#Guilt and blame fic

[justatiredghost]

Guilt and Blame ch2/2

ao3

What if Jonathan Sims found out the assistants were bound to him, not the Eye, and that his death would release them? What if he tried to act on it, forcing everyone to confront the line between human and monster, and what their freedom is really worth to them?

-

John’s throat hurt and he felt completely drained as he sat on the break room couch wrapped in a towel. He wasn’t quite sure who had given it to him, he’d been wavering a bit on the edge of consciousness from the pain, but he was grateful. He’d lost his shirt at some point, and it was too cold in here without it. 

Looking down, he could see several new scars, but no open wounds. They were all nicely healed over and it made him angry. And sick. The pain was almost completely gone now and it seemed unfair, that he could go through so much agony and have so little to show for it. The only evidence was how woozy he felt, and the blood still on his trousers.

To his surprise, he realized there was a cup of tea in front of him. He wasn’t sure who had put that there either. He looked around quickly, hoping it meant Martin might be there, but no. Daisy was the only other one in the room, sitting on a chair nearby, pretending she wasn’t watching him like a hawk. 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. He finally got up the energy to reach out and take a sip of tea, his hands shaky and unsteady. He put it down more heavily than he meant when Basira stormed in, taking him by surprise. 

“How do you feel?” Basira said and it sounded more like a demand, her expression impassive.

“Why did you stop me?” John demanded, annoyed. His voice was hoarse from overuse and he couldn’t help but feel embarrassed with how much yelling he’d done. “I told you, I know how to free everyone.”

“Explain it to me,” she said, eyebrow raised. 

“It’s me,” he said quickly. “You’re all bound to the Eye through me, through the Archivist. There’s a tape in my office that explains it all. Without me, it has no hold over any of you. I thought I could try blinding myself, