing. No one’s coming through the door, no one’s going to try and hurt you. 

Your teeth are chattering by the time you reach up to turn the water off. Violent shivers rock your body, your hands and feet numb. You take deep breaths, feeling more awake and aware than you have since yesterday. 

The panic has dropped to almost nothing, your shaking now due to the fact you’re freezing. You strip out of your wet clothes, leaving them in the tub as you wrap a towel around yourself. You’re still shivering violently as you change into warmer pajamas, opting for one of John’s shirts and sweatpants. 

You slip under the covers of your bed, piling every blanket you own on top of the covers before tucking yourself against your giant bear. You won’t sleep, but at least you’re not panicking anymore. 

The days begin to blend together without the routine of your pack to keep you steady. Dr. Keller comes to get you at the same time as you expect for your breakfast, and then you spend all day with her, sitting in her office, keeping yourself occupied while you wait for an inevitable phone call. It will either be your pack calling to check on you, or it will be Kate with bad news. 

You’re not sure which is worse. The anticipation of a call from your pack letting you know they’re all alright, or the dread that it will be Kate telling you something happened to them. 

You’re still not sleeping well, the anxiety and the worry you might miss their call meshing with the nightmares that were already plaguing you before they left. You’re exhausted and strung out, the worry beginning to eat you alive. You’re constantly on edge, every little sound close to sending you spiraling. 

Your thoughts have slowly shifted from missing your pack to ruminating about the fact they might not be coming back. It’s a risk you’re well aware of. The kinds of things they do put them at risk, every deployment carries the risk of one, or all of them, dying. One thing goes wrong, one small freak accident and your entire pack could be taken from you. 

You’re not sure you’d survive that. 

Most omegas don’t. 

“Still nothing?” Dr. Keller asks as you sit there, staring at your phone for what must have been an hour at least. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.” 

“Sometimes no news is good news.” She says. “I know you’d prefer to have any news at all, though.” 

“I can’t stop thinking...what if something bad has happened?” You say, fingers trembling from gripping your phone so hard. 

“Kate promised she’d call if something happened, right?”

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“She’s a woman of her word, I can say that much. I’m sure they’re fine. They’re very capable soldiers. They wouldn’t be in Spec Ops if they weren’t, much less on a highly specialized team.” Dr. Keller stands up, moving to the closet. “It’s still hard, not knowing where they are or what they’re doing. I remember when my brother told our parents he was enlisting. Our mother cried for a week straight.” She pulls a pillow and a blanket out of the closet. “I still don’t think she’s completely forgiven him. It’s hard for omegas when someone leaves the pack, even temporarily, especially if you can’t have constant reassurance that they’re alright.” 

Your brows pinch in a frown at her words as she kneels on the floor beside the couch. “Your mom was an omega?” 

She nods. “And dad was a beta. Wound up with two beta children, though I don’t think mom complained much about that. We grew up in a big pack with lots of people around us. I think mom would have been worse off if it had just been her and dad.” She sets the pillow on the couch, gently prying the phone from your fingers. “Come on, lay down.” She directs you. 

You do as she says, laying down on the couch, resting your head on the pillow. She covers you with the blanket, tucking it up around your neck. “Is that why you’re so good at this job?” 

She smiles, setting your phone on the arm of the couch above your head. “Maybe. I think it gave me more empathy for omegas and the struggles you face every day.” She gently squeezes your arm. “They’ll be alright. They’re probably just as worried about you, as you are them. But, you need to get some rest. You don’t have to sleep, just laying with your eyes closed will help.” 

You tilt your head, glancing up at your phone. “What if I fall asleep and it rings?” 

“Then I’ll make sure you get a chance to answer it.” She says, squeezing your arm again. “I promise. Get some rest.” 

You let out a breath, not wanting to risk falling asleep, but you close your eyes anyway. It doesn’t stop the thoughts from coming on, the nightmarish images the anxiety feeds your brain flashing before your eyes. What if they’re lying dead somewhere right now? What if something’s happened to Kate and she can’t tell you? Would you ever find out? Would you ever know? 

Despite the anxiety prickling through your body, the warmth of the blanket begins to lull you into a false sense of security. Perhaps it’s the sheer exhaustion from your lack of sleep over the last couple weeks, paired with the exhaustion from your constant worrying, but you find yourself slipping between sleep and consciousness as you lay there on Dr. Keller’s couch. You don’t mean to, but you can’t help it as you begin to drift off to sleep. 

Screaming. It’s loud, piercing your ears. Something’s holding you, hands clutching at your form desperately. It hurts, nails biting into your skin, fingers gripping too hard, yet you don’t care. 

“You won’t take her from me! I won’t let you!”

You’re crying, sobs wracking your body as you cling just as tightly to the form holding you. 

Hands grab at you, squeezing and pulling, trying to free you from the constricting grip around you, but it won’t let go. You cling to it just as desperately, afraid of what will happen if you let go. 

You know what will happen if you let go. 

“She’s no daughter of mine.” 

The words bite into you, slicing through your skin straight into your very soul, the prickling pain of your own flesh and blood rejecting you making your skin crawl. How could he just let you go like that? How could he turn against you so easily, over something you have no control over? 

Pain erupts across your entire body. Something snaps, your ears ringing from more screams. You’re being pulled away from the safety of the hold around you, your body going cold as the warmth around you disappears. Hands close around you, fingers ripping into you as you're torn from your mother’s hold and into the unknown. 

“Easy, easy.” 

You’re gasping, breathing wheezing as tears choke you. 

“Deep breaths. In and out, nice and slow.” 

Your breath hitches, catching painfully in your chest. 

“You’re alright, you’re safe.” 

You force your eyes open, blinded by tears as something is tucked into your arms. You squeeze the bear against your chest, hiccuping as you fight for control over your emotions. You’re on the couch in Dr. Keller’s office still. You’re not at what was once your home, not stuck in the nightmare you’ve lived over and over. 

Slowly breathing becomes easier, your sobs quieting to sniffles. The tears still spill down your cheeks, dampening the fur of the bear in your arms. 

“You’re alright,” Dr. Keller says, rubbing your back gently. 

You slowly push yourself up to sit, pulling your knees against your chest. You press your palms into your eyes, trying to get the tears to stop. Dr. Keller shifts her position, sitting next to you on the couch. 

“How long have you been having nightmares?” She asks quietly, watching you as you try to calm yourself. 

“Since my heat.” You say, voice rough from crying. You wrap your arms around the bear again, holding onto it tightly. 

“You haven’t said anything about it.” She says gently, shifting slightly so she’s facing you. 

“I didn’t want to.” You say quietly, shame burning through you. She’s not reprimanding you, yet you can’t help but feel like you’ve done something wrong. “I shouldn’t be having them, I mean...it’s not even that bad compared to...compared to what the others have gone through. The kinds of nightmares they have.” 

“It might seem that way to you, but trauma is still trauma. It might not be the worst thing someone else has gone through, but it is the worst thing you’ve been through.” 

Her words give you pause. You’ve never quite thought of it that way. The kinds of things your pack does, the things they’ve seen, the things they’ve done, are far worse than anything you’ve experienced. The things you’ve experienced may pale in comparison, but they’re your experiences. No one else’s. 

“If you want to talk about them, that’s what I’m here for.” Dr. Keller says, leaving things open for you to decide what to do. 

You don’t have to tell her. She won’t force you to do it. She won’t force you to do anything, to say anything you don’t want to. It might be nice, though, to let someone know, someone neutral, someone who won’t tell anyone else. It might be nice to finally put into words the things that are eating you, have been eating you. 

You lay back down, curling up into a tight ball on the couch. You hug the bear close to your chest, letting it ground you. “My nightmares, they’re always about the day I left for the institute.” You start, taking a shaky breath. “I haven’t had them in years.” 

“You were sent early after your presentation, right?” She asks. 

“The day after.” You answer. 

“Being sent to an institute can be traumatic when done within the normal time after presentation. I can’t even imagine what being sent that soon was like.” She lets out a breath. “Sometimes when we go through something traumatic, the brain and body hold onto it, because we don’t feel safe enough to process it in the moment. The brain can hold onto it for years, until we finally feel safe enough. Then the brain can start to try and heal from that trauma without us even realizing it.” 

“You think that’s what’s happening?” You ask. 

“It’s possible. Going through your heat successfully, being claimed, building close bonds with your pack, all could aid in helping you finally feel safe enough to process that trauma. Things usually feel worse as the brain works through the trauma, which could be why you’re having nightmares about that event suddenly.” 

“Is there anything that will make them stop?” You ask. 

“There’s some things we can do together that might help the process. I’m more than happy to help you with it, if that’s what you’d like to do. If you decide to, I think it will be a good idea to set up appointments at least twice a week, at least at first.” 

“What are we gonna tell John?” 

She gives you a look. “Well, I’d advise telling him the truth. I think you should tell your pack about your nightmares. They can at least offer you some comfort and understanding. Of course, that’s entirely up to you and what you want to do.” 

You let out a sigh, getting comfortable on the couch again. Dr. Keller adjusts the blanket over you, squeezing your arm gently. 

“Think about it.” She says. “We can talk about it more after they get back and things have settled back to normal again.” 

You’re brushing your teeth when the call comes. You quickly spit into the sink, not even bothering to rinse your mouth before you’re answering, anxiety twisting your stomach into knots. You hadn’t even checked the screen to see who was calling. You’re just anxious to hear from someone after days of silence. 

“Hello?” 

There’s a beat of silence before the voice on the other side responds, the audio distant and slightly garbled, but you hardly notice. 

“Hi, sweetheart.” 

You fight back a sob, your inhale shaky as relief floods through you. “Alpha.” The title slips through your lips before you can even catch it, your body nearly vibrating at hearing John’s voice after so many days. 

“I’m here. We’re all here.” He says, distant voices sounding in the background. 

A smile tugs at your lips, happy tears blurring your eyes as you collapse on your bed. “Missed you.” 

“I know, we’ve missed you too.” 

You move to your bed, flopping down on the mattress in relief. “You alright? Is everyone alright?” 

“We’re alright. Few bumps and bruises, but nothing we haven’t had before. How are you holding up?” 

The urge to spill the truth to him is strong. You’ve been depressed and worried and there hasn’t been a day that’s gone by that you haven’t panicked about something. You’ve been having horrible nightmares and haven’t been sleeping. There’s an ache in your chest that won’t go away, and you’re afraid it might kill you if you don’t see them soon. 

“I’m alright. Sad cause I miss you a lot.” 

“I know, sweetheart.” There’s a sound on the other end, something you can’t make out and the line buzzes for a second. For a moment you’re worried you were disconnected, but John’s voice cuts through the noise again. “We’re finishing up here soon, and we’ll be home in a couple of days.” 

You can’t help but sigh in relief at his words. They’re alright. They’re all safe, and they’re going to be home soon. You’re going to get to see them soon, touch them again, smell them again. “Hurry back.” You say, your voice shaky with emotion. 

“We’ll try, sweet girl. We have to get going, but we’ll be back before you know it.” 

Saying goodbye doesn't hurt as much as you expect it to. Maybe it’s the relief from hearing their voices, from knowing they’re really alright paired with the knowledge that they’ll be home soon. Two days doesn’t seem so far now that you know that’s all that stands between you and seeing your pack again. 

You roll over in your bed, pressing your face into the pillows. Nothing smells like them anymore. Not their shirts that they scented before they left, not your pillows or stuffed animals. The couch in the rec room, and even John’s bed have started to smell more like you. 

The first thing you’re going to do when they return is get a big whiff of each of them, even if you have to tackle Ghost to do it. You want to refresh their scents all over everything, roll around in them until they’re the only thing you can smell. 

For the first time in days, you manage to sleep that night. It’s not much, but it’s a deep, nightmare-free sleep, aided by the relief from the constant anxiety that has plagued you. 

You update Dr. Keller the next day on the news of your pack’s imminent return. You elect to spend the afternoon in the barracks instead of her office, the building suddenly not seeming quite so empty now that you know they’re coming home soon. You clean up John’s room, making his bed again after you’d made a mess of it trying to sleep. They’re all going to be tired when they return, and you want to help them in any way that you can. You pick up your room as well, even though you know you likely won’t be spending much time in it for a while. You’re going to latch yourself onto them and not let go until the ache in your chest has disappeared. 

You bristle when the knock sounds at your door. You glance up from where you had been sorting the clothes you’d stolen from the guys from your own so you can get them to scent them again. You’re not expecting a knock yet. It’s too early to be Dr. Keller coming to get you for dinner, and she would have announced herself like she has been, if it was her. 

That means someone else is in the barracks. Someone you don’t know. 

Your mind races as you try to think of who it could be. You don’t know many others on base, and certainly no one that would enter the barracks just like that, unless it’s an emergency. Is there an emergency? You’re almost certain if there was an emergency on base, then there would be alarms going off or something. There’d be some sign that something was happening, but it’s quiet outside, or at least, there’s no noises you’re not expecting. 

The knock comes again, louder and sharper. Whoever is on the other side is obviously not going to just go away. You debate calling Dr. Keller, telling her someone is outside your door, getting her to help you on this, but instead you grab your phone, holding it in your hand as you move towards the door. 

You unlock it, holding your hand on the handle in case the person on the other side tries to force their way in. They don’t, so you open it slowly, just enough that you can see out. There’s a soldier outside your door. A woman. You don’t recognize her, but then again you don’t see many women on the base, and you don’t pay much attention to the other soldiers. 

Maybe you need to start paying more attention. 

She’s a beta, you can tell just by looking at her. She’s wearing scent blockers, keeping her scent from projecting into the barracks to erase the fact she was here. 

She says your name, staring at you with hard set eyes. “General Shepherd is waiting for you.” 

It takes you a moment to process what it is she’s saying. You’ve never met any of the higher ups on base. The person with the most authority you’ve met is John, but you know he’s only a Captain. There’s others above him, but you weren’t any concern of theirs, so you have never bothered to meet them. Even in your time with the CIA, the person with the most authority that you met seemed to be Kate. You hadn’t even been given names of anyone higher up than her. 

Apparently something’s changed. 

Something in the back of your mind begins to tingle. Something isn’t right about this. You should have called Dr. Keller, or even Kate. You shouldn’t have opened the door so recklessly. 

“But, I’m not supposed to-” You begin, unsure of what to do now. 

“It’s a direct order from your superior.” The woman cuts you off, her tone sharp and impatient.

You’re not a soldier. The only superior you have is John and he’s certainly not behind this. 

You wouldn’t dare say that out loud. Not right now. 

“Okay, okay.” You say, stepping back slightly from the door. “Let me just get some shoes on.” 

You close the door, staring down at your phone. You debate calling Dr. Keller or even just sending a text, but you don’t put it past the woman outside to barge in if you don’t hurry. You can feel the panic rising, the thought of someone invading your space so carelessly making the back of your neck tingle. So instead you slip on a pair of shoes, shoes you know you can run in, before you open the door again. 

She’s still standing in the hallway, stiffly at attention. Her gaze pierces into you, making your skin crawl. You close your door behind you, slipping your phone into your pocket. She doesn't say anything as she turns on her heel, walking down the hallway towards the door. You follow behind her, having to walk quickly to keep up with her. You’re reminded of your early days on the base when you would be escorted around by Ghost. 

You’d take those times back over this right now. 

Your palms start to sweat as you leave the barracks, dread starting to fill your stomach as you realize how much of a mistake you’ve made, leaving with this stranger. She could be taking you anywhere to see anyone. You’re not even sure General Shepherd is a real person. 

The thought of being led blindly into a room of alphas like a lamb being led into a den of hungry wolves nearly makes you panic, your steps faltering just slightly as you debate running. You could make it to the medical center quickly from here if you sprint the entire way. Would she chase you if you took off running? Would you get in trouble? Would the guys get in trouble if you did? 

You don’t want anyone to get in trouble. 

Especially not with this being the first time you’ve been on your own. They’ve put a lot of trust in both you and Dr. Keller in their absence. If you get into trouble while they’re gone, that might change things. You could ruin everything you’ve built by misbehaving. 

The woman leads you to a building you haven’t been in before, leading you down a clinical-looking hallway to a door. She pauses in front of it, turning to face you. You stare at her, still on edge. What if this is a test? What if they’re testing you to see if you’d just blindly leave with a stranger while they’re not there to protect you. 

You’ve made a big mistake. 

The woman holds out her hand, and you stare down at it dumbly. “Your phone.” 

You continue to stare at her hand for a moment, trying to swallow the nervous panic rising within you. You don’t have much of a choice now but to obey. Your hands are shaking as you pass your phone over, the woman pocketing it before she opens the door. 

It’s bright inside, the LED bulbs burning your eyes. You’re uncomfortable and uneasy, a dangerous mix for an omega, but the person inside doesn’t seem to care. He stands from his seat, towering over you. He screams alpha before his scent even hits you. You’re thrown back into the memories of your father, the way he carried himself, the way he stood. Back straight like a rod, hands clasped behind his back, face pressed into a stern line. 

He’s in uniform, decorated with more patches and pins than you could put a name to. Army, you think, judging by the color of his jacket. It looks like General Shepherd is a real person after all. 

You try not to flinch as the door clicks closed behind you, sealing you in this room with an unknown alpha. Though it’s only one, you still feel like the helpless lamb standing before a hungry wolf. 

No one will hear you scream. No one will care. 

“My name is General Shepherd.” He says, his voice gruff and laced with authority. “I am the acting commander of Task Force 141.” 

You’re not sure if you should say anything, or even bother introducing yourself. He probably already knows you well, even though you’ve never met him before in your life. 

“I was one of the driving forces behind the omega initiative, and I decided the 141 should be one of the first to participate. I also signed the approval for you to be assigned as their omega, did you know that?” 

You shake your head. “N-No sir, the CIA didn’t give me any names.” 

“Good.” His lips twitch in what you assume was supposed to be a smile. It doesn’t ease your nerves any. “They weren’t supposed to. I’m sure you’ve learned that confidentiality is everything in this line of work.” 

“Yes, sir.” You try not to flinch under his gaze, piercing and probing. The back of your neck is tingling, every single instinct in your body screaming at you to run, to escape, to get somewhere safe. 

“I came here today to ensure your pack was doing as they were instructed. I’m impressed with what I’ve seen so far. You’re getting along well with them?” 

You nod again. “Yes, sir. There were some...bumps along the way, but we all get along fine now.” 

“Good.” He closes the file on the table, taking a step closer to you. You fight the urge to take a step back, not wanting him to invade your space while you’re so vulnerable. “The success of this program is imperative to the future of the military and its functionality. You’re doing important work here with the Task Force.” His hand lifts, slowly pulling the collar of your shirt to the side so he can see your mating mark. 

You fight the urge to lift your hands and wrap them around the back of your neck, the instinctual urge to protect yourself nearly winning out as he stares at your mark. Your heart is pounding in your chest, the fear-driven adrenaline making your fingers tremble. Half a second and he could scruff you, half a second and he could overpower you. 

No one would know. No one would care.  

“I’m satisfied with what I’m seeing so far. Of course, the true measure of success will be their efficiency in their current task.” He steps back away from you, moving back to the table. “How have you been adjusting to them being gone?” 

“It’s been difficult,” You say, breathing for a second to collect yourself. “But I know separation can be a rough adjustment at first.” 

His lips twitch again in a twisted smile. “You’re a smart girl. That’s why I chose you for this position. You’re doing good work. Your efforts will change the course of military history, hopefully for the better.” 

Something about his words don’t sit right with you. 

You’re trembling as you exit the room, led out by the woman that had brought you to the building. Your breaths are heavy as you try to keep a grip on the anxiety threatening to overtake you. Your hand is trembling uncontrollably as she give you your phone back, your knuckles going white as you clutch it to your chest. You’re sweating, the cool air chilling your skin as you step outside. 

You barely remember the walk back to the barracks, numbly following the woman as she leads you back to your safe space. It doesn't feel so safe anymore, now that she’s breached it. She entered without permission, breaking that trust that’s so sacred to packs. 

She doesn't even seem bothered by it. 

She pauses outside the door to the barracks, staring down at you. You fight the urge to race inside and lock yourself in the safety of your room before she can change her mind and enter again, or take you somewhere worse. You stand your ground, meeting her gaze. 

“Thank you for your cooperation.” She says, as monotone as she had been the first time she spoke to you. 

You finally realize what it was that made her seem so off to you as you think over her words. 

She’s American. 

“Thank you for escorting me.” You say politely, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Have a safe trip home.” 

You quickly enter the barracks, speed walking down the hall towards your room. You want to burrow under your covers and hide until the guys return and you can feel safe again. You pause in front of your door, staring down at the handle. The back of your neck is prickling again, anxiety burning hot in your veins. Your hands have begun shaking again, clinging to the phone still pressed against your chest. You fight the urge to hyperventilate as you stare at your door, half of your brain telling you to run and the other half stuck, staring in shock and disbelief. 

Your door is ajar. Open just a crack, just enough to be noticeable by looking at it. 

You always close your door. You always ensure it’s shut every time you leave the barracks, even when the guys are home. You remember shutting it before you followed the woman out of the barracks. You remember distinctly listening to the click of the handle as you pulled it shut behind you in the quiet of the barracks. 

You stare at the gap, the line of the frame visible. It’s open. Your door is open. 

Someone was inside your room. 

NEXT ->

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[wonderjanga]

Captain Marvel cooking great depression meals for the JL.

Marvel has the most interesting recipes. A good chunk of them sound nasty but are actually good, meanwhile the other chunk is just nasty.

A good example of it sounding nasty but being good was at a potluck a while back.

Flash: “Yo! Cap, whatcha bring?”

Marvel: “Prune Pudding.” *bright smile*

Flash: “Prune pudding?” *takes a whole step back*

Marvel: “Yup! Fashioned by First Lady Roosevelt. Wanna try some?” *hands(shoves) him a plate*

Flash: “Uh… sure?” *hesitant bite*

Marvel: “Is it good?”

Flash: *chews* “…yeah actually.” *eats some more* “This is delicious!”

We can’t forget the times the recipes are just plain nasty.

Supes: *walking down a hallway when he smells the most repulsive smell in the world*

Marvel: *in the kitchen, pulling something out of the oven*

Supes: *flies over to the kitchen, holding his nose* “Hey, Cap, did you burn something?”

Marvel: *looks over to him holding an oven tray* “No? I just made peanut butter stuffed onions.”

Supes: *looks horrified, appalled, disgusted*

Then was the time Kon was talking to Marvel and he mentioned how his birthday was coming up.

Marvel: “Oh I have the perfect recipe! You’ll love it!”

On Kon’s Birthday…

Kid Flash: “You let him make your cake?”

Kon: “Yeah? You make it sound like it’ll be bad.”

Kid Flash: “Dude you’ll be luck if you get anything even resembling cake.”

Marvel: “Alright, it’s done!” *places a pan of wacky cake down*

Other YJ: *look nervous*

Kon: *eats it* “Chocolate?”

Marvel: “Mhm!” *nods his head all proud*

It’s surprisingly good to the teens.

Kid Flash: “This is actually really good. Don’t tell me there’s secretly something abhorrent in here.” *gives him suspicious look*

Marvel: “No? Now that I think about it, it’s actually vegan.”

Kid Flash: “Vegan? You seem like the type.”

Marvel: “No, I’m not vegan. But it’s cheaper to make because it doesn’t need eggs and milk.”

Kid Flash: “…How does one make a cake without eggs and milk?”

Marvel: *shrugs*

[blitzwhore]

Stolas just standing there and letting blitz hug him in the end is all good, right? He is just sad because of octavia and accepting that blitz is there with him right?? It's not that he regrets chosing him, right??? (I just need affirmation)

You know what? I've found myself needing reassurance about this too. So let's take a moment to look at the facts together, shall we?

(This reply turned out way longer than I expected it to 😅 sorry!)

Fact #1 - Stolas is still coming to terms with the consequences of his actions. He spends the whole episode finding out just how much his life has changed. Learning how to navigate groceries, and laundry, and meals, and having a job, and worrying about money.

Mid-episode, he has a breakdown where he truly questions if everything he gave up was worth it just for a fantasy. At this point in the episode, he still hasn't realised how much he means to Blitz. As far as he's concerned, he did all of this for someone who doesn't reciprocate his feelings. By the end of the episode, though, his feelings have settled enough for him to express what he has known to be true all along: that saving Blitz was the right thing to do.

What Stolas regrets isn't saving Blitz's life, or even loving Blitz in the first place.

What he regrets are the choices he made that led them to this. He feels guilty for selfishly (or, rather, naively) playing out his fantasies. He's the one who established the deal, who let Blitz illegally use the book for many months, who wasn't always sensible about how he expressed his love for Blitz publicly and despite being married, and who allowed himself to ignore the reality of his situation so he could live in his own, personal romcom—all of which ultimately led to the events of Mastermind and the loss of Via.

And all the guilt and regret he's grappling with (however justified it might be) is exacerbated by fact #2, which is:

Fact #2 - Stolas is off his medication. He's been off it for a month now. Symptoms of depression (especially untreated depression) include mood swings, irritability, self-hatred and low self-esteem, passive/active suicidal ideation, pessimism and hopelessness about the future, catastrophising, black-and-white thinking, and anhedonia (inability to feel pleasure and to find joy in things—and people—who used to bring you it). All symptoms Stolas exhibits throughout this episode.

So, even if he shows a lack of emotion toward Blitz at times, or irritation to seemingly minor things like low doors or "secretating" or Karen's behaviour, even if he acts regretful and angry and desolate... a lot of these emotions and behaviours are a result of his depression, and not of actually hating the life he chose.

Fact #3 - Stolas loves Blitz. He always has, and always will. I could point at a thousand different moments in the show when Stolas' love for Blitz has transpired, but I'm going to leave it at his line from Mastermind: "I would rather be dead than live life without you by my side."

Even after everything they've gone through, even now that he's taken Blitz off his pedestal and can acknowledge that Blitz can be a fucking idiot... Stolas simply does not want to live a life without Blitz. It has always been Blitz. It will always be Blitz.

Stolas loves Blitz.

Fact #4 - Stolas kissed Blitz. Before he truly hits rock bottom as a result of Octavia cutting him out, Stolas is so ecstatic that Blitz cares, that Blitz was willing to go to such lengths to save his life, that he can't hold back the need to kiss Blitz mid-air. Suddenly, none of his earlier frustration matters. Nothing matters expect for how elated he is that Blitz loves him back. So he smiles and he pulls Blitz into a kiss because he can't bear not to kiss Blitz for a moment longer.

Look at this man. Look at how happy he is. Because it's always been Blitz, and maybe it was a fantasy for a long time, but it doesn't have to be anymore. Maybe this can be real now. He's so happy he (and I) could cry.

Fact #5 - Stolas didn't deny loving Blitz. When Via said "You don't love me, you love him," the script very purposefully did not have Stolas go "no, no, Via, that's not true—" or say anything else that might make Blitz doubt, even for a moment, that Stolas loves him. Because that much is true. He does love Blitz. He just also loves Via. Which brings me to:

Fact #6 - Blitz knows Stolas loves him. At no point throughout the episode does Blitz doubt, even for a second, that Stolas loves him. And we know this because Blitz's walls remain down at all times. If Blitz doubted he was loved, if he had even the slightest of reservations, those walls would come crawling back up whether he wanted them to or not. It's what he's been trained and conditioned to do—it's how he's kept his heart safe ever since the accident.

But now, he knows his heart is safe with Stolas. He believes it enough to not depend on his walls to feel at ease. He believes it enough to let himself take care of Stolas and be soft with Stolas without the slightest trace of hesitation.

Look at Blitz's face. This is the face of a man who knows that even if Stolas isn't okay right now, things will get better. And when they do, they'll both still be in love with each other. This is the face of a man who can't wait for something beautiful to flourish between them, but who is in no rush to get there. He knows the road ahead is hard and painful, but he has faith in Stolas. In both of them.

Fact #6 - Stolas was happy to share a private, romantic dance with Blitz. Despite everything going through his mind, he found comfort and happiness in dancing with Blitz; in getting to have this little moment with him.

He found relief in the fact that Blitz stayed with him this time, even after Stolas told him, once again, that he didn't have to stay.

His reaction to Blitz initiating a dance between them is genuine surprise, immediately followed by an enamoured little smile at the mere notion that he gets to have this, now.

And, as they dance, he keeps smiling and leaning into Blitz, going as far as to manage a deep, heartfelt laugh at Blitz's words. This, for an unmedicated, depressed person going through one of the worst days of his life, is huge in itself. It shows that, even in the worst of times, he finds undeniable comfort and happiness in Blitz.

And, after their dance, Stolas looks at Blitz with a sobriety and soft sort of realisation that shows he's finally coming to terms with the fact that this is real. After everything he's lost, after all the fantasies he hoped for for so long and believed he'd never have, he finally gets to have this.

Despite the pain he's going through, Stolas looks at Blitz and sees the man he loves.

Notice how Blitz's eyes trail down to Stolas' mouth. And Stolas realises. And doesn't move away. Waiting, expectantly, for Blitz's next move, fully expecting it to be a kiss.

But then Blitz hugs him instead, and Stolas doesn't hug back.

And it's not because he doesn't want to be hugged by Blitz. It's not because his feelings for Blitz have changed, or dimmed, or disappeared. It's not because he regrets loving Blitz, or saving him. It's not because he doesn't want to have a close, healthy, loving romantic relationship with Blitz.

It's because of facts #1 (he's grappling with so much guilt and coming to terms with the consequences of his actions) and #2 (he's experiencing symptoms of unmedicated depression). And, above all, it's because of fact #7, which is...

Fact #7 - Stolas doesn't know how to be loved. Stolas has never had support. He has never had a shoulder to cry on, or someone to hold him when he needed it. When he's feeling vulnerable and broken, he defaults to hugging himself as a way to self-soothe, because that's the only comfort he's ever known.

And because he's never known comfort from others—because it was never allowed or safe for him to need or ask for comfort from others—all Stolas knows to do with his vulnerability is hide it. So much so that, the two times we see him begin to break down in front of Blitz before this episode, he either portals Blitz away or masks his tears and pain immediately. Even as he drunkenly rambles about wanting to be held, he still makes sure not to appear like he actually needs a hug.

So when he finds himself being held by Blitz in a warm, comforting hug, Stolas doesn't know how to respond. Because he's never had this. He's never had an opportunity to learn how to exist in someone's comforting embrace, how to interact with this kind of physical contact. He still has to learn how to feel safe between arms that aren't his own.

Simply put, Stolas still doesn't know how to hold Blitz back.

That doesn't mean Stolas doesn't want or need physical comfort. He needs it desperately—everyone does. But wanting something and knowing how to actually have it are two very different things, and Blitz knows that better than anyone, because he's wanted Stolas for a very long time, but didn't, until very recently, know how to feel safe accepting Stolas' love.

And that's why Blitz is completely understanding of the fact that all Stolas can do, all Stolas has the ability to do, is stand there and let himself be held, and let his emotions go through him. In, and out, with every breath, with every second. And get slowly acquainted with what being comforted by the person he loves feels like.

Thirty-something years of trauma can't be undone in a single hug, or a single conversation, and it's going to take time for Stolas to learn how to be present while in Blitz's arms, and how to return that emotional closeness.

But Blitz has faith in him. Blitz is willing to be patient and soft with him while he gets better. Blitz is ready to meet Stolas where he's at, because he knows, beyond a trace of doubt, that they love one another, and they're going to be okay. Even if Stolas doesn't know it yet—even if we, the audience don't know it yet—Blitz knows.

And that's just going to have to be enough for now.

And because this post got completely away from me, I shall conclude by quoting their song, because it summarises their story better than I ever could:

Truer love is hard to find. ❤️

[missmaymay13]

the night we met - q.hughes

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q.hughes x fem! oc | 25k

warnings : talks of su!cide, depression, anxiety, abu$e

summary: In a city of noise and pressure, two quiet souls—Quinn Hughes, the Canucks captain burdened by expectation, and Ava Monroe, the lonely daughter of a billionaire—find each other at their lowest. What begins as a silent connection in the dark becomes a lifeline, as they quietly piece each other back together. Through whispered confessions, found family, and healing love, they learn that sometimes, the gentlest stories are the most powerful—and that the right person can bring you home without ever saying a word.

a/n: I’ve working on this for a little bit now and I wanted to make sure I was happy with how it came out. I say it every time but I think this is my favourite thing I’ve written so far. I really hope you guys enjoy this.

masterlist

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From the outside, Ava Monroe had everything. The kind of everything that was splashed across glossy magazine covers and whispered about at exclusive dinner parties hosted in candlelit dining rooms with ten-thousand-dollar floral centerpieces. She lived in a sprawling mansion perched high in West Vancouver, with sweeping, cinematic views of the Pacific that made the sunsets look like they were painted just for her. The marble-floored foyer echoed with each step beneath her designer heels, and there was always someone paid to anticipate her needs—a private chef who prepared meals she rarely had an appetite for, stylists who dressed her like a mannequin, tutors who guided her through a curriculum designed to craft the perfect future. Her world was curated like an art gallery: everything polished, everything perfect.

But no one ever asked her if she felt at home in it. In truth, Ava had felt like a guest in her own life for as long as she could remember—present but not wanted, displayed but not held. A beautiful ghost wandering through a museum of someone else's making. Her every breath felt choreographed, like she was part of a play she never auditioned for.

Her name carried weight. Ava Monroe. Daughter of David Monroe, real estate tycoon turned international mogul, whose face was on the cover of Forbes more than it was in her life. And her mother, Sally—a socialite whose reputation for elegance was only matched by her absence. Together, they were Vancouver's power couple, untouchable in their glass tower of privilege. But Ava? She was the glass. Transparent. Fragile. On display, but invisible. A footnote in their empire.

From the outside, it looked like the dream. But inside, it was a mausoleum of unspoken words and unmet needs. A house that echoed with the absence of love. A girl who grew up surrounded by beauty and yet felt none of it belonged to her. Money was the answer to every problem, but it never asked her how she felt. It bought silence instead of comfort. And Ava—young, soft, desperate Ava—learned how to exist quietly within it. Learned how to smile for the cameras while dying in the dark. Learned how to shrink her soul until it could fit into the cracks of other people's expectations.

Money masked the emptiness. But it never filled it. It never could. It could buy her everything—except the feeling of being wanted.

She remembered the gold trim of her bedroom walls better than her father's laugh—if he even had one. The sound of his voice was a memory blurred by distance and business calls, always clipped and impatient, never warm. She couldn't recall a single bedtime story or a moment where he looked at her like she was something more than a fleeting responsibility. And her mother—God, her mother's perfume—that suffocating cloud of white jasmine and vodka, always seemed to arrive before she did. It clung to the drapes, to Ava's pillows, to her hair, long after her mother was gone. Longer than her embrace. Longer than her love, if it had ever existed at all. Her mother's touch was cold, her gaze colder. Ava used to press her small hands to the windows and watch her leave, praying she'd come back softer. She never did.

Ava's childhood was a mosaic of jet lag and hotel suites. She'd stood at the base of the Eiffel Tower, floated in gondolas down Venetian canals, and tasted sushi in Tokyo that melted on her tongue like snow. Her passport was thick with stamps by the age of ten. But none of those places felt like home. Home was a concept Ava didn't understand. Not really. Her childhood home in Vancouver was more like a museum—perfectly curated, but hollow. A stage built to impress, but never to comfort.

Her father was always gone. He existed in phone calls, scheduled meetings, and brief appearances in tuxedos at charity galas. When he was home, he was on his phone, always pacing, always tense, and Ava quickly learned that the way to his attention was through perfect grades or crisis-level tantrums. He preferred the grades. It cost less to reward her than to soothe her. When she got her first A+ in primary school, he handed her a bracelet worth more than some people made in a year, kissed her on the forehead, and left the room. She kept the bracelet in its box. She wanted his words, not his money. But words were too expensive for him.

Sally Monroe, meanwhile, was more ghost than mother—a haunting, a flicker in the corner of the room, a presence that came and went like perfume dissipating into stale air. She floated in and out of the house, high on champagne and attention, always late, always dismissive, like motherhood was a performance she never auditioned for. Her stilettos clicked across marble floors like a metronome of neglect, and her laughter echoed through hallways Ava was never invited into. Ava can still hear her words like a wound that never scabbed over, each syllable slicing deeper than the last.

"You ruined my body, Ava," she once spat, wine glass in hand, eyes glassy and unfocused.

"If I didn't have you, I could've been someone," she slurred another time, brushing past her daughter like she was a smudge on her perfect reflection.

"Why can't you just be normal for once?"

Ava would replay those moments in her head, over and over, like a broken record. The cruelness wasn't random—it was ritual. Her mother's disdain was the wallpaper of her childhood, unavoidable and slowly peeling away at her self-worth. Every glance in the mirror became a question: What was so wrong with her that even her mother couldn't love her? And still, some pathetic part of her held onto hope—that one day Sally would walk through the door, take Ava's face in her hands, and say she was sorry. That she was proud. That she wanted her.

But apologies were for people who felt remorse. And Sally Monroe never looked back.

Words sharpened like razors over time, and Ava bled internally for years. She bled in silence. She bled with a smile. Every glance in the mirror felt like she was trying to live up to a version of herself that never existed. She would stare at her reflection and wonder what exactly about her had made her mother unravel.

The only solace she ever knew was Brenda.

Brenda was the nanny who stayed far past her job description. She was the one who tucked Ava in, made her soup when she was sick, brushed the knots out of her hair while humming lullabies. Brenda was the one who held her after nightmares, whispered that she was special, that she was loved—words no one else ever said and meant. Brenda was home. When the world felt too loud, Ava would crawl into Brenda's arms and let herself feel small, feel held. Brenda was the only person who ever looked at Ava like she mattered. Not as a responsibility. Not as a paycheck. But as a person.

And then one day, Brenda left too.

Ava was fifteen. Her parents claimed she had to go—"boundaries," her mother had said with a smug twist of her lips. Ava didn't eat for three days. Her silence screamed at them, but no one listened. Brenda cried when she packed her last bag. Ava sat on the stairs, arms wrapped around her knees, watching her only source of love walk out the door. It was the first time she thought about disappearing. The first time she wondered what death felt like.

That's when the darkness started to curl around her, quiet and relentless. It wasn't a sudden collapse. It was a slow, steady erosion. Each day chipped away at her until there was nothing left but skin stretched over silence.

By sixteen, the depression was a thick fog that clung to her skin, seeped into her lungs, made every breath feel like drowning. The anxiety followed like a shadow. Panic attacks in the middle of the night, the overwhelming sense that she was suffocating inside her own skin. Her heart would race for no reason, hands trembling, chest tightening until she gasped for air like she was underwater. She wore silk and diamonds, but her ribs felt like they were collapsing.

She sat in therapy offices decorated in muted pastels, nodding while older women scribbled notes and offered her lavender tea and affirmations. Ava learned how to lie in those offices. Learned the right things to say so they'd stop probing, stop calling her parents, stop suggesting medication that her mother would scoff at anyway. The therapists saw her as a sad rich girl. Nothing more.

No one noticed she was slipping. Maybe they did, but they didn't care. Or they thought she'd be fine. She was Ava Monroe, after all.

At school, she was the quiet girl with perfect hair and vacant eyes. People wanted to sit next to her, invited her to parties she never showed up to, tagged her in photos she wasn't in. No one really saw her. The friends she made wanted status, not connection. They clung to her for the proximity to power, the name, the lifestyle they thought they could sip like champagne through her. They smiled in selfies and whispered about her when she turned her back. Her name got her into rooms, but her presence was irrelevant.

She deleted her social media when she turned seventeen. The silence was better than the noise. She didn't want to see the curated versions of people pretending to live happy lives, or the forced smiles of people who didn't know what it meant to ache.

Most nights, she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, counting the cracks in the paint until her vision blurred. The silence was oppressive, curling around her like a second skin, smothering her slowly. She would lie motionless, the hum of the city outside her window reminding her that the world was still spinning, even if she wasn't. Each night bled into the next like watercolors running down the page, indistinguishable in their loneliness.

She often imagined what it would be like to simply vanish. To evaporate into the night air like breath on cold glass. Would anyone notice the absence of her quiet footsteps? The unoccupied chair in the lecture hall? The unread text messages on her phone? She doubted it. The idea that she could disappear without disrupting anything was both terrifying and oddly comforting. Some nights, the thoughts spiraled into places too dark to speak of—into fantasies of escape that stretched into eternity. A long, uninterrupted silence.

But something always tethered her to the edge. Sometimes it was the faint sound of Brenda's lullabies echoing in her head, like the memory of warmth. Sometimes it was a stranger's smile on the street or the way a poem broke open her chest just wide enough to let a sliver of hope in. A foolish, desperate hope that someone—anyone—might look at her one day and actually see her. Not the name. Not the money. Just her.

She never told anyone about those thoughts. Who would she tell? Her mother would laugh. Her father wouldn't even pause his call. And everyone else? They only knew how to love her shadow, never her soul.

There was no one to tell. So she carried it all alone, night after night, in a bed that felt too big, in a world that felt too empty.

Not Ava Monroe, the heiress. Not Ava Monroe, the girl with a platinum card and a perfect smile. Just Ava.

She turned eighteen and moved into her own condo in downtown Vancouver, a sleek place her father paid for and never visited. It was cold. Quiet. She painted one of the walls just to feel like she owned something in her life. She chose a soft green. Brenda would've liked it. The color softened the sterile white that made everything feel like a hospital.

University came next, more out of obligation than ambition. She studied literature because it felt like an escape, a place where pain was beautiful and loneliness had purpose. Her classmates admired her writing, but they never knew the stories came from somewhere real. She wrote about girls drowning in oceans of expectation, about mothers who forgot how to love, about the sound of being forgotten.

On weekends, she wandered the streets of Vancouver, alone with her earbuds and playlists of sad songs. Sometimes she sat at cafes and watched people laughing over lattes, wondering what it would feel like to belong to someone's world like that. Other times, she would walk along the seawall in Stanley Park, letting the crashing of waves drown out the noise in her head. She liked rainy days best—something about the grey skies made her feel less alone, like even the weather understood her.

She was twenty-one now. Twenty-one and still haunted by a childhood that looked perfect in pictures. Twenty-one and still trying to figure out who she was beneath the layers of privilege and pain. Twenty-one and still waiting for someone to stay.

The thing about being hollow is that it echoes. It makes everything louder. Loneliness. Grief. Desperation. The ache of never being chosen.

And Ava Monroe's whole life had been one long, aching echo.

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The city of Vancouver glittered under grey skies, caught in that strange, beautiful limbo between rain and light. The kind of grey that wrapped itself around buildings like a heavy blanket, soft and suffocating all at once. For Quinn Hughes, the skyline had become a blur—glass towers that reflected versions of himself he no longer recognized. Faces he used to know stared back from the mirrored windows: the hopeful rookie, the quiet brother, the boy with wide eyes and big dreams. But now, the reflections were hollowed out, distorted. He no longer knew which one was real.

He sat in his high-rise apartment overlooking the city, the window cool against his shoulder as he leaned into the silence. His breath left faint fog on the glass, fading faster than the thoughts in his head. The world outside moved with its usual rhythm—cars zipping through puddles, cyclists hunched against the drizzle, pedestrians rushing somewhere with purpose, umbrellas bobbing like tiny shields against the storm. But inside, Quinn felt still. Stuck. Forgotten.

The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. The kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made you question if the world would even notice if you were gone. He hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. Not because no one called—he just didn’t answer. Some part of him hoped someone might show up anyway. But no one did.

The loneliness wasn’t loud. It was quiet and creeping, like fog under a doorframe. It seeped into his bones and made everything feel a few shades colder. He had the view, the prestige, the life people envied. But none of it meant anything when the only voice he heard was his own, echoing through empty rooms.

He blinked slowly, letting the rain blur his vision, and for a moment, he imagined the skyline disappearing. The city swallowed by mist. And him, sitting there, unnoticed. A ghost in a glass tower.

They called it an honor. They said it was a privilege. They said he earned it.

But when Quinn was named captain of the Vancouver Canucks, it didn’t feel like a crown. It felt like a shackle.

He remembered the headlines. The social media storm. The debates.

He’s too quiet. He’s not vocal enough. He’s not a leader. He hasn’t won anything.

People questioned his worth like it was a commodity they could bid on. They dissected his posture, his words, his facial expressions like analysts on a mission. Every move he made was magnified, every mistake weaponized. He was under a microscope, and the scrutiny burned.

He tried to drown it out. He told himself it didn’t matter, that he didn’t owe the world anything more than his effort. But it mattered. It mattered more than he wanted to admit.

Because all Quinn Hughes ever wanted was to be good enough.

Not just for the team. Not just for the fans. For his brothers. For his parents. For himself.

He grew up with a stick in his hands and the weight of expectation already on his shoulders. Being the oldest meant being the example. The one who knew the right answer. The one who paved the path not just for himself, but for everyone who came after. Every step he took was supposed to be a guide for his brothers, a light to follow. But what people didn’t understand was that he had paved that path with pieces of himself—with sleep he never got, with tears no one saw, with bruises he never let anyone treat.

Every time someone praised his poise, they didn’t see the nights he stayed up wondering if he was enough. Every time someone called him steady, they didn’t see how hard he worked to hold the cracks together. Each season, each game, each injury chipped away at him like erosion on a cliffside—slow, relentless. There were days when his body moved on autopilot, when he looked in the mirror and felt like a stranger was staring back. The boy who once dreamed with fire in his chest now looked at his reflection with tired eyes, wondering when the light inside him dimmed.

He wore his role like armor, but underneath it, he was breaking.

There were mornings he couldn’t get out of bed without pain shooting down his spine. Nights he iced his knees in silence while his teammates laughed across hotel hallways. Games where he played through injuries he should’ve rested. And still, when the final buzzer blew and the Canucks fell short yet again, he took the blame.

Always, it was Quinn.

He bore it in his posture, in the way his shoulders slumped when no one was watching. In the way he lingered on the ice after practice, skating until the rink emptied and all that was left was his shadow. He bore it in the bags under his eyes, the ache in his muscles, the distant look that had settled into his face.

And yet, no matter how hard he pushed, how much he gave, it never felt like enough.

His life looked like a dream from the outside. The penthouse apartment. The cars. The designer suits. The headlines. The cheers. But inside, it all felt empty. Like he was moving through a world made of glass, afraid to breathe too hard in case it shattered.

He tried to fill the void. With late nights and loud music. With drinks and shallow company. With bodies that meant nothing, tangled in his sheets, saying all the right things in the moment and disappearing before morning. But when the sun rose, so did the silence. And the ache.

It was always there.

The ache of being needed, but not known. The ache of being seen, but not understood.

Quinn carried the team like a secret. He never wanted the credit. Just the weight. He thought maybe if he carried enough of it, he could finally prove something—to himself, to the critics, to the kid he used to be who dreamt of the NHL and didn’t know how lonely dreams could become.

He watched the city pass him by from his window. Rain streaked the glass. The clouds hung low. Everything was tinted in shades of grey. His phone buzzed from the counter. Another text. Another obligation. He ignored it.

Sometimes, he wished he could disappear for a while. Not forever. Just long enough to remember who he was beneath the layers. Beneath the jersey, the title, the expectations. He didn’t even know what he liked outside of hockey anymore. Who was he when he wasn’t on the ice?

He closed his eyes and tried to remember the last time he laughed—really laughed. The kind that made your chest ache and your eyes water. The kind that felt free. Unfiltered. Nothing came.

He hadn’t laughed in a long time.

He had teammates. He had family. He had people. But the truth was, Quinn Hughes felt more alone now than he ever had in his life. And he didn’t know how to ask for help.

He didn’t know how to say that the pressure was crushing him. That every game felt like walking a tightrope with no net. That every loss carved something deeper into his chest. That sometimes he stood under the shower for an hour just to feel something real.

There was no off switch. No escape. He was Captain Hughes now. He had to be calm. Composed. Controlled.

But inside, he was drowning.

There were moments, late at night, when he’d walk the seawall alone with a hoodie pulled over his head and his breath fogging in front of him. Moments when he’d sit by the water and wonder what life would be like if he weren’t Quinn Hughes. If he were just... someone. Anyone. Free to feel without the fear of letting someone down.

Because that’s what it always came back to: letting people down.

He thought of his brothers. Jack with his bright smile and boundless energy. Luke with his quiet brilliance. They looked up to him. They always had. And that scared him more than anything. Because what if they saw the cracks? What if they saw how tired he was? What if they saw that some days, he didn’t want to lace up his skates? That some days, he resented the game that had given him everything and taken just as much in return?

He hated that part of himself. The part that felt bitter. Burnt out. Hollow.

He turned from the window, the sky outside darkening with the promise of another cold Vancouver night. The apartment felt too quiet. Too sterile. He poured a drink, not because he wanted one, but because it gave his hands something to do. The whiskey burned down his throat. It didn’t help. It never did.

Quinn sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on his knees, the glass dangling loosely from his fingers. He stared at the floor and wondered how much longer he could keep doing this. Keep pretending. Keep performing. Keep carrying.

He wanted something different. Something real.

He didn’t know what that looked like. Not yet. But he knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t the headlines. It wasn’t the jersey. It wasn’t the cheers that faded as quickly as they came. It wasn’t the way people only saw him when he was winning.

He wanted someone to see him when he was losing.

Really see him.

Not Captain Hughes. Not the defenseman. Not the franchise savior.

Just Quinn.

And maybe, one day, someone would.

But tonight, the only sound was the rain.

And the hollow echo of a man trying to hold himself together.

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The air inside Rogers Arena was thick with loss. It clung to the walls, to the empty seats, to the damp gear hanging in open lockers. The kind of silence that followed a season-ending defeat was unlike any other. It wasn’t loud. It was heavier than that. A kind of grief that pressed itself into the bones of the room, into the stitching of the jerseys, into the very air itself. And in the middle of it all, alone under the dim fluorescent lights of the locker room, Quinn Hughes sat perfectly still, still in full gear.

His skates were unlaced but still on. His gloves, damp with sweat and frustration, sat clenched between his knees. The rest of the team had long cleared out—some silent, others trying to shake it off with forced laughter and hollow reassurances. Quinn hadn’t moved. His eyes were locked on the floor, seeing everything and nothing all at once. The same square of tile beneath his skates stared back at him like it had answers he’d never find.

The Canucks had missed the playoffs.

Again.

He ran through every moment of the game like a looped reel in his head. The fumbled breakout. The missed stick lift. The turnover in the second period that shifted the momentum. The bad line change. The penalty that cost them the equalizer. What if he had blocked that shot? What if he had skated faster? Thought quicker? Passed sharper?

What if he was just better?

It was always him. He could’ve done more. He should’ve.

He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his hands like it was the only thing keeping it from splitting apart. The weight of his helmet pressed into his forehead, the hard shell biting into his skin, but he didn’t take it off. It felt safer somehow, like a shield between him and the failure echoing in his bones. His fingers gripped at his hair through the fabric of his gloves before letting go, too tired to even hold himself together. His breathing was shallow, each inhale an effort, like even his lungs didn’t want to take up space. The room felt massive and shrinking all at once, like the walls were closing in on him while stretching into an infinite, hollow void. His pulse thundered in his ears, louder than the silence, louder than the thoughts shouting in his head. And still, he didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because moving meant facing it. And right now, he wasn’t sure he could survive that.

They made a mistake.

Not just naming him captain.

Drafting him.

Quinn didn’t know when those thoughts started to grow roots in his chest, but they were in full bloom now. What if he was a bust? A wasted draft pick? All this time, everyone talked about his skating, his vision, his composure—but what did any of that matter if he couldn’t get his team there? If he couldn’t lead them?

What if he was never meant to be enough?

What if he peaked too early?

He slowly peeled off his gloves and dropped them to the floor with a soft thud that echoed louder than it should have in the empty locker room. His fingers trembled, tingling from the cold sweat that had long dried against his palms. The ache in his knuckles pulsed like a second heartbeat. He flexed them slowly, like the pain might root him back into his body.

He stared at the gloves for a moment, his chest tightening. They looked so small on the floor. So defeated. Just like him.

He exhaled shakily, the sound catching in his throat. Then he braced himself against the bench and pushed himself up. His legs screamed in protest, muscles stiff and bruised from the game, from the season, from everything. The weight of his gear felt unbearable now. The jersey that once filled him with pride now felt suffocating, like it was pressing down on every bone.

His shoulder pads creaked as he moved, the Velcro at his sides sticking stubbornly as if even his equipment didn’t want to let go. The familiar routine of undressing after a game felt foreign. Wrong. His body went through the motions, but everything inside him was numb. Disconnected.

He didn’t bother taking off the rest. Just the gloves. Just enough to stand. Enough to move.

And so, step by step, like a sleepwalker, he drifted toward the showers. Not with purpose. Not even with intent. Just the instinct to hide somewhere the world couldn’t see him fall apart.

The water hit his skin, hot at first, then numb. Steam rose around him, curling into the air, catching the yellow of the overhead lights. He leaned his forearm against the tile and rested his head against it, eyes shut tight. His breath stuttered.

And then the tears came.

They ran down his cheeks, hot and quiet, blending seamlessly with the water cascading from the showerhead. He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a sound. He just cried. The kind of crying you didn’t even know you were doing until it had already broken through. His shoulders trembled under the pressure of all he carried, all he never said aloud.

He didn’t know how to do this anymore.

He didn’t know how to keep pretending.

How to wear the 'C' like it didn’t burn his chest.

How to keep skating when he was skating on empty.

He stayed under the water until it ran cold, until his skin was numb and his chest felt hollow, the ache in his sternum blooming deeper with each passing second. The icy spray carved through the steam and sliced against his shoulders, but still, he stood there. Rigid. Breathless. Hoping that if he just stayed a little longer, it would rinse away the guilt, the weight, the disappointment he carried like a second skin.

He tilted his face toward the stream, letting it pour down over him, blinding his eyes and filling his ears until the world outside was muffled into nothing. He wished it could drown everything out. The voices. The headlines. The pressure. The relentless whisper in his own head telling him he was a failure. That he’d let everyone down. That he was just pretending.

When he finally moved, it was mechanical. He reached for a towel without looking, barely registering the shivers that had taken over his body. Each motion was slow, deliberate, like his limbs were moving through molasses. He got dressed without looking in the mirror—he couldn't bear to. Not tonight. Not when all he would see was hollow eyes and the wreckage of who he used to be.

The locker room was even quieter now, echoing with emptiness. He grabbed his keys from his cubby and made his way down the hall, his footsteps the only sound bouncing off the concrete walls. The back exit opened with a metallic click, and he stepped out into the cold embrace of the night, where even the air seemed to exhale with grief.

He drove through downtown Vancouver like a ghost. The city glowed with artificial life—streetlights, neon signs, headlights weaving through traffic. His hands gripped the steering wheel tight, knuckles pale. He turned off the music. He couldn’t stand the sound. Not tonight.

When he pulled into the underground parking lot beneath his building, he didn’t move right away. He stared at the elevator doors, engine ticking as it cooled. His eyes burned.

Then, slowly, he shifted the gear into park, turned off the ignition, and stepped out.

But he didn’t go to the elevator.

He walked. Back up the ramp, through the quiet lobby. Past the sleeping doorman and out the revolving door. Into the cool night, where the mist clung to his hair and the scent of the sea drifted in from the harbor.

His feet took him to the waterfront without thinking.

He sat down on a bench facing the water, a familiar spot tucked just far enough from the streetlights to feel hidden—like the world had deliberately carved out a pocket for solitude. He didn't need light. Not tonight. He needed the shadows, the quiet, the place where he could unravel without the risk of being seen. The night stretched out before him like a great velvet curtain, draped in shades of sorrow.

The moon hung low and full, its glow casting a pale sheen across the surface of the harbor, soft and eerie like a whisper. The light shimmered on the dark water like spilled silver, rippling with every subtle breath of the breeze. It felt like something ancient was watching—not judging, just witnessing. Bearing quiet testimony to the ache in his chest.

Waves lapped quietly against the edge, a rhythm too soft to offer comfort, but enough to remind him that time was still moving even when he wasn't. Even when it felt like everything inside him had come to a halt. His breath came slow and fogged in the cold air, a small trace of life in a body that felt otherwise hollow.

Across the harbor, the city looked like it was sleeping. The lights in the high-rises twinkled like constellations behind glass, but there was no warmth in them. They were cold and distant, a mockery of connection. From here, the skyline looked soft, like someone had taken an eraser to its sharp edges—like the whole world had blurred, and he was the only thing left in focus.

There was no one else around. No footsteps. No voices. Just Quinn and the darkness and the distant, indifferent city. No hum of conversation. No rattle of a bike chain. No hint of movement on the quiet street behind him. Just the low thrum of the city breathing somewhere far away, out of reach.

The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was vast. Cold. Like standing in the middle of a frozen lake with nothing but the creaking ice beneath your feet. The kind of silence that made every heartbeat echo too loud, every breath feel like a scream in a cathedral.

And in that space between heartbeats, he let himself sink into the stillness. It wasn’t comfort he found there, but a numbness that offered a temporary shield from the thoughts clawing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t cry. Didn’t breathe deeply. He didn’t feel worthy of either.

He just existed. Quiet and alone. A silhouette on a bench, washed in moonlight and regret. A man with the weight of a city on his shoulders, with no one to help him carry it.

And somehow, that felt like both a punishment and a mercy. Because in that solitude, at least he didn’t have to pretend. At least out here, in the dark, he could stop performing for a world that only loved him when he was winning.

Quinn slouched forward, hands clasped together, his breath visible in the air. He stared at the reflection, wishing he could fall into it. Dissolve into the dark and start over. Be someone else.

The thoughts returned.

What if he never lived up to who he was supposed to be? What if he let everyone down? His team. His family. Himself.

He pressed his fists to his eyes.

He wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t even sure he ever had been.

He didn’t see her at first. His eyes were still on the water, lost in thought, in shame, in questions that never seemed to end. The world around him had blurred, dulled to nothing but the rhythmic lapping of the tide and the slow rise and fall of his breath. The bench, the ground, the sky—it all felt far away. He was so deep inside himself that the rest of the world ceased to exist. So when the wooden slats shifted just slightly beneath him, when the gentle weight of another person settled quietly on the far side of the bench, it felt more like a ripple than a presence. A shift in the atmosphere. A soft reminder that he wasn’t, in fact, entirely alone in the dark.

A girl had sat down beside him.

She wore a grey sweater, hood pulled up over short brown hair. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, her shoulders drawn in like she was trying to take up less space. She didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed straight ahead, on the water, on the moonlight that shimmered across it.

Her eyes were glassy. She’d been crying.

Despite choosing to sit on the only occupied bench in a stretch of empty ones, she didn’t acknowledge him. It was almost like she didn’t even register that he was there. Or maybe she had—and chose not to care. She made no shift to the side, no polite nod, no glance of curiosity or apology. She just sat, arms crossed tightly around herself, a human question mark curled inward.

Her shoulders were hunched so tightly it looked like she was folding into herself, like she wanted to disappear. The kind of posture that said: don’t look at me, don’t ask, don’t speak. Her body language broadcasted it louder than words ever could. She didn’t seem to want to be seen, and yet she had come to this exact bench, as if drawn by some unspoken gravity.

She just sat there, staring at the water like it held answers. Like if she stared hard enough, long enough, the waves might part and whisper something she needed to hear. Something to make staying feel like less of a mistake.

And Quinn didn’t say anything either.

For a long time, they sat in silence.

The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward. Just heavy. Weighted with things neither of them could say. The occasional car drove by behind them, its tires hissing on the wet road. Somewhere nearby, a gull cried out and the water lapped softly against the shore. It was the only sound that felt honest.

He didn’t know who she was.

But she looked like she was drowning too.

Ava Monroe had never meant to sit on that bench.

She had never meant to be anywhere at all, not tonight.

The fight with her mom had been brutal. Ugly. The kind of words that didn’t just hurt—they hollowed her out. Scarred deeper than fists ever could. Ava had gone to her mother out of desperation, aching for some kind of connection, some shred of maternal warmth, a single thread to hold onto. But all she got was venom, sharp and cold and unforgiving.

The words weren't just cruel—they were confirmation. Confirmation that every terrible thing she had ever believed about herself was true. That she was a burden. That she wasn’t wanted. That she wasn’t enough. Her mother’s voice didn’t just echo in the room—it rooted itself in her chest, in the hollow spaces already carved out by years of neglect and silence. It made her feel microscopic. Like her existence had always been some colossal inconvenience.

Ava left that house feeling like a ghost. Like a girl made of glass. Each step home felt heavier, more meaningless. There was nothing left in her—no fire, no fight, not even the quiet defiance she used to carry just to get through the day. She felt like she didn’t belong anywhere, not even in her own skin. Like the world had gone on without her a long time ago, and she’d only just realized it.

"You’ll never be enough."

"You ruined everything."

"You were a mistake."

The words sliced her open, deep and surgical, with a precision only a mother could wield. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. She just stood there, frozen in place, absorbing every blow like a sponge, letting it soak through her until she was heavy with shame. It was like watching her own soul disintegrate in real-time. Her hands hung limp at her sides. Her heart didn’t even race—it just slowed, like it had given up trying.

She moved on instinct, her body carrying her out the door and down the street like she was sleepwalking, like something detached had taken over and was pulling the strings for her. The city was buzzing around her, but she didn’t hear it. Didn’t see it. She was a shell.

When she got back to her apartment, the lights were too bright. Too artificial. They revealed too much, illuminated all the places inside her that were cracked and bleeding. She walked past the mirror without looking. She knew what she'd see: nothing. Just hollow eyes. A stranger.

And then she saw the bottle. It was just sitting there. Quiet. Waiting.

She picked it up.

Stared at it.

Her hand shook as she unscrewed the cap. She poured them out into her palm, white tablets spilling like tiny bones into the center of her hand. The weight of them felt enormous. Final.

She sat on the floor, cold and silent, and stared at her shaking hands. Her breathing came shallow, like the room had been drained of oxygen. Her thoughts were louder than ever, a storm behind her eyes: You’re a failure. A disappointment. A mistake. Unlovable.

The silence was so total, it felt like the world had already moved on without her.

And for one long, harrowing moment, she almost let go.

She shook them gently, the pills rattling like distant thunder in the quiet room—a sound so small, yet impossibly loud in the silence.

Her fingers shook.

Her breathing was shallow, barely there, each inhale catching like her lungs had to think twice before choosing to keep going. The silence in the apartment pressed against her ears, not soft or gentle, but brutal—the kind of silence that made your skin crawl, like the walls were whispering all the things you were too afraid to say out loud.

It was too quiet. Too still. Like the world had stopped moving just to watch her unravel. The ticking of the clock felt like a taunt, counting down a life she didn’t want to keep living. Her heart didn’t feel like it beat anymore—it thudded, dull and mechanical, like a broken metronome.

Everything inside her felt empty and echoing, like she had become a hollow thing, carved out piece by piece by the people who were supposed to love her. She didn’t even cry. There weren’t tears left. Just a vast, suffocating stillness, as if even grief had abandoned her now.

But something stopped her.

A voice she couldn’t name. A feeling in her chest. Like someone was holding her wrist. Telling her to wait. To breathe.

She put the pills back in the bottle.

Put on her sweater.

Walked.

And now she was here.

Sitting beside a stranger.

Alive, but unsure why.

She didn’t know who he was. Didn’t care. All she knew was that he was as still as she was. As broken. That something about the way he stared at the water made her feel less alone.

They didn’t speak.

But their silence was the loudest thing either of them had heard all night.

Minutes passed. Maybe an hour. Neither of them moved.

Quinn glanced at her. Just once.

And for a second, she met his eyes.

Just a second.

But in that second, he saw her pain. She saw his.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, they both breathed a little deeper.

Together.

The night didn’t fix anything. It didn’t heal them. But it didn’t break them further, either.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

That night, they didn’t fall apart.

They just... sat. And survived.

Side by side.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Quinn looked across to her one more time.

Really looked.

It wasn’t just the way the moonlight framed her face or the way her sweater hung like armor against the night. It was the stillness in her body, the haunting in her eyes. There was something about her—something not loud, not obvious—but deeply known. A ghost of a memory wrapped in velvet pain. A shape he hadn’t seen in years but still knew by name, as if she'd been waiting on the periphery of his life all along.

His eyes traced the soft outline of her jaw, delicate and trembling like it held back a thousand words. The faint sheen of dried tears clung stubbornly to her cheeks, catching the moonlight like salt-crusted silver. But it was her expression that stunned him. That deep, quiet devastation. The kind of brokenness people learn to wear like perfume—undetectable unless you’ve worn it too. She didn’t just look sad. She looked emptied. As if she’d bled out every last feeling and was only now discovering what it meant to be a shell.

And the way she held herself, shoulders slumped like her bones could no longer carry the weight of being alive—it almost looked rehearsed. Like she'd practiced disappearing. Like she’d spent years perfecting the art of looking okay while silently screaming.

And then it clicked.

Of course he knew who she was.

Her last name was practically stamped into every corner of the city.

Monroe.

David Monroe. Real estate titan. Investor. Philanthropist. A name stitched into the very fabric of the city. His empire touched everything—commercial towers, luxury condos, high-profile foundations. And the Canucks? They were just another line on his ledger. A silent but steady benefactor of the organization, his influence loomed like the skyline his company had helped build. Every player knew that name. You couldn’t be part of the team without brushing shoulders with the Monroes.

Every year, they hosted a lavish charity gala—an affair of such extravagance that even seasoned veterans couldn’t hide their discomfort. Held in a grand ballroom glittering with crystal chandeliers and lined with tables draped in silk, the event was a performance of wealth and image. Silver champagne trays floated between guests, the air filled with the soft clinking of crystal flutes and rehearsed laughter. The players would show up in tuxedos, practice their media smiles in the car, and take photos for the press like it all meant something. They thanked the Monroes with polite handshakes and obligatory small talk, careful not to overstep, careful to appear grateful.

It was the kind of night where everything sparkled, except the people who had to pretend to belong there.

Quinn remembered her father clearly.

David Monroe was the one standing on stage, smiling beside ownership and management, when Quinn first pulled on the Canucks jersey on draft night. A handshake, a picture. Flashbulbs. Cheers. Everything about that moment had felt like a coronation. Quinn Hughes, savior of the franchise. Golden boy.

But he didn’t remember seeing her.

Not until now.

And now that he had—he couldn’t unsee her. Ava Monroe, the invisible girl behind the empire. The one who should've glowed under the same lights, been photographed on red carpets, toasted by men in suits, wrapped in everything that came with a name like hers. But she hadn’t. Somehow, she had slipped through the cracks of her own legacy, choosing shadows over chandeliers. Sitting beside him now, she looked like a ghost aching to be felt, not seen—like someone who had spent her whole life being too visible in the wrong ways and invisible in all the ways that mattered.

There was a haunting in her presence, the kind that made you want to apologize without knowing what for. And Quinn did. He wanted to say sorry for a world that forgot her. For a father who used her last name like currency while letting his daughter starve for affection. For the cameras that had never panned her way. For the years she must've spent wondering if her life was even her own.

And then, just as the recognition settled into his bones, she looked up.

Tear-stained eyes. Silent. Red-rimmed.

And she knew.

Of course she did.

Quinn Hughes. The prodigy. The captain. The promise.

The man who was meant to lift the city. To carry its hopes like a crown and wear its failures like chains. To lead the team through the fire and still emerge smiling. To be the one who fixed everything, even when he was the one silently falling apart. He was the face on the banners, the name in the headlines, the reason kids wore number 43 jerseys. And no one ever stopped to ask what that weight might be doing to the boy underneath it all.

She blinked at him, slowly, and something passed between them—something unspoken and deeply human, like the kind of look you give someone when you both know what it means to want to disappear. A silent understanding that didn’t need translation. A breath of shared grief, heavy and unrelenting, that wrapped around them like a fog neither of them could escape. In that fragile second, it was like they were looking into a mirror made of pain—different stories, different scars, but the same hollow ache behind their eyes. The world didn’t shift around them, but something inside did. Something wordless and aching that whispered, I see you. I feel it too.

Both of them had grown up being told they were meant for greatness.

Both of them knew what it felt like to suffocate under that weight.

Both of them were breaking.

The emptiness echoed between them like a heartbeat. A soundless ache that needed no explanation.

And then, after a pause that felt like it stretched out forever, Quinn swallowed hard, the tension in his jaw finally giving way. He turned his body slightly toward her, hesitant, uncertain, but needing to say something before the silence drowned them both.

"I—"

His voice cracked, and he had to start again.

"I don’t know if I’m good enough for this," he said quietly, almost like he was confessing it to the ocean. "I don’t know if I’m good enough for anything. At all. And I feel like I’m slowly falling apart and breaking."

The words sat in the air, raw and trembling.

She didn’t respond. Not with words.

A tear slipped down her cheek. Another.

"My, uh... my thought was that this would be my last night," She said, her voice barely a whisper. Her voice was thin. A ghost of itself. "It almost was."

Quinn’s breath hitched, but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t.

She looked down at her hands, still clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The air around them suddenly felt sharper, like the world had stilled to listen.

Quinn turned his head just slightly, not wanting to push, but needing to hear her.

Ava swallowed hard, her throat raw. "I had them all in my hand. The pills. I sat on the floor of my bedroom, staring at them. And for a second, it was the only thing that made sense. Like I could finally stop the screaming inside my head. Like I could finally rest."

She took a shaky breath, then another, like her lungs were relearning how to function. Her voice was a flicker, something barely lit. "But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Something in me—some tiny, quiet part that still believed in something—just... wouldn’t let me. Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was hope. Maybe it was nothing more than habit. But I couldn’t do it. My hand was trembling so hard I thought I was going to drop everything."

Her stare fell distant, glassed over again. "I was sitting there, on the floor, holding my life in one hand and everything I hated about myself in the other. And all I could think was... no one would notice. Not really. My phone wouldn’t ring. No one would come looking. The world would keep spinning and I’d just be another girl who didn’t make it. And for a moment, that felt like peace."

She paused, her voice breaking on the next exhale. "But then something happened. Something I can’t explain. Like the tiniest part of me screamed. Like my own soul refused to be snuffed out without one final fight. I put the pills back. I stood up. I walked out the door. I didn’t even grab a coat. I didn’t know where I was going, but I knew if I stayed one second longer, I wasn’t going to make it."

Her eyes finally flicked up, not to look at him, but past him, to the water. "So I ended up here. Still breathing. But not really living. Just... floating. Empty. I didn’t want to be found. I just didn’t want to disappear without someone knowing I was ever here in the first place."

The words hung between them, bare and bleeding. A confession not meant to earn comfort, just to be heard.

She didn’t cry when she said it. She sounded hollow. Like she’d already cried all the tears there were to cry.

And Quinn didn’t speak.

He just listened.

Because he knew what it felt like to be so tired of being alive that even breathing felt like a burden.

The honesty clung to the air like smoke. Fragile. Heavy.

Another tear traced the curve of Ava's face. But she still didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her silence said enough. It said: Me too.

And maybe that was the first moment they truly understood each other. Not because of their names. Not because of who they were supposed to be. But because beneath all of that—the legacies, the expectations, the titles—they were just two broken people whose pain happened to echo at the same frequency. Two souls who had come to the water's edge not to find answers, but to surrender. And yet, somehow, they'd collided. Quietly. Gently. Without ceremony. Just a breath between strangers who were anything but.

Their silence wasn’t passive—it was deliberate. Thick with everything they couldn’t say. A communion of ghosts sitting side by side. Each aching, each unraveling, each choosing not to fall apart simply because the other was still sitting there. Still breathing.

And in that aching silence, something passed between them—not a promise, not a rescue, but a thread. Fragile. Unspoken. I see you. I feel it too.

As if pulled by gravity, they shifted.

Slowly. Quietly. As if afraid to shatter whatever had taken root between them.

They moved closer.

Ava’s shoulder brushed Quinn’s.

The contact was barely there, but it was enough. Enough to ground them both.

Quinn didn’t flinch.

Neither did Ava.

That small touch, that simple warmth, threaded something through them—a fragile thread of safety in a world that had offered them nothing but cold.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t dramatic. It was real.

Their bodies didn’t shift again. They didn’t hug. They didn’t hold hands. They just sat, shoulder to shoulder, their pain seeping into one another, until it didn’t feel so sharp. So singular.

They were two souls trapped under the same foot of pressure.

Two hearts with too many cracks.

Two people who had spent years suffocating in silence, and somehow found breath in each other.

Ava closed her eyes and leaned just slightly into his side. Not enough to be a plea. Just enough to say, I’m still here.

Quinn stayed still. But his head dipped ever so slightly in her direction. His shoulder curved toward hers. His eyes remained on the water, but his thoughts were finally somewhere else.

And in that moment, they both felt it.

A shift.

The beginning of something neither of them had words for.

A presence. A tether. A reason.

They sat like that for a long time. The world moved on without them—cars passed, waves rose and fell, the city lights blinked in patterns too fast to follow. But they didn’t move.

Minutes turned into hours.

The pain didn’t disappear. But it dulled. Muted.

Like someone had finally lit a candle in the dark.

And though they didn’t say another word, they didn’t need to.

The silence had changed.

It was no longer a void.

It was a shelter.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

Just as the wind picked up, brushing past them like the breath of something ancient, Quinn turned his head slightly toward her. His voice was soft, barely there. "I see you," he said. Three words, but they felt like a lighthouse cutting through fog.

Ava didn’t answer right away. But her breath hitched, and then steadied. She turned her gaze to him slowly, her eyes tired, but no longer empty. "I see you too," she whispered.

They didn’t say anything else. There was nothing left to say. So they leaned gently into each other, the contact quiet but constant, and let the silence settle around them like a blanket.

The night stretched long, and the darkness never lifted, but they stayed. Two shadows on a bench, side by side.

And somehow, that night—that fragile, fleeting night—was enough for them to choose to stay a little longer in the world.

Enough to make it through one more sunrise.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

The first light of dawn broke slowly, as if unsure whether it was welcome. It crept over the horizon in soft hues—faded gold, gentle blush, the faintest whisper of blue. The waves caught it first, the gentle lapping of water at the harbor edge shimmering like liquid gold. Then the sky followed, spreading it across the city like the slow reveal of a secret.

Neither of them had moved.

Quinn and Ava sat shoulder to shoulder on that old wooden bench, the air around them still heavy with the weight of everything that had passed between them. It wasn’t the kind of silence that screamed. It was the kind that exhaled—soft, worn, exhausted. The kind that said, you’re still here, and so am I.

The cold had settled into their bones, deep and aching, but they hadn’t noticed. Not really. Because something warmer had wrapped itself around them, invisible but steady. A shared understanding, a tether. The gravity of the night had forged something fragile and indelible between them—something they didn’t understand yet but felt all the same.

The silence between them had shifted from one of pain to one of comfort. From a quiet cry for help to a quiet offering of presence. No more apologies. No need for explanation. Just breath in the cold. The subtle rhythm of two people choosing, again and again, not to leave. Shared breath. Shared survival. And in that stillness, the beginning of something neither of them could name, but both of them needed.

The sunrise wasn’t beautiful. It was quiet. Muted. The kind of sunrise that didn’t demand attention, just offered presence. There were no vivid streaks of fire across the sky, no brilliant crescendo of colors. Just a slow, tender brightening. The world easing itself into wakefulness. It rose like a sigh—tired, cautious, and real.

And that, somehow, felt perfect.

Because that morning wasn’t about beauty. It wasn’t about spectacle. It was about surviving the night. About making it through the hardest hours and finding, somehow, that the sky still turned. That the sun still rose. That breath still came.

The light didn’t feel triumphant. It felt earned. Like something cracked open quietly and let the day slip in.

Quinn shifted slightly, straightening his back with a quiet exhale. He rubbed at his face, the exhaustion of the night finally catching up to him. Ava followed, stretching out her legs, feeling the pins and needles in her feet as blood returned to limbs left too still for too long. Her fingers flexed slowly, grounding herself back into her body.

They didn’t speak.

There was no need.

What could they say that hadn’t already been said in silence?

Instead, they exchanged a glance. A quiet, reverent thing. A moment of mutual understanding that needed no words. It lingered, not rushed or fleeting, but long enough to say everything that mattered. There was something sacred in it—a silent bow of gratitude, a recognition of shared survival. They didn’t smile. Didn’t cry. They just looked at each other with the kind of raw honesty that only exists after darkness has been witnessed together. It was their way of saying, I see you. Thank you for staying.

And softly, Quinn spoke again. His voice was hoarse. "I see you."

Ava met his eyes, her own rimmed with a different kind of tear this time—not despair, but something gentler. "I see you too."

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t cinematic. But it was enough.

Ava stood first. Her body protested, stiff and cold, but she didn’t mind. She tucked her hands into the sleeves of her hoodie, glanced down at Quinn, and gave the smallest of nods. He rose with her, slower, heavier, but he stood.

They didn’t hug.

They didn’t exchange numbers.

They didn’t make promises.

They just parted ways.

She walked one way, toward the edge of downtown, her steps slow, as if her body was still catching up to the weight of what had just happened. The hoodie swallowed her small frame, the sleeves too long, her hands still hidden inside them. With every step, she felt the echo of their silence, the comfort of it, trailing behind her like a ghost she wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

He walked the other, toward the towers he called home, his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, not from the cold but from something deeper—an ache, a lingering presence pressed into the slope of his spine. The bench faded behind them, but the feeling of it stayed—like warmth that lingered long after the fire had gone out.

The city slowly came alive around them—joggers blinking against the light, dog walkers tugging sleepy pups along wet sidewalks, the hum of traffic stirring awake. The world resumed its rhythm as if nothing had happened, as if two broken souls hadn’t just sat in the quiet and saved each other without saying so.

And neither of them looked back.

But both of them carried it. That night. That moment. That bench. A memory soft and sacred, stitched into the fabric of their morning.

They didn’t need to say it aloud. There was an unspoken agreement between them now. A silent pact forged in the dark: this night belonged to no one else. It was not for telling. Not for sharing. It was theirs. Only theirs.

And somehow, that knowledge was enough to steady their steps.

That should’ve been the end.

But it wasn’t.

Because somehow, a week later, they both ended up back at that same bench.

It wasn’t planned. Neither of them expected it. Quinn had taken the long way home after a game, a loss that twisted in his chest like a knife and refused to loosen its grip. His body ached, but not from the ice—from the weight of the night, the disappointment of another failed attempt at being enough. He didn’t want to go back to his apartment. The silence there wasn’t just silence; it was sharp, punishing, an echo chamber of regret. The lights were always too bright when he walked in. The air always too still. The emptiness too honest.

So he drove with no destination, his hands on the wheel but his thoughts miles away. His chest heavy. His eyes burning. He didn’t know where he was going until he got there.

That bench.

The one that had held him when he couldn’t hold himself.

The one where someone had seen him and stayed.

And Ava—she hadn’t planned it either. But she couldn’t stay in that house. Not after the latest fight. Not after hearing the same accusations echo off the walls. Not after being told she was ungrateful. Spoiled. A waste.

She had walked out into the night without a destination. Without a plan. Just a desperate need to breathe. To exist somewhere her pain wasn’t questioned or ignored. She didn’t know where her feet were taking her. Only that she needed to follow them.

And like something pulled from a quiet promise, from the magnetic pull of shared grief, they ended up there. As if the bench itself remembered them—held their pain from nights before, waited patiently beneath the city’s noise for their return. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It felt fated, like a hidden current in the universe had gently ushered them back to each other, back to that sliver of peace they had carved together in the dark. A place that didn’t demand anything but presence. A place that somehow knew what they needed before they did. They arrived without purpose, without preparation, but their steps mirrored the same ache, the same longing—to not be alone with the weight they carried. To be met in the middle of their ache without question. And again, the bench made room. Again, they sat. Together.

At the bench.

At the edge of the world.

Within minutes of each other.

Their eyes met.

Quinn’s breath caught.

Ava’s shoulders, tight with tension, eased.

She sat first.

He followed.

And that night, they stayed until the stars faded.

It became a rhythm. An unspoken routine.

They never texted. Never called. Never asked, will you be there?

But somehow, they always were.

Maybe not every night. But often enough that the bench no longer felt like just a bench. It became something sacred. A place of reckoning. Of retreat. Of quiet rebuilding.

They brought coffee sometimes. Wore warmer clothes. Sometimes one would arrive to find the other already waiting, and nothing needed to be said. The presence alone was enough. Familiar. Reassuring.

And each night, they shared a little more.

Quinn spoke about the pressure of being captain. Not in the way reporters asked about it, but in the way it sat on his chest at 2 a.m., making it hard to breathe. He talked about the fear of failure. The guilt of losing. The exhaustion of being everything to everyone and still feeling like nothing to himself.

Ava listened. Not as a fan. Not as a girl dazzled by his fame. But as someone who knew what it meant to crumble. To carry weight you never asked for.

And Ava, in turn, spoke of her loneliness. Of growing up in a house full of noise but no warmth. Of disappearing behind her father’s money, behind her mother’s scorn. Of wanting, so desperately, to be loved without condition.

Quinn didn’t offer advice. He didn’t tell her to be strong. He just listened. Sat with her in the stillness. Let her be.

And so it went.

Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t. Some nights were filled with stories, confessions, tiny truths whispered into the dark. Other nights, they just sat side by side in silence, their presence saying everything their mouths couldn’t.

They didn’t touch. Not beyond the occasional brush of shoulders. Not beyond the quiet comfort of nearness. It wasn’t about that.

It was about knowing.

About being seen.

About sharing pain without having to relive it.

They came as Quinn and Ava. Not the captain burdened by expectations and headlines. Not the heiress veiled in privilege and shadowed by neglect. Just two souls stripped of their titles, peeled back to their most human selves. Two people with fractures in their bones and too much weight in their hearts—weight that made it hard to breathe some days, impossible to stand on others. And yet, they stood. Or sat. Or simply were. They didn’t need to perform. They didn’t need to impress. They didn’t need to be anything more than exactly what they were in those moments: quiet, unraveling, healing. The bench didn’t care about what jerseys they wore or whose name came on checks. It welcomed them as they were. And together, they began to stitch the pieces of themselves into something new—not flawless, but whole in a different kind of way.

And little by little, something began to shift.

The bench became a bridge.

They laughed sometimes. Quiet, soft laughter. The kind that didn’t echo, just lingered in the air like a promise. It wasn’t loud or forced—it was shy at first, like they were rediscovering what it meant to feel light for even a second. Ava would tell him about old books she loved, the ones with pages yellowed from being read too many times, stories that had been her escape when the world felt too cruel. She’d describe the characters like friends, like pieces of herself she never knew how to share until now.

Quinn would talk about skating. Not just the game, but the movement. The way it felt to glide when the world grew too heavy, how the ice made sense when nothing else did. He spoke about the quiet before a puck dropped, the clarity in motion, how for just a few seconds, everything else fell away and he could breathe. Sometimes he brought her old playlists from the locker room, laughing about the bad ones, smiling over the ones that stuck. Ava once brought him a thermos of chamomile tea because she said it smelled like peace. They didn’t make it a big deal. But he drank every drop.

Some nights she’d bring a book and read aloud, her voice soft and even, Quinn listening with his eyes closed, as if the sound alone was enough to stitch something inside him back together. Some nights he’d point out constellations, giving them wrong names on purpose just to make her roll her eyes and laugh, really laugh—head tipped back, teeth showing, that rare kind of laugh that healed something hidden.

They didn’t need plans. Just the bench. Just each other. And the quiet joys they built, one breath at a time.

And the pain didn’t vanish.

But it changed.

Because now, they weren’t carrying it alone.

They were still broken.

But broken didn’t mean empty.

And in each other, they found space to heal.

Quietly.

Softly.

Without rush.

Without expectation.

Without fear.

The world still didn’t know about those nights. No one ever would. And that was the point.

It was theirs.

Just Quinn.

Just Ava.

Two shadows who collided at the edge of their breaking point, and stayed long enough to remember what it meant to begin again.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, they moved on from the bench.

It wasn’t sudden. It was a slow drift, like everything else between them. A natural, quiet shift from one space to another. The bench had become their place, their anchor—but like all things born from pain, it wasn’t meant to hold them forever. Healing required movement, and without realizing it, they’d begun to crave something more than the comfort of shared silence. They wanted light. Warmth. A kind of closeness that didn’t depend on the shadows.

Quinn had been pestering her for weeks.

"You haven’t seen it? Seriously? Ava, it’s the movie," he’d say with mock indignation, hand over his heart as if she’d personally offended his taste in cinema.

"I don’t know," she’d reply with a small shrug, teasing but cautious. "I’m not in the mood for something sad."

"It’s not sad. Okay, well, it kind of is. But in a good way. In a ‘you’ll cry but also feel seen’ kind of way."

He’d keep bringing it up at the end of their nights at the bench, each mention softer, more coaxing. Until one night, she sighed, smiled faintly, and said, "Fine. Let’s watch your movie."

That night, they didn’t go to the bench.

Instead, they found themselves in his apartment. It was the first time she’d been there. He had tried to tidy up beforehand, but it still looked lived in—soft piles of laundry, a few mugs on the counter, books stacked haphazardly beside the TV. It smelled like pine soap and popcorn, and it felt safe. Not perfect. Not curated. Just like him.

They sat next to each other on the couch, sharing a worn fleece blanket Quinn had pulled from the back of the couch, its corners frayed, edges soft from years of use. He’d made popcorn, which she’d half-spilled trying to get comfortable. They laughed about it, brushing kernels off the floor, her giggling melting into his quiet chuckle. The room buzzed with the easy kind of energy they didn’t get to feel often—light, open, effortless.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

They watched in silence, the kind that meant they didn’t need to fill the space between them. It was the kind of quiet that felt sacred, a quiet formed not from awkwardness but from complete ease. The room seemed to hold its breath with them, lit only by the flickering of the screen and the faint rustle of popcorn shifting in the bowl on Ava’s lap.

Occasionally, Ava would glance sideways at him, not just watching him, but seeing him. The way he leaned forward during the emotional scenes, how his hands twitched slightly during moments of tension, the way he mouthed his favorite lines as if they were prayers. He didn’t just watch the movie—he felt it, deeply, letting it thread through him like a song he knew by heart. His eyes were wide, glassy even, but soft. Focused.

He didn’t talk during it. Not once. Just sat there, wide-eyed and still, like he was living it again, like he was seeing parts of himself on the screen he didn’t often show. Every so often, his chest would rise with a slightly deeper breath, and Ava would mirror it without thinking. They were in their own quiet rhythm, bound by a story that wasn’t theirs but somehow spoke to both of them anyway. The silence between them said more than any words could have—it said, I’m here. I understand. And that was enough.

When the final scene faded and the music swelled, neither of them reached for the remote. The room sat in silence for a while, except for the soft hum of the credits and the world outside.

"You were right," Ava whispered.

Quinn didn’t look away from the screen. "Told you."

She nudged his shoulder with hers beneath the blanket, a small gesture of warmth. He glanced at her, and for a second, the smile on his face wasn’t weighed down by anything at all.

The hockey season was long over.

For a few months, the noise quieted. The headlines stilled. The fans moved on to other sports, other distractions. And Quinn—he had become visibly lighter. The stress lines in his forehead softened. The haunted look in his eyes began to fade. His days were slow. His nights were gentler. He took walks. He cooked. He laughed more.

It was like the pressure had been peeled off, even if only temporarily. He could breathe again. He could be Quinn, not Captain Hughes.

But with the end of the season came the inevitable.

Summer. And Michigan.

He hadn’t talked about it yet, not out loud. But it had been lingering. A quiet shadow at the edge of every day. A low hum behind every laugh. A weight pressing down on his chest when the nights got too still. It was the kind of thought that crept in during the softest moments—when her head was tilted back in laughter, or when she was watching the world pass outside his window with that faraway look in her eyes. The thought that he was leaving. That time was slipping through his fingers like sand, grain by grain, and soon this fragile pocket of peace they’d built would dissolve. He felt it in the silence between them. In the long pauses that stretched a little longer each day. It was a countdown, not just to his departure, but to a shift he didn’t know how to navigate. And the worst part was—he didn’t know how to tell her. How to put into words the ache of loving something so gentle and knowing it couldn’t last in this exact way forever. So he kept it tucked away, a secret pulsing in his chest, waiting for the courage to speak it out loud.

He was going home. To his family. To the lake. To the place where he could hide from the world for a while.

But not from her.

He didn’t want to leave her.

Ava had been his quiet salvation. His rock. The person who never expected him to be anything other than human. When the weight of the captaincy crushed his chest, she never once told him to be strong. She just sat with him in the dark and let him breathe. When the headlines screamed his name or fans threw blame like darts, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t care about stats, didn’t ask about press conferences, didn’t bring up hockey unless he did.

With her, he wasn’t a franchise player or a golden boy. He wasn’t a fixer of broken teams or the hope of a city. He was just Quinn—the boy who liked quiet nights, who sometimes needed to be held without asking, who laughed softly when she rolled her eyes, who listened to the same song on repeat because it made him feel less alone.

She gave him space to fall apart. To speak without being judged. To not speak at all and still be heard. She made silence feel like safety. And he needed her—more than he ever realized—because for the first time in years, he didn’t feel like he was holding the world alone. He didn’t feel like he had to.

And he knew, in that complicated, painful way, that she needed him too.

So the night after the movie, when they were sitting in the kitchen sharing a bowl of cereal at 1 a.m.—because Quinn claimed cereal always tasted better after midnight—he finally said it.

"I have to go home next week."

Ava looked up slowly, spoon halfway to her mouth.

He saw it instantly—the flicker in her eyes, the stiffening of her shoulders. She tried to smile. She tried to play it cool. But she wasn’t very good at hiding how she felt.

She dropped her head, focusing on her bowl. "Oh. Yeah. That makes sense."

Quinn hated how her voice changed when she tried to be brave.

Without thinking, he reached across the counter and touched her hand. She froze.

Then he stood and walked around to her side of the table, crouching down in front of her like he couldn’t stand the space between them any longer. And then—he hugged her.

Their first hug.

He wrapped his arms around her tightly, and she buried her face in his shoulder, arms hesitating before folding around him like she was afraid he might vanish. When she finally did hold him back, it was with a grip that trembled, like she was holding onto something fragile but vital. Her hands curled into the back of his sweatshirt, and he felt her breathing grow uneven against his chest.

His fingers pressed gently into her back like he was trying to memorize the shape of her, not just physically, but emotionally—every piece of her he’d come to know and need. He didn’t want to let go. Neither did she. It was one of those moments that stretched beyond time, where the ache of goodbye wrapped itself around the warmth of presence.

They weren’t just hugging—they were trying to stay whole, just a little longer. Trying to carry the memory of this moment into the spaces where their hands wouldn’t be able to reach. And in that grip, in the silence, in the tremble of their bodies against one another, they both knew: letting go was going to feel like breaking.

He held her there for a while.

"I’ll call you every night," he murmured. "Okay? Every night. I promise."

She didn’t respond. Just nodded against his chest, but her arms tightened around him, just slightly. Like she was trying to memorize the shape of this moment, hold it in her body so she wouldn’t forget what it felt like to be needed like this. Her breath hitched once, and then again, and he could feel the way she was trying not to fall apart entirely. But she was trembling, and so was he.

And for the first time in a long time, Quinn cried. Quiet tears. The kind that slipped out without warning, catching on his lashes before falling onto the top of her head. His chest ached with the kind of sadness that didn’t shout—it simply settled, low and slow, into every part of him. He didn’t sob. He just let the tears fall, like something inside him had finally run out of ways to hold it all in.

He didn’t know how he’d be okay without her. How to wake up without her quiet texts. How to fall asleep without her voice lacing through the dark. He didn’t know how to let go of someone who had found all his broken pieces and made him feel like they weren’t something to be ashamed of. He didn’t know how to leave when every instinct in his body was screaming to stay.

So he held her tighter. As if that could freeze the clock. As if maybe, just maybe, if he held her long enough, time would pause, and they wouldn't have to say goodbye—not yet. Maybe not ever.

He kissed the top of her head. She didn’t pull away.

Michigan was quiet.

It was green and warm, the trees stretching overhead like old friends. The lake glistened with sunlight that bounced in a thousand directions, and his childhood home looked the same, down to the worn wooden steps and the wind chime that clinked softly when the breeze passed through. He fell back into the rhythm of home, but it didn’t feel quite the same.

His mom met him at the door with a long, wordless hug. She didn’t ask anything. Not yet.

But she saw it.

She always saw everything.

She watched him during those first few days. Not closely, not with suspicion. But with the gentle curiosity of a mother who knew her son had been hurting. She noticed the way he checked his phone constantly. The way he lingered near the window after dinner. The way his moods shifted in the evenings, how his restlessness would suddenly vanish around midnight.

She noticed the smile, too.

The one he wore when he slipped out to the dock. The one he didn’t even realize had crept onto his face.

And so, she didn’t ask.

She let him have that secret.

Each night, like clockwork, Quinn would sit on the dock with his phone pressed to his ear, feet hanging over the edge, toes brushing the cool wood worn smooth by years of childhood summers. The water below reflected moonlight like shattered glass, shifting gently with the breeze, a quiet mirror to the thoughts swirling in his head.

He would talk quietly, his voice softer than it ever was in the city. Some nights, he laughed—those rare, low laughs that came from somewhere deep, bubbling up like relief. Other nights, he spoke in hushed fragments, sometimes pausing between words just to listen to the sound of her breathing on the other end. And on some nights, they said almost nothing at all. Just stayed connected. Just were. The silence never felt empty with her. It felt held.

He would eventually lie on his back, letting the wood press into his shoulders, the lake air cool on his face. The stars above him stretched endless and quiet, like someone had thrown glitter across black velvet. His phone rested on his chest, warm against his heart, Ava's voice still ringing in his ears like a lullaby. Some nights she read to him. Some nights they made up constellations and gave them stupid names. Some nights they listened to the same song over and over again, letting the lyrics fill the spaces where words couldn’t reach.

And always, always, he stayed until the last word, the last laugh, the last breath of her presence faded into sleep. Because even from hundreds of miles away, she was the only thing that made him feel close to whole.

They talked about everything and nothing.

About books. The ones they’d read as kids, and the ones they never finished because life got in the way. About the sky—how it looked different in Michigan than it did in Vancouver, how sometimes clouds held stories and the stars made promises. About what they ate that day, even when it wasn’t exciting, even when it was just cereal or cold leftovers, because the mundane started to feel sacred when it was shared.

They talked about the ache in their chests that showed up when the world grew too quiet. About what it meant to long for someone you hadn’t known forever but who felt like home anyway. About the strange beauty of missing someone who wasn’t family, who wasn’t a lover, but who had become something more essential—like a lighthouse, like gravity, like air.

Sometimes they didn’t need words. Sometimes it was just the soft rustle of wind through his phone speaker, the distant sound of a car in the background of her call. They filled the spaces not with stories, but with the simple assurance: I’m here. I haven’t gone anywhere. And that, more than anything, kept them both afloat.

One night, he asked her to describe the bench to him.

"It’s lonely without you," she said.

He closed his eyes. "You’re not alone. I’m there. Just on the other end of the line."

And she believed him.

Other nights, he read to her. Passages from his favorite book. Descriptions of the lake. The way the water caught fire at sunset. They’d fall asleep on the phone more than once, whispering until their words faded into breath. There were no rules. Just the comfort of knowing the other was there.

His mom never interrupted. But sometimes, she’d step out onto the porch and see him there, lying on the dock, eyes full of stars. His silhouette, outlined by the faint silver of moonlight, looked younger somehow, like the boy he used to be before the world placed so much weight on his shoulders. The phone was always pressed gently to his ear, and she could see the subtle curve of a smile tugging at his lips—soft, unguarded, the kind of smile she hadn’t seen in years.

And her heart would ache in the best way. Ache because she recognized that someone, somewhere, was reaching into her son’s darkness and lighting a candle. Someone was listening to him, truly listening, in the way only people who have learned to sit with pain know how. She didn’t know what they talked about. She didn’t need to. The way his shoulders relaxed, the way his breathing slowed, the way he lingered in that same spot long after the conversations ended—all of it told her what she needed to know.

She’d watch for a moment longer, letting the quiet scene imprint itself in her memory, before stepping back inside. Because what he had out there on that dock wasn’t hers to claim or question. It was sacred, healing, his. A piece of peace she’d prayed he would find, even if it didn’t come from her.

Someone was healing her son.

Not fixing him. Not changing him.

Just holding the broken parts gently enough that they stopped hurting so much.

She didn’t need to know who it was.

But she hoped they knew what they meant to him.

And maybe, just maybe, what he meant to them.

Because when Quinn finally came back inside each night, his shoulders were lighter. His smile was softer. His eyes were clearer.

And for the first time in years, he looked like someone who believed he could be okay again.

And all because somewhere out there, someone was assembling him again.

Piece by piece.

With love that didn’t need a name yet.

With care that didn’t ask for anything in return.

And with the quiet, powerful promise of a connection strong enough to survive even the distance between them.

Quinn and Ava. Still broken, but still healing. Holding onto a thread of connection that reached across state lines and time zones, woven through whispered phone calls, unspoken understanding, and the memory of arms that didn't want to let go. They weren’t whole yet, but they didn’t need to be. Not when they had each other—soft, steady, and there. Even miles apart, they found their way back to one another, night after night, word by word, breath by breath. And that was enough. For now, that was enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava’s summer had gone differently than she’d imagined.

She had pictured long walks along the waterfront, more quiet calls with Quinn, late nights under moonlight where healing happened slowly and gently. She imagined space to breathe, mornings without pain, silence that wasn’t sharp. She had imagined peace—not total, not perfect, but something close enough to quiet the ache inside her.

But life had other plans. And it started, as it always seemed to, with her mother.

It was a Thursday night. The air outside was humid, heavy with the weight of July. The kind of heat that clung to skin and made the air taste like metal. Inside the Monroe house, the air felt even thicker. The windows were closed, the blinds drawn, and the silence had a pulse of its own—waiting, watching. Ava was curled up by her window, her favorite spot when she needed to forget where she was. She had headphones in, a playlist Quinn had made her playing softly, anchoring her to something safer, something real. The soft hum of the music, his careful curation of lyrics that understood her better than most people did, made the world feel just a little less cruel.

Until her name rang out through the house.

"Ava!"

Her mother's voice, sharp and slurred, cut through the melody like glass against skin.

The spell was broken. She sighed, carefully removing her headphones and sliding off the windowsill. She padded down the stairs on bare feet, moving like a ghost through her own home. Every movement was familiar. Predictable. This wasn’t new.

In the kitchen, her mother stood swaying, wine glass in hand, her eyes glazed with the kind of fury that had nowhere else to go. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair wild, her expression twisted with something bitter and ugly.

"What?" Ava asked, her voice neutral, steady—a mask she had learned to wear early.

"What the hell is this attitude? Don’t talk to me like that," her mother snapped, slamming the glass down on the granite counter with a sharp crack that made Ava flinch.

"I wasn’t," she replied calmly, standing her ground. "You called me. I just came down."

"God, you think you’re better than me now, huh?" her mother snarled, eyes narrowing. "Since when did you get so full of yourself? So fucking self-righteous."

Ava stood still. She could feel her heart racing, but she wouldn’t show it. Not this time.

"I don’t think I’m better than you. But I’m not going to let you keep doing this to me."

Her mother tilted her head, mock confusion bleeding into rage.

"Doing what, exactly? Raising you? Giving you a roof over your head? Feeding you?"

"No. Tearing me down. Making me feel like I was a mistake. Like I’ll never be enough. I’m not your punching bag. Not anymore."

And in that moment, the air in the room shifted—no longer merely still, but suffocating. It pressed against Ava’s chest, a living thing, thick and trembling with unspoken violence. The flicker of rage in her mother’s eyes wasn’t new; Ava had seen it before in a hundred quiet slights and shouted insults. But tonight, it looked different. Not just angry—unhinged. It crackled like static in the air, raw and unchecked, simmering beneath the surface with a force that threatened to spill over. Her mother's pupils were blown wide, her jaw clenched tight, lips curling with disgust. Something inside her had snapped, and it wasn’t going to be restrained. Ava felt it—like standing on the edge of a storm, knowing the lightning was already too close.

She moved quickly, her fingers wrapping around Ava’s wrist with a grip so tight it made her wince. Her mother’s nails dug into her skin, leaving crescents that would still ache days later. And then, before Ava could speak again—

Smack.

A hand across her face. The sound cracked through the room like a whip, sharp and unnatural, echoing off the cold tile like the slap of thunder before a storm breaks. Time slowed for a moment as the pain registered—an immediate, searing bloom that spread across her cheek like wildfire. The heat radiated outward, red and raw, and her skin stung like it had been scalded. Her eye watered involuntarily, the shock stealing her breath before the ache could even fully set in. Her body rocked with the force of it, a sway that felt more like being untethered than being struck. But she didn’t fall. She didn’t scream. She just stood there, heart pounding in her ears, a storm behind her ribs, staring into the space between pain and defiance where her voice had finally risen—and her mother had tried to silence it.

She looked up.

Straight into her mother’s face.

"You are embarrassing," she said, her voice low and controlled. "And I’m done letting you walk all over me. Maybe your life turned out shitty, but that’s not my fault. That’s yours."

Another hit. This one harder. Her head snapped sideways, pain blooming just beneath her eye. She didn’t cry. She only straightened again, breathing shallow but steady.

And then, the front door opened.

The heavy click of the latch was jarring in the silence.

"What the hell is going on?"

Her father’s voice rang out, low and commanding, but beneath it was something heavier—a tremor of disbelief, of dawning horror. David Monroe stood in the entryway, framed by the glow of the hallway light, his presence suddenly too large for the space. His suit was slightly wrinkled, the tie loosened like he’d just barely made it home, briefcase hanging forgotten in his hand. But it wasn’t the tiredness of his long day that defined him in that moment—it was the way he stood utterly still, like his world had just been cracked open. His gaze swept the room and landed on his daughter—on the redness blooming across her cheek, the bruise beneath her eye, the fear she wore like a second skin. And just like that, the tension rolled off him in waves, not from stress, but from rage—cold, deliberate, and deeply paternal. The kind of rage that only exists when you realize you’ve failed to protect what matters most.

Sally spun to face him, her expression crumbling into something falsely fragile.

"David, it’s not what it looks like, I swear! She was yelling at me—completely out of control. You know how she gets when she thinks she’s right about something. She wouldn’t stop. She kept pushing and shouting and—I didn’t know what to do! I felt threatened, David. I really did. She was coming at me, and I just—I panicked, okay? She was acting like a completely different person. I’m the one who felt unsafe in my own home. She made me feel like the villain, and all I’ve done is try to be her mother. She’s been impossible lately, and I—David, you have to believe me!"

But he wasn’t looking at her. He looked at Ava.

And he saw everything.

The flushed cheek. The swelling bruise already forming. The tear that had slipped down without her noticing. The way her wrist was still red and marked. And more than that—he saw the resignation in her eyes. The fatigue. The pain she no longer even tried to hide.

He dropped the briefcase.

"Get out."

"What? David, she—"

"I said get out."

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. It cut through the room like a blade—cold, controlled, and laced with a fury so precise it chilled the air. The stillness in it was more terrifying than any yell could ever be, because it held finality. A reckoning. It wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. A boundary drawn not in anger, but in protection. And in that silence, in that unwavering tone, the whole house seemed to hold its breath, because everyone knew: there was no coming back from this moment.

"Go pack a bag. Go to your sister’s. You are not staying here. Not after this."

Sally sputtered, tried again to protest, but it was useless. Ava didn’t even look at her.

David moved to his daughter as if on instinct, something primal and protective rising from within him that left no room for hesitation. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her close, and for a heartbeat she remained stiff—rigid with shock, with pain, with disbelief that this moment was even happening. But then something in her broke open, not from weakness, but from the exhaustion of holding everything in for so long. She gave in, crumpling into him like a wave folding into the shore, her hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt like a child who had waited too many years to be caught.

Her body trembled against his, and David felt it all—every sob she wouldn't let out, every bruise he hadn’t stopped, every silence he hadn’t noticed. Guilt rushed through him like ice, swift and sharp. He had failed her. Not just tonight, but for years. He’d left her in a house where her pain went unseen, unheard, unanswered. And now she was breaking in his arms and all he could do was hold her, whispering apologies he knew weren’t enough.

"I’m so sorry," he breathed, his voice thick, cracking at the edges. "God, Ava, I’m so sorry. I should have seen it. I should have known."

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to. Her weight against him said everything. The way her fingers curled into his chest, desperate to hold on, desperate not to be let down again.

He tightened his grip and lowered his head, pressing it to hers as though he could somehow shield her from every blow she’d already taken. And in that moment, all he wanted was to go back—to every missed sign, every late night, every moment he hadn’t been there. But he couldn’t. So he stood there instead, rooted, holding his daughter like a lifeline, like a man trying to say with his arms what his words never could.

"I’m sorry," he whispered.

She didn’t speak. But she didn’t pull away either.

He held her tighter.

"This is over. She will never lay a hand on you again. I swear to you."

She closed her eyes. Let herself believe it. Just for a moment.

"I should have protected you," he said again. His voice cracked. "I should have been here."

And she finally spoke. Quiet. Steady.

"Then be here now."

That night, everything changed.

Sally left in a storm of haphazard packing and venomous muttering, her suitcase dragging behind her like a carcass of bitterness and regret. The sound of the wheels scraping across the tile echoed through the hall like an exorcism. When the door finally slammed shut behind her, it was as if something rancid had been purged from the walls of the house. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was reverent. It was peace reclaiming its place after years of torment. It was the first exhale after holding your breath for too long.

David stayed by Ava’s side, almost afraid to leave the room, afraid she might disappear or that the strength she showed might crumble if she were left alone. He hovered at first, unsure, guilt still clawing at his chest. But Ava didn’t push him away. She didn’t say much. She didn’t have to. Her presence allowed his, and that was enough. He made her tea with trembling hands, fingers fumbling with the kettle like he hadn’t done something so ordinary in years. He found the first aid kit in the hallway cabinet and pressed a cold compress gently to her cheek, his touch reverent, like he was tending to something sacred. And when he apologized, again and again, Ava finally reached up and placed her hand over his.

"Stop," she whispered. "I heard you. I need you to be here. Not to say it. To show me."

And he nodded, eyes glassy, heart breaking open in his chest for the girl he hadn’t known how to save. That night, they sat in the quiet for a long time. No TV. No distractions. Just two people slowly stitching together the space between them.

Ava went to bed in a room that finally felt like hers. Not a prison. Not a trap. But a place where her voice had been heard. A room where the shadows no longer whispered her worthlessness back to her. A place where, for the first time in years, she didn’t have to brace for a door slamming or a voice rising.

The bruise on her face took a week to fade. But the thing that bloomed inside her that night—the fury, the clarity, the self she thought had been buried for good—that stayed. It grew roots. And with every passing day, she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, breathed a little deeper.

Because for the first time in her life, Ava wasn’t afraid of taking up space.

And for the first time in a long time, she believed she might actually deserve it.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

From that day on, David Monroe became a different kind of father.

He didn’t announce it. There were no grand speeches, no dramatic gestures to mark the shift. It was quieter than that. More intentional. He started coming home early. Left his phone face-down during dinner. Took a step back from the relentless machinery of the company and let his second-in-command carry the weight he’d once insisted on shouldering alone. Where there used to be boardrooms and flights and conferences, there were now shared breakfasts with Ava, long walks through Stanley Park, and slow mornings that allowed space for conversation. He asked questions. He listened. Really listened. And most importantly, he looked at her like he was seeing her—not the heiress, not the troubled teen, not the reflection of his failings—but his daughter. His child.

And in the small moments, Ava started to feel it too.

Not everything was fixed. But the tension that once lived in the walls began to soften. Her room didn’t feel like a cage anymore. The echo of slamming doors had disappeared. Her face healed, but more than that, something inside her had started to mend. It wasn’t linear. Some days were harder than others. But for the first time in her life, she believed that healing was possible. That she was allowed to take up space without apologizing for it. She smiled more. Laughed, even. The guilt that used to settle on her shoulders like wet sand began to lift.

And when Quinn returned from Michigan, as if drawn by some invisible pull, they found each other again.

No texts were exchanged. No call to meet. There didn’t have to be. The connection between them was something unspoken, something carved into the marrow of their bones. It moved in whispers, in intuition, in that aching familiarity that exists between people who have seen each other at their absolute lowest. Their bond defied explanation—it had always existed beneath the surface, simmering gently, waiting for the moment they would need it again.

So when the air in Vancouver turned warm and humid, and the sky burned soft at the edges with the promise of summer's return, they simply showed up. At the bench. The one by the water where everything began. The same wooden slats worn down from years of weather, still creaking under weight, still welcoming. As though the universe had gently reached out with an invisible hand, nudging them back toward the only place that ever felt like sanctuary. It didn’t need to shout or point—just whispered softly: go now. They're waiting.

There he was, sitting with his elbows on his knees, looking out at the water like it held the answers to questions he hadn't yet asked. Ava didn’t make a sound as she approached, but he turned anyway—as if he felt her there before he saw her. Their eyes met, and something settled in both of them. Relief. Recognition. That aching kind of warmth that only comes from being missed.

They said nothing. Just moved toward each other like gravity had decided for them. He opened the blanket he had brought, and she stepped into it, sinking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world. His arm draped over her shoulders, her head rested gently against his chest. They laid there in silence, the water stretching out before them, the stars quietly blinking in the sky above. The city buzzed behind them, distant and irrelevant. In that moment, it was just them.

Two quiet souls with too much history and not enough words.

They didn’t need to speak. They never had.

Their breathing synced, rising and falling in a rhythm so effortless it felt orchestrated by something bigger than them. His fingers moved gently against her arm, drawing absentminded circles that whispered reassurance against her skin. Each pass of his fingertips was a soft reminder that she wasn’t alone, that he was there, and that the silence between them was anything but empty. Her hand, slow and deliberate, found the hem of his sweater—that familiar place where fabric met warmth—and curled there, anchoring herself in the presence of someone who had seen her unravel and hadn’t flinched.

They had been apart for months, but this—this space, this contact, this hush that wrapped around them like a cocoon—made time feel irrelevant. It wasn’t just comfort. It was communion. Like their hearts had never stopped whispering across the distance, tracing constellations in one another’s absence. And now, reunited, they could finally hear what had always been there. That steady hum of knowing, of safety, of belonging. A closeness that asked nothing, proved nothing, but simply was.

It was the kind of reunion that didn’t require explanation. Just presence. Just breath.

And then came the night of the Monroe Gala.

It was an annual tradition, always hosted in the grand ballroom of one of Vancouver’s finest hotels—chandeliers dripping with light, golden accents reflecting off the champagne flutes, soft classical music humming beneath the din of polite conversation. The Monroe name was printed on every wall, gilded on every place card. Cameras flashed as donors and dignitaries arrived, each trying to catch the attention of the city's elite.

But this year, something was different. Ava stood next to her father the entire night.

David hadn’t asked—he insisted. And for once, she didn’t mind.

She wore a simple black satin gown, elegant and understated, the fabric catching the light with every graceful movement she made. It flowed around her like a whisper, the kind of dress that didn’t need embellishment to draw attention. Her hair was swept into a soft bun, a few delicate strands framing her face, and her makeup was minimal—just enough to highlight the natural beauty she was finally learning to own. But it wasn’t her dress or her makeup that turned heads. It was her presence. The way she carried herself with a quiet, unshakable strength that hadn’t been there before. A stillness that commanded respect without demanding it. She wasn’t just attending the gala; she was reclaiming the space she had once shrunk inside of. Every step she took was a silent declaration.

David kept a proud hand on her back, steady and constant, as he introduced her to guests. It was protective but not possessive, proud but not overbearing—a father who had come to understand his daughter’s worth in the way he should have all along. For once, his presence beside her didn’t feel like a spotlight; it felt like support. And Ava, radiant beneath the golden chandeliers, met each handshake and greeting with grace and a poised confidence that made people pause, look again, and wonder who she truly was beneath the satin and silk.

"This is my daughter, Ava," he’d say with a smile that reached his eyes. "She’s doing incredibly well in school. Top of her class. Strong as ever."

No one brought up Sally. Not once. Not in passing, not in whispers behind champagne glasses, not in speculative glances. It was as if the woman had been erased from memory, a name swallowed by the elegance of the room and the power of Ava’s presence. And David, for all his pride and poise, didn’t let her shadow stretch across this night. He didn’t allow it. This was Ava’s moment. Hers alone.

She smiled, nodded, shook hands, posed for the occasional photo, but her mind wandered.

Because across the room, Quinn was there.

Tall, composed, dressed in a sharp navy suit. His hair was slightly tousled in that effortless way only he could pull off. He looked different here—not out of place, but dressed in armor. His hands tucked into his pockets, his expression polite but reserved. He mingled with his teammates, with the Canucks GM, with sponsors and fans. But his eyes were scanning the room.

For her.

Their eyes met across the ballroom, and it was like the world stilled, folded inward, until the only thing that existed was the space between them. They didn’t smile. They didn’t wave. They just watched each other, a kind of watching that felt like remembering and longing all at once. Ava’s breath caught in her throat, her heart aching with the pressure of everything she couldn’t say. And Quinn—his posture steady, his eyes unreadable but soft—looked at her like she was the first quiet breath after drowning. It was a silent conversation layered with everything they had endured in the months apart. A quiet, aching kind of yearning that throbbed in the stillness.

I missed you.

I know.

I’m here.

So am I.

As the night wore on, they moved through the space like magnets drawn by a thread. David introduced Ava to a dozen important faces, but each time she turned, she could feel Quinn’s gaze finding hers. When he laughed at something Brock Boeser said, she caught the moment his smile faltered just slightly—because she wasn’t beside him. And when she shook hands with Tyler Myers, she felt Quinn watching, his gaze unreadable.

Eventually, the inevitable happened.

David and Ava approached a small cluster of men—Quinn, the GM, Brock, and Elias. Golf was the topic of choice, spoken with that kind of lighthearted competitiveness that only athletes could pull off. The laughter was easy, the posture relaxed. Ava stood a step behind her father, her eyes immediately finding Quinn’s.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

They just gravitated toward one another until, somehow, they were side by side. The space between them dissolved with a familiarity so profound, it felt rehearsed by the universe itself. Their arms brushed once—a fleeting stroke of fabric against skin that made Ava's breath hitch. Then again, slower this time, as if the universe was drawing their lines closer. And on the third, they didn’t pull away. They stayed.

Shoulder to shoulder, standing like twin sentinels in a crowd of strangers, the contact was quiet but absolute. A low pulse of warmth spread from where they touched, down their spines, into their lungs. Ava felt her anxiety melt just slightly, the noise of the room dimming, her thoughts softening. Quinn tilted slightly closer, the smallest gesture, like a lean into gravity. And together they stood—not speaking, not shifting, simply existing in the kind of silence that nourished.

For a moment, neither of them listened to the conversation. They didn’t hear the jokes about sand traps or the groans about bad swings. They were simply there. Together. Anchored.

David turned and, with the proudest smile, said, "Gentlemen, this is my daughter, Ava."

She extended her hand politely, introducing herself with a poise that made her look older than she felt. Quinn gave the smallest nod, his lips twitching, like he was trying not to smirk.

"Nice to meet you," he said softly, eyes never leaving hers.

They had to pretend.

Pretend like they didn’t know every jagged edge of each other’s trauma—each wound, each scar, each moment that nearly broke them. Like they hadn’t fallen asleep on the phone night after night, their voices the last thread tethering each other to sleep, murmured goodnights passed like fragile lifelines. Like she hadn’t once read him poetry in the early hours of the morning, her voice trembling over words not her own, until they cracked open something inside him that he hadn’t dared to touch in years, and he cried—not just from the words, but from the way she saw him, really saw him. Like he hadn’t once driven across the city at midnight, headlights cutting through fog, just to be near her, just to sit on the floor of her room and say nothing while she stared blankly at the wall, her silence heavier than any words. Like they weren’t each other's refuge in a world that had offered them far too many reasons to stop trying. Like they weren’t still carrying pieces of each other in places no one else could reach.

They had to pretend like they weren’t tethered by something deeper than most people in that room would ever understand.

Like if it weren’t for Quinn, Ava wouldn’t be here.

And if it weren’t for Ava, Quinn would have walked away from the game he loved.

They stood quietly, shoulder to shoulder, both masters of silence, both carrying more than anyone knew. And while the rest of the room buzzed with noise and expectation, they existed in their own bubble. One glance. One breath. One heartbeat.

That was enough.

For now.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Somehow, later that night, Quinn and Ava found themselves away from all the eyes, tucked behind velvet curtains and down a quiet hallway, onto a narrow balcony that overlooked the city. It felt like they had stumbled upon it by accident, but both of them knew better. The pull between them had always been magnetic, quiet and deliberate, and it had led them here—out of the spotlight, away from the polished smiles and the swirling conversations. Just the two of them. Just how they liked it.

The air was crisp and cool, the summer breeze biting at her bare shoulders, and without a word, Quinn slipped his suit jacket from his shoulders and draped it gently over her. Then, like gravity had always meant him to, he stayed close. His arm wrapped around her back, resting just above her waist, drawing her into his warmth. She leaned into it with a sigh, one that felt like it had been trapped inside her all evening.

The city lights glittered below them, casting soft gold and silver glows onto their faces. Neither of them spoke at first. There was no need to fill the silence. The world outside buzzed with energy and expectation, but here—on this hidden balcony—time felt suspended. They turned toward each other slowly, their gazes meeting in a softness reserved only for the quietest of truths.

Their voices, when they came, were hushed. Gentle. Full of intimacy. It wasn’t what they said—it was how they said it. Like they were catching up on lifetimes rather than hours. As if the conversation from the night before, curled up on Quinn’s couch in hoodies and tangled legs, hadn’t happened just twenty-four hours earlier. As if time with each other never felt like enough.

He told her about his mom asking questions. About Luke and Jack teasing him, but softer than usual. She told him about her father pausing in the middle of breakfast to ask her how she really was. How she answered him honestly.

They laughed quietly, shared fragments of their lives, their voices slipping between them like the breeze winding around their bodies. Ava’s hand found his. Their fingers interlaced without fanfare, like they were meant to. Like they always had.

They craved each other’s presence in a way that neither of them could quite articulate. It was an ache in the bones, a whisper that lingered in the quiet moments when the world slowed down. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t desperate. It was patient and persistent, like the tide returning to shore. Every brush of their hands, every shared look, every heartbeat that seemed to echo in tandem reminded them that the world felt more bearable with the other nearby.

It wasn’t overwhelming, but it was all-consuming in the gentlest way—like warm water rising slowly around them until they were submerged in comfort. Being together didn’t feel like fireworks or explosions. It felt like exhaling. Like the pause between waves. Like breathing after forgetting how to. It was the soft kind of safety that asked nothing, yet offered everything. It was steady. It was healing. It was home.

Eventually, they knew they had to go back. The world would start to wonder. So they disentangled slowly, reluctantly, the weight of the party pressing back against their little sanctuary. They stepped inside, the heavy doors closing behind them like a secret, and returned to the crowd, slipping seamlessly back into their silent game of eye tag.

Longing looks drifted like invisible threads across the room—delicate, deliberate, and too soft for anyone else to notice. They passed between them in glances that carried weight, in stares that lingered just a second too long. Ava could feel him in the room like a current beneath the surface of calm water. Even when her back was turned, she knew exactly where he was. It was instinctual now, the way she tracked him without searching, the way her body seemed to orient itself around his presence.

Quinn was woven into the night, stitched into the seams of her awareness. Like his gaze had painted itself onto the architecture of the ballroom—carved into the corners of mirrors, hidden in the shadows between chandeliers, echoing in the hush between conversations. He was there in the stillness. In the pause before the music swelled again.

Every time their eyes met, it felt like the rest of the world blurred, like the space between them collapsed into memory and possibility. It was quiet, desperate longing. Not just for touch, but for the kind of closeness they weren’t allowed to show here. The kind they could only hint at through parted lips that said nothing, and eyes that said everything.

When the night came to a close, and the last of the toasts had been made, David began his rounds. He shook hands with the team, warm and gracious, all the pride of a father written into his smile.

And Ava stood there, just a few feet away from Quinn.

So close. Yet still oceans apart.

She stared at him, and he stared back. Neither moving. Neither speaking. Just holding on through the space between them. And in that glance, they said everything they couldn’t say out loud.

Stay.

I will.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Fundraiser after fundraiser. Event after event. Gala after gala. It was always the same.

There was a rhythm to it now—the way Ava and Quinn would find themselves orbiting the same glittering rooms, under the same glowing chandeliers, surrounded by clinking glasses, velvet gowns, and the quiet murmur of old money. These were nights meant for appearances, for networking and public smiles. And yet, for them, they had taken on a different meaning. They became a ritual of sorts. A dance.

They never arrived together. They never left together. But they were always there. Always watching.

She stood by her father's side, poised and elegant, every inch of her radiating a quiet, cultivated grace. The dress she wore shimmered beneath the golden chandeliers, catching the light each time she moved, but it wasn’t the fabric that made people pause when they looked at her—it was the composure, the soft confidence in the way she held herself. The kind of strength not learned overnight but forged through fire and healing. There was something magnetic about her silence, a steadiness in her stillness, like she didn’t need to speak to be understood. David often rested a hand gently on her back, not to guide her, but to show the world he was proud.

Across the room, Quinn lingered with his teammates, half-listening to stories about summer golf trips and rookie antics, his drink untouched, the condensation leaving faint circles on the bar. His posture was casual, familiar to those around him, but his eyes—they betrayed him. They moved past people, past clinking glasses and shallow chatter, to find her. Always her. No matter where she was in the room, he found her. Even if she was half-turned, speaking to someone else, he knew. Like her presence lived in his peripheral vision. Like a magnetic pull beneath his skin.

And when their eyes met—briefly, quietly—everything else fell away. The world dimmed. The noise dulled. It was just them, across the distance, tethered by something invisible and unshakable. The kind of connection that didn’t require words or permission. Even in a crowded ballroom. Even in a sea of faces. The invisible string between them never faltered. It only grew stronger, more certain, more sacred.

They had mastered the art of silent presence. Of being near, but not too near. Their glances were small offerings. Wordless affirmations. I'm here.

Sometimes, Quinn would catch her in mid-laugh, head tilted back slightly, eyes crinkled at the corners, and his chest would tighten. Sometimes Ava would look up to see him politely declining a drink, his fingers tracing the edge of the glass, and she'd know he was counting down the minutes until they could be alone.

Every so often, someone would notice. One of Quinn's teammates. An old family friend of Ava's. Someone would glance between them and furrow their brow.

Eventually, Brock and Petey began to catch on. It wasn't just in the obvious ways—not just the glances or the quiet way Quinn seemed to tune out everything but a single presence across the room. It was deeper than that. It was in the ease of his movements during practice, in the softness of his voice when he spoke to the trainers, in the subtle calm that had settled into his shoulders like a long-held burden had finally been set down.

They saw the change in him before they saw her. The lightness in him. The subtle peace. The way his temper didn’t flare as easily. The way he lingered longer in the locker room, not because he was avoiding something, but because he had somewhere he wanted to be afterward. The way his phone would buzz mid-conversation, and he’d glance at it, eyes lighting up in a way neither of them had seen in a long time.

Petey noticed it first after a morning skate. Quinn had sat on the bench longer than usual, sipping his water, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth for no apparent reason. Brock picked up on it later, when Quinn turned down a night out in favor of heading home early—again.

There was something different about him. Something quieter. Something warmer. Something that felt like the first breath after breaking the surface of a deep dive. They didn’t know who she was yet. But they knew what she was doing to him.

And they were grateful for it.

“You’re different lately,” Brock had teased once, nudging him with his elbow after a press conference.

Quinn shrugged. “Just focused.”

Petey raised an eyebrow. “Focused, huh?”

He said nothing more, just offered a faint smirk and pulled his cap low. But they knew. Of course they did.

They didn’t push. They didn’t need to. Because they remembered the nights Quinn went silent in the locker room, the way he would sit with his head in his hands, shoulders hunched and trembling slightly, eyes distant as though he was somewhere far away. They remembered the nights he left the arena without a word, ghosting through the exit like he wanted to disappear into the dark, burdened by invisible weights that the rest of the world never saw. They remembered the sting of watching him crumble under the pressure, carrying the weight of a franchise, a name, and expectations so heavy no one his age should have had to bear them.

And now, he was present. He was grounded. He stayed after practices, laughed more freely, smiled without flinching, and leaned in during conversations instead of drifting out. He moved through the world with a kind of steadiness that was new, earned, and deeply felt. There was a fullness to him, a quiet confidence that hadn’t been there before, like he had finally allowed himself to be held by something—or someone—other than the game. And whatever or whoever had given him that, they weren’t going to interfere. Because Quinn wasn’t just surviving anymore. He was healing. And they weren’t about to question the one bright thread that had started to stitch him back together.

And David Monroe—the man who spent a lifetime reading contracts, reading negotiations, reading people—read his daughter the same way.

He noticed the subtle tilt of her head when Quinn entered the room—that barely perceptible shift in her body that spoke volumes. He noticed how her shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, how her stance softened in the way that people do when they feel safe. The shift in her voice when she greeted him was unmistakable, too—a quiet warmth that hadn't been there before, a kind of familiarity laced with unspoken joy. There was a glint of something softer in her eyes, something David hadn’t seen in a long time: hope. It shimmered beneath her lashes when she looked at Quinn, not flashy or bold, but real.

And maybe it was in the way she leaned in slightly, even when they weren’t talking. Maybe it was in the way her laughter carried just a little further when Quinn was near, fuller, less guarded. Maybe it was in the way she always seemed to know where he was, even if her back was turned. Whatever it was, she didn’t have to say a word. David knew. He knew in the same way a father knows when something inside his daughter has changed—not in fear, not in pain, but in healing. In comfort. In love.

But he never asked.

Never pushed. Never demanded to know.

Instead, he offered something rarer: trust.

He’d excuse himself from conversations at just the right moment. He’d conveniently get caught up with a donor when Ava and Quinn found themselves standing nearby. And most notably, he’d offer, again and again, with quiet confidence:

“Quinn, would you mind driving Ava back tonight? Her driver’s been rerouted.”

Even when they both knew that wasn’t true. Even when her driver was parked right outside. It was never about logistics. It was about space.

David offered it to them the way a father offers love when he doesn’t quite know how to say the words. With open doors. With quiet knowing. With the kind of steady, behind-the-scenes support that didn't demand acknowledgment or praise. He made space for them gently, without ever announcing it, always a few steps behind, always watching without hovering. He knew enough not to interrupt something still delicate and forming, something unspoken and sacred. But he could feel it—the gravity between them—and rather than stand in the way of it, he simply stepped aside.

In the way he lingered in conversations a little longer when he saw them drawn together. In the way he made himself scarce just as Ava started looking around for an escape from small talk. In the way he mentioned Quinn’s name with familiarity, like someone already considered family. He didn’t overstep. He didn’t press. He just made sure they knew he saw them. That he trusted them. That they were safe, and they were seen.

On the nights Ava stayed at the Monroe home, David would pass by her room, the soft spill of her laughter filtering through the crack in the door. Her voice, light and unguarded, speaking into the phone like it was the most natural thing in the world. It didn’t take much for him to recognize the voice on the other end. He’d seen Quinn smile that same way, phone in hand, thumb brushing the screen, eyes warm with something he rarely let the world see.

And then there were the late nights.

The soft creak of the front door. The shuffle of feet on the tile. Her silhouette slipping out into the quiet dark, only to return hours later with the faintest curve of peace around her mouth. She never said where she went. He never asked. But he could see it in her eyes. The steadiness. The gratitude.

Her chauffeur confirmed it once, in the casual way longtime employees do.

"Nice kid comes around a lot," he’d said, leaning against the car as David stepped out one morning, his tone casual but warm with unspoken approval. "Shows up like clockwork. Never loud, never late. Always polite—calls me sir, if you can believe it. Keeps to himself mostly, but he's careful with her. Stays in the car sometimes, waits until the lights are on before driving off. And when he does walk her in, he never lingers longer than she wants him to. Just makes sure she’s safe. You can tell he cares, even if he doesn’t say much. Been doing it for months now. Since before the summer started, even when school was still in session. Honestly? Feels like he's been here longer than that. Like he's part of the rhythm of the place now."

David had only nodded.

He didn’t need confirmation. He just needed to know she was okay.

And when it came to Quinn Hughes, he knew she was.

He’d always admired the young defenseman. Not for his stats, not for his name. But for the way he carried himself. Humble. Quiet. Steady. The kind of man who didn’t demand the spotlight, but still lit the way for others. The kind of man David hoped his daughter would meet one day, when she was ready.

And now, it seemed, she had.

David never said anything. Not directly.

But one evening, Ava walked into her apartment, tired from class, her shoulders heavy with the day. And there, on her kitchen counter, was an envelope. Small. Unassuming. Her name printed on the front in familiar, slanted script.

Inside, a single ticket.

Canucks Family Suite.

Next to it, a bouquet of lilies. Fresh, fragrant, wrapped in soft tissue and tied with a satin ribbon.

And tucked inside the bouquet was a note, folded neatly. In her father’s handwriting, blocky and precise:

I’m glad you’re happy. Enjoy the game, sweetheart. Tell Q I say hi.

Ava stood in the center of her kitchen for a long time, the note pressed to her chest, her fingertips brushing over the familiar scrawl of her father’s handwriting as if it were something fragile and precious. The air around her felt still, suspended, as if the world had paused to give her this moment—this moment where the past and present met in a quiet, breathtaking kind of peace. Her eyes stung with something tender, something deep and sacred, a soft ache blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with being seen. Truly seen.

It wasn’t permission. It wasn’t approval. It was deeper than that. It was trust. It was understanding. It was a father’s love given not with conditions or expectations, but with a steady hand and a hopeful heart. It was a message: * I trust you. I love you.*

And in that stillness, Ava felt something inside her settle. A lifelong ache she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying softened, just a little. It was love, quiet and sure. The kind that didn’t ask questions. The kind that didn’t need to be proven. The kind that just... was.

She didn’t text him to say thank you. She didn’t need to. He already knew.

That night, she wore the jersey Quinn had left for her. The one that still smelled faintly of his cologne. The one that had become a second skin on nights when the world felt too sharp. She tucked the ticket into her bag and made her way to the arena.

The family suite buzzed with polite chatter, children balancing popcorn tubs on their laps, partners snapping photos through the glass. Ava sat alone, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes trained on the ice.

And then he skated out.

Helmet tucked under one arm, his stick resting against his shoulder, his eyes flicked upward—toward her.

Just once.

But it was enough.

He smiled. Slow. Soft. The kind of smile that reached the corners of his eyes.

And this time, she smiled back.

Wide. Unafraid. Home.

A few rows down, David watched the exchange, his heart quietly swelling with a kind of warmth he hadn't felt in years. His hands were folded in his lap, but his grip softened as he took them in—his daughter and the boy she hadn’t quite named yet. His chin tilted upward slightly, like he was catching sunlight, though it was only the gentle glow of the rink lights reflecting in his eyes. And what he saw wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t grand. But it was everything.

There was something so gentle in their exchange, so sweet and unguarded, that it rooted itself deep in his chest. The way Quinn looked up like the world paused when he saw her. The way Ava smiled back without a hint of hesitation. That silent thread between them—invisible to others but so very visible to a father who had learned to look—wasn't just connection. It was care. It was safety. It was the soft, tender shape of something real beginning to bloom.

And David—a man who once wondered if he’d ever get to see this kind of light in his daughter again—felt nothing but gratitude. For the quiet between them. For the steady presence Quinn had become. For the fact that in a world that demanded so much of both of them, they had found each other.

He smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

And he smiled too.

Because this—this was all he had ever wanted for her.

Not perfection. Not prestige.

Just peace.

And someone to hold her steady when the world tried to pull her apart.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Eventually, it happened.

After a week of distance, of nothing but texted good mornings and tired, late-night voice notes, Quinn returned from a stretch of away games in the States. A week apart wasn’t long in the grand scheme of things, but it felt like an eternity to both of them. After so many nights spent orbiting each other’s presence, to suddenly have nothing but a phone screen was a sharp absence.

So when he finally got back to Vancouver, there was no hesitation. No ceremony. Just the quiet thud of the door closing behind him and the soft, wordless pull of Ava’s arms as they collapsed into each other in the dim comfort of her apartment.

They ended up in her bed, legs tangled beneath the covers, the low hum of a television show playing in the background. Neither of them paid attention to the dialogue. The screen flickered, casting soft colors across the room, but their world had narrowed to each other—to the warmth of bodies reunited, to the gentle exchange of breath in a space that finally felt whole again.

Quinn laid on his side, one arm tucked beneath his head, the other curled gently around Ava’s waist. She faced him, her fingers resting lightly against his chest, eyes tracing the sharp curve of his jaw, the dimple in his chin, the soft slope of his nose. It was quiet, reverent almost, the kind of silence that said everything.

Their foreheads pressed together.

Like an anchor. Like a prayer.

As if the touch could absorb all the ache, all the exhaustion, all the pieces of the past still lodged deep inside.

Quinn's fingers gently brushed a piece of hair from her face, tucking it slowly behind her ear with the kind of tenderness that made her stomach flutter. His hand lingered there, the pad of his thumb grazing the curve of her cheek like it was something sacred. It was such a small gesture, but it was full of reverence—as though he were memorizing her, as though her softness was something he needed to commit to memory in case the world ever tried to make him forget. His eyes searched hers, not in question but in quiet certainty, and when he finally took a breath, it trembled slightly, his voice low and raw and steady. The words that followed were barely above a whisper, but they rang through her like a cathedral bell, reverberating in her chest, anchoring something deep and aching inside of her with the weight of truth.

"I love you so much, Ava."

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t dramatic. But it held weight. A gravity that made her heart still for a moment.

Her eyes met his, glassy with something close to awe, and she reached up, cupping his face in her hands with a gentleness that nearly broke him.

"I love you so much, Quinn."

And then their lips met.

Soft. Slow. Healing.

Like the breath after a storm. Like the beginning of something safe and endless.

In that kiss, it was as if they were transported—to a different place, a different version of the world where nothing had ever hurt them, where every crack had been mended, every bruise gently kissed away. It wasn’t just a kiss, it was a release. A surrender. A soft unraveling of everything they had held in for too long. It was warm and still and whole, the kind of kiss that stitched them back together from the inside out. In that moment, their bodies remembered safety, their hearts remembered peace. Every aching memory, every lonely night, every self-doubt and lingering wound faded into the background.

For a few heartbeats, they forgot what it meant to carry pain. Forgot what it was to be broken. There was only the hush between them, the taste of belonging, the way their souls seemed to fit together like pieces that had always known where they belonged.

They were just two people who loved each other.

And for the first time, that was more than enough.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

Ava attended every game she could. If she could make it, she was there. She sat quietly in the family suite, tucked between executives and loved ones, her eyes always scanning the ice for #43.

And it was inevitable, really, that eventually she would run into Ellen Hughes.

It was during a highly anticipated game—the Canucks versus the Devils. A Hughes family reunion of sorts, with Jack and Luke skating for New Jersey while Quinn stood on the opposing blue line. The suite was buzzing with excitement, filled with friends, distant relatives, and family friends.

Ellen had made her rounds with practiced warmth. She greeted the WAGs, the team staff, the donors and their spouses. And eventually, her eyes fell on a girl she didn’t recognize.

She was sitting at the far end of the suite, small and tucked into her seat, her body angled slightly away from the crowd as though trying not to draw attention. But there was something about her posture—something familiar. She wasn’t avoiding people. She was just comfortable in her own space.

Curious, Ellen approached.

"Hi there," she said with a soft smile. "I don't think we've met. I'm Ellen. Quinn's mom."

Ava's head snapped up, and her heart immediately jumped to her throat, thudding so hard she swore Ellen could hear it. Her breath caught, and for a split second she forgot how to speak, how to move, how to be. She hadn’t expected this moment—not so soon, not like this. Her eyes widened slightly, and a nervous flush crept up her neck, blooming across her cheeks as recognition dawned. Of course she knew who Ellen Hughes was. Quinn had spoken of her with reverence and warmth, had mentioned her kindness and strength. And now here she was, standing just feet away, reaching out not with suspicion, but with genuine interest. Ava forced a smile, her palms suddenly clammy, and willed her voice to be steady, to not betray the storm of nerves unraveling inside her.

"Oh," she said, standing quickly and smoothing her sweater. "Hi. I’m Ava. Ava Monroe. My dad’s David Monroe—he's one of the team's silent donors. I… I sometimes come to games with him."

Ellen nodded thoughtfully, but her eyes didn’t move. They stayed on Ava.

There was something about her. Something that tugged at Ellen's chest in a way she couldn't quite explain. A familiarity, a presence. A quiet gentleness that felt known, though she was sure they had never met. The girl’s posture, the way she sat with graceful reserve, like she was holding something close and sacred—Ellen couldn’t look away.

And then the players took the ice. The lights brightened, the music swelled, and her son stepped onto the rink. The roar of the crowd rose up like a wave, but Ellen barely heard it. Her eyes were on Quinn. And his eyes? His eyes were searching.

Not for his father. Not for her. Not for the fans.

They locked onto the far edge of the suite.

To her.

And in that one look, everything else fell away.

Ellen watched as his face softened, his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly, and the tension that had built during warmups dissolved like ice under the sun. His expression wasn’t just love. It was longing. A yearning so deep, it was visible even from all the way up here. A look that said, There you are. I can breathe again.

It hit Ellen like a memory—a summer evening by the lake, Quinn laid out on the dock, his eyes turned toward the stars with that same quiet peace. That same softness.

And now she saw it again.

Not because of the game.

Because of the girl.

And Ellen saw it.

The look.

The look that lit his entire face.

She followed his gaze and then looked back to Ava. And suddenly, it all clicked. The jersey wasn’t just a Hughes one. It was a game-worn #43. His first one. And Ava wasn’t just some donor’s daughter.

She was the girl.

The one who had existed only in quiet murmurs for months. The one whose name hadn’t been spoken, but whose presence had echoed in every shift of Quinn's energy. The one Ellen had wondered about late at night, when she noticed her son checking his phone more often, when she heard the smile in his voice during calls, when he talked about "someone" who made things feel easier.

She was the one who had pulled her son back from the edge. Who had reminded him, not with grand declarations but with steady hands and soft silence, that he didn’t have to carry the weight of the world alone. The girl who had entered his life like a whisper, and yet managed to soften every sharp edge he carried. The girl who brought stillness to the storm.

And now, seeing her here, Ellen understood everything.

Every look. Every shift. Every softened breath her son had taken over the past several months.

This was her.

The one who had become his home.

After the game, as players filtered off the ice and families began gathering their things, Ellen watched as Ava lingered. She didn’t move to leave like the others. She stayed in the back, her coat draped over her arm, her gaze fixed on the hallway leading to the locker rooms.

And when the crowds began to thin, Quinn reappeared.

He wasn’t obvious. He never was. But he moved with intention. He walked right past the others. Right to her.

And the way he looked at her—that same quiet, awe-filled expression he wore that summer on the dock, when the world was still and the stars were just beginning to shine, like he was seeing the whole universe unfold before him. But this time, he wasn't looking at the sky—he was looking at her. With a reverence that made it seem as if she held constellations in her eyes, like every part of him had been waiting for this one second of clarity. There was no mistaking it, no downplaying the depth of it. That look held stories, memories, hopes he hadn’t dared to name. It was a gaze filled with yearning, with a kind of stillness that only comes when you find the thing you didn’t even know you were missing. It was the look of a man who had come home—and found that home in her.

That’s when Ellen knew.

This girl. This quiet, kind-eyed girl.

She was the one who had been stitching her son back together.

And when Ava began to make her way out, ready to quietly leave before anyone could say anything, Ellen stepped in gently.

"Why don’t you come with us?" she asked, her voice warm, inviting. "We’re going out for dinner. Nothing fancy. Just family."

Ava blinked. "I… I wouldn’t want to intrude."

Ellen smiled. "You wouldn’t be. Please."

There was a look in Ellen’s eyes—soft, knowing, and impossibly kind. A look filled with gentle recognition and something deeper than just polite interest. The same look David Monroe had when he realized the truth, when he saw the way his daughter smiled with her whole heart for the first time in years. It was the look of someone who understood exactly what was unfolding, even if it hadn’t been said aloud. A mother’s intuition, quietly affirming what she had already pieced together long before introductions had been made.

Ava felt the weight of it settle over her chest—not heavy, but grounding. She felt seen, not just as Quinn's quiet constant, but as someone who mattered on her own. And in that moment, she felt the doors to something bigger opening, something she had always tiptoed around. A family, a place, a seat at the table. She felt welcome.

So when Ellen extended the invitation, Ava couldn’t say no. Not because she felt obligated. But because she wanted to. Because this, whatever this was, felt like the beginning of something sacred.

They went to a quiet restaurant downtown. One the Hughes family knew well. A booth in the back was waiting, and Quinn reached for her hand beneath the table as they sat. She gave it a gentle squeeze.

Dinner was easy.

Ava was quiet, like Quinn, but she listened well. Asked thoughtful questions. Laughed at the right moments. And slowly, the Hughes brothers started to lean in a little more. Ellen and Jim exchanged a glance across the table.

They watched the way Quinn passed Ava the pickles from his plate without asking, and how she did the same with her tomatoes. How they shared a single glass of water, how Ava refilled it halfway through without a word. How they leaned into each other during the lull in conversation, foreheads brushing like they couldn’t quite believe they were still allowed to be near.

It was like watching a dance.

Soft. Natural. Magnetic.

And when dinner ended, and they all stood to leave, one by one the Hughes family pulled Ava into tight hugs.

From Jim’s strong embrace to Luke’s teasing grin, to Jack’s quiet "Glad you're here. Really."

And then Ellen. Who held her for a little longer.

As if saying, Thank you.

For bringing their Quinn back.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

After dinner, they parted ways outside the restaurant. The night had cooled, the sidewalks quieter now, as families dispersed and city lights blinked sleepily overhead. Quinn and Ava didn’t speak much as they walked. They didn’t need to. Their hands were still intertwined, fingers laced with the kind of familiarity that spoke louder than any words.

Somehow, without planning, they ended up at the bench.

Their bench.

The same one by the water. The one where it all began.

The moon hung low and bright above them, casting silver reflections across the calm harbor. The city buzzed behind them, but here, it was quiet. Safe. Like always.

They sat side by side, shoulders brushing, the hush of waves lapping gently below. Quinn leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, while Ava curled slightly into his side. Her head found his shoulder, and his cheek rested against the top of her head.

For a while, they didn’t say anything. They just listened—to the water, to the cars in the distance, to their own hearts beating in rhythm again.

"You know," Ava murmured after a while, "I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again. Safe. Loved. Not just by you… but by the world. By your family."

Quinn turned his head, brushing a kiss to her temple.

"You were always worthy of it. You just needed someone to remind you."

A small smile tugged at her lips, and she leaned further into him.

"You did more than remind me. You showed me."

He looked out at the water, his voice a whisper.

"You saved me too. I was drowning and didn’t even realize it. And then there you were. Just... quiet and strong and exactly what I didn’t know I needed."

She tilted her head to look up at him. "Do you think we would have found each other if everything in our lives had gone differently?"

He considered that, then shook his head gently.

"No. But I think we found each other exactly when we needed to. Broken, but still whole enough to see the light in the other."

She reached up and touched his cheek. "You were always the light, Quinn."

He closed his eyes for a moment, holding her hand against his face.

They stayed there until the sky began to shift—the deep navy of night giving way to pale hints of morning. The first signs of a new day stretching out before them.

And as the sun began to rise, spilling warmth across the horizon, they knew.

They had survived the darkness.

Together.

And now, they had a future.

Hand in hand, they sat on that bench. Their bench. Not as two people weighed down by the past, but as two hearts who had found their way back to themselves—through love, through healing, and through each other.

This was their beginning.

And it was everything.

[twilightkitkat]

Can we talk about the dynamics of Logan "I eat anything and scarf it down immediately" Howlett and Wade "I only eat the same 10 foods in different fonts" Wilson?

Logan is used to living without. Even as a child, he had to get by when he was sick with the food his family could afford. Once he joined the military, he had to survive on the limited rations he was given. He didn't have room to be picky—he either ate what he was given or didn't eat at all. And in war, he had to eat eventually.

His preferences didn't matter. He was always treated as a soldier, a weapon, and his food reflected that. He'd get enough protein and carbohydrates to fuel his power but that was it. Food was for functional use, not to be enjoyed. It didn't matter if it tasted disgusting, he just inhaled it so the taste wouldn't linger.

He's also an extremely quick eater. He's feral and ravenous when hungry, tearing into meat with his claws and hands. He lived in the army, in the mountains, through the Great Depression, and in dangerous situations where he hunted for himself. To him, food is a scarce resource and if you don't eat it while you can, you might not have it tomorrow. So he takes gigantic bites and tears into food no matter how bland and unappealing it was because that's all he knows. His standards for food are just that it has to have nutrients and not be poisoned.

Wade, on the other hand, is more picky. If he had to choose between eating something he hates or not eating, he'd rather just starve. At first, in the army, he did eat what was given to him even if he disliked it, but it was purely for survival. He choked it down even when it made him vaguely nauseous and disgusted. But later, he'd hoard stashes of his own food that he managed to steal or barter for or bet on. It was better to be hungry most of the time than satiate his hunger temporarily only to fight to keep it down and feel sick the entire day.

The second he has the freedom to pick his own food, he sticks to things he knows he likes. That he feels comfortable with. He's picky about brands and specific types of food and how it has to be cooked or made, but he manages. He can normally find something on the menu he's OK with, even if he often has order a kid's meal. But most places have grilled cheese sandwiches and chicken tenders and macaroni, and people chalk it up to him being childish and silly, so nobody pays much attention.

Wade sees food as one of the only things he can control. He's been devoid of true choice for most of his life. He couldn't control getting cancer or being forced to turn into a horrific mutant. He couldn't save his relationship with Vanessa. When everything around him was collapsing, he hyperfixated on the little things he could control like food or clothing.

The two, together, learn to have a healthier relationship with food.

Logan was the first person to truly pay attention to Wade. To see which foods he liked and which he picked at and grimaced towards when nobody was looking. When Logan abruptly said he'd cook dinner one day, Wade was nervous, but nearly started bawling when Logan made homemade chicken tenders and macncheese. He noticed. He cared.

It was the first time Wade could be open and let someone see he was genuinely affected by food instead of him just playing it up as a lunatic. And Logan took him seriously and didn't make fun of him. He learned recipes to make the foods Wade liked but healthier and more balanced. He helped Wade finally get the nutrients he needed consistently without feeling sick to his stomach.

And Wade helped Logan too.

Logan was never allowed to have preferences. To have a sweet tooth or ask for more. To expect quality. But here Wade was, buying him some apple cinnamon-filled pastry just because he looked at it too long in the store.

Logan was never allowed to have dessert. To have sweet food just for the sake of it even after a meal. His eyes become wet as he clutches the pastry between his shaking hands and takes a bite. He's allowed this. To have the comforts in life. To eat just because it tasted good.

Someone cared about him enough to buy him what he wanted just because he'd enjoy them, not just to keep him functioning as a tool. Wade treated him as human. Like he was precious. Like he deserved the nice things in life.

And Wade reminds him of this. He stocks their kitchen with desserts that Logan likes, because he knows that Logan secretly enjoys sweet things. He sees the way he sniffs the air and wanders close to the fresh-baked goods of a bakery. He keeps snacks around the house, so Logan can eat whenever he want. Even if it isn't a "necessary meal."

And Wade learns to be more comfortable and try new variations of foods he likes that Logan makes. Because Logan knows the textures and flavors he hates and is somehow able to create a few new dishes entirely that he likes. He stops dreading mealtime or trying new foods. And Wade feels comfortable just trying the food without pressure, knowing that he can just not finish it if he doesn't want to and that someone else will.

And Logan learns to let himself enjoy eating again. To see it as less of a chore for the maintenance of his body and more as an enjoyable activity. Wade reminds him that he can eat just because he wants to and that it's OK to have preferences and ask for things. Logan feels well cared for. Pampered, almost. And he basks in the feeling of being wanted and loved and being allowed to express it through cooking and food.

[yandere-sins]

Yandere!Mydei caring for a depressed darling

a/n: Tried to do something new with the type of headers I do. Not quite yet close to the aesthetic girlies but I don't hate it! Anyway, I'm now a diagnosed ✨depressed✨ and life's been up and down lately, so I wanted to write for my current comfort character ♥

Characters: Yandere!Mydei(mos) x GN!Reader Warnings: Yandere, Possessiveness, Obsessiveness, Kidnapping, Depression

❥ Mydei likes to return to you doing something. He likes to find you taking a bath (scrambling to get some clothes on when you hear the door unlock) or reading a book (sighing because your reading time is effectively over), stuffing your mouth like an adorable little animal with food, or even wreak havoc if you must (and he gets to put you back in your place). It excites him. It makes taking a rest so much more enjoyable, and he needs to see you thrive in this environment he created for you. Knowing that it's his place that you live in satisfies the homesickness he suppresses, as he can live vicariously through you. Coming home to you asleep—or at least trying to—isn't quite what he has in mind for a greeting.

❥ He's not too pleased to have to wake you up or make you at least acknowledge his presence. But he will, of course, do so however his mood commands him to. Sometimes, he grabs the blanket so you end up rolling out of bed; other times, he spoons you from behind, applying more and more pressure to your body until you react. Or he calls out to you and pokes you until you're finally up. Just this time, everything he does seems to affect you less. Like you don't care. Like you can't care.

❥ When you do finally get up, he immediately notices the changes in you. He can't pinpoint what exactly is wrong. Still, everything from your sluggish demeanor to the faded light in your eyes gives him clues to an unsolvable puzzle. He doesn't like it. Mydei asks you what's going on with you, his repeated questioning getting annoying fast, but your shrugging your shoulders and being dismissive isn't cutting it for him. He will test for a fever and belittle you for not taking care of yourself as you should as he tries to find any wounds that could cause you distress. Clearly, you've been up to no good and probably worn yourself out. Mydei is so obsessed with finding the cause that he can't see the forest for the trees.

❥ Frustrated and angry at you since he doesn't know what is going on with you (this could just be another one of your ways to challenge him), he storms off to take care of his own needs for a little while but eventually does return with your favorite food. Even though Mydei has to get you out of bed again—which he does unapologetically and ruthlessly by picking you up regardless of your state of awareness—he forces you to have a meal with him. He gets even more upset when you barely touch your food. He keeps piling more items on your plate, but you just sit back after a few nibbles, unwilling to consume more. It's grating his nerves, but even more so, it raises a sense of discomfort in him that he never felt with you before. Even when he had to fight you, wrestle you to the ground, and force you to obey his whims, he never felt like this... somewhat... helpless. It's uncomfortable and distressing, and Mydei doesn't want to think of the memories these feelings remind him of.

❥ You, not objecting to being placed on top of him like a weighted blanket for the night, is the final nail in the coffin. You hate it with a passion when he picks you up and moves you like a doll, especially if it initiates more body contact than you feel like having with him or being placed in an awkward position. But you don't even tell him to stop or push your hands into his chest, giving him a reason to wrestle with you for a bit. Instead, your behavior keeps Mydei up all night after he pulled a blanket over you two, and you actually have the audacity to fall asleep on his chest without any complaints, not knowing the agony he's going through. But fine! You want to not interact with him? Well, that gives Mydei the opportunity to do whatever he wants with you.

❥ So, in the morning (later than he usually gets up), he forces you to bathe with him. You do tense up and try to get away from him, but he won't let you. Having your hair washed by Mydei is not a gentle undertaking, as he scrubs the soap against your scalp seemingly without an ounce of care. However, when some tears fall, he at least makes an effort to be more careful with the rest of your body. You'll be surprised to witness how he is still able to learn from his mistakes despite forcing you into this relationship with him. But even if it isn't how he's used to doing things, he tries—for you. The same goes for brushing your teeth (he'll use his tools for you unless you do it yourself), combing your hair (washing was enough torture, although he's reaching for the comb almost too quickly for you to decide if you can manage it yourself or not), and putting fresh clothes on (which takes a lot of time as he ponders what you should wear that day).

❥ Mydei's special care doesn't stop there as you are getting carried or dragged around all day by him—no matter where, except for the place you had been forced to call your "home". Into meetings with the other Chrysos Heirs (which everyone is very surprised by since Mydei never allows them to visit you and keeps you all to himself usually), onto the training grounds (where he was nice enough to bring your book along in case you were bored, but he ended up checking up so much on you that his training was cut short), and to restaurants three times that day, so he could make sure you were eating right. You've never actually got to hang out so much with him outside his place, and he had never shown any interest in you learning about his daily routine, either. So, although you can't appreciate the change as much in your current state, you do enjoy being outside and doing something (even if it isn't what you want to do).

❥ Even though he kept his eyes on you all day, your lack of trying to complain to someone about Mydei's treatment concerns him. Usually, you'd try to tell everyone your tale of being forced into a relationship with him the few times he took you outside, always causing a scene with him in the streets. But you seem to lack the energy for it. For anything, really. You're still barely eating and even allow him to reach for and take your hand at any given moment, which he enjoys but is only half as rewarding as when he has to fight for the right. You even stopped struggling whenever he picked you up, instead slumping over and resting in his hold. And you sigh a lot, reaching up sometimes to wipe away tears that threaten to fall. If he wasn't concerned the day before, he definitely is now.

❥ It can't be helped, Mydei doesn't know what to do. So, despite grumbling about how he can't believe all this, he takes you to a spot no one can see you two in. Somewhere, the sun will shine down on you despite it being evening, and he sets you down between his legs, leaning you against his chest before resting back against a wall, too, soaking in the sunlight. It doesn't take too long until the silence gets to you, emotions swelling inside you until they burst out in tiny sniffles. By the time you are turned into a sobbing mess, Mydei is hugging you tightly against his chest, letting your tears run down his skin. He's neither hushing nor reprimanding you, rubbing your back calmly instead and letting you cling to him even if your nails dig into his flesh. The part that suppresses all of the uncomfortable feelings inside of him locking them away and burying them deeper every time they act up, doesn't understand what is happening. Mydei put them away to keep himself clear-headed and fighting at all times. But the other part—the one ruled by his heart that loves you so very much—feels for you, wishing he could just take care of whoever and whatever made you feel this way. He longs to have your feisty, adorable self back and wishes he could prove to you how capable he is in protecting you. Still, instinctively, he knows that it wouldn't be this easy.

❥ Mydei is not admitting to being part of the problem. He's not allowing anyone, not even you, to tell him that. But he will be the one to help you fix whatever issue you're having. You will follow his routine, and he will adjust it so you think of anything other than the thoughts in your head that torment you. If he can provide you with a new experience, he will. If buying you a hundred new books, he will. Ice cream for breakfast? Just say the words. He'll stay behind from some missions, no matter how hard he itches for the fights, just so you aren't as lonely. He'll do anything—anything—so he doesn't have to come back to find you this way again. So that he doesn't encounter this condition that he doesn't know how to fix. A condition no one taught him how to take care of and which he doesn't acknowledge in himself.

❥ Despite not getting any softer than this, Mydei does show you a tremendous amount of care the next few days. He drags you to many more outings, but there are also a lot of planned rests in between. You get to meet the others, and sometimes, he sees your smile return, however short-lived it is. Mydei goes out of his way to make you happy, never saying it out loud but showing through actions that he cares. He lets you roam the market by his side or even allows you to hold a weapon once or twice (under his strict supervision) when you show interest in it. He does stop you the few times you try to tell someone what is going on because losing you isn't an option, even if you seem to think it is. There is no way he'd ever let you go... but he does want you to feel better again. Having you wither away had never been the plan, although he reflects that sometimes it could have looked that way to you. He's not going to change his ways in the future, but he will provide you with what you need as long as he can give it to you.

❥ But the first time you get upset at him again, his heart makes a massive leap in his chest, trying to burst out. Mydei wants to rip it out from beneath his rips so he can throw the stupid thing at you, hoping you'll finally realize how bad his feelings are for you. Just having a glimpse of the you, he loves, back is enough to satisfy the ache that had risen over the time he had to watch you live in your depressive state. And sometimes, when you two fight, he even lets you win now. Mydei can spare a night not smothering you beneath him as he falls asleep spread on top of you. Letting you push him off and wearing the very temporary bruises like marks of endearment on his skin. His love becomes increasingly undiluted, especially when you show him the fire returning to your eyes. Your tongue, too, tastes better once it's sharp again and he has a reason to shut you up. Even though he carried you around for a while, seeing your body move around on its own is like a mesmerizing dance that he watches with rapture, and it raises his appetite for you like never before.

And you will never know how much effort he puts into keeping it this way for the rest of your time together.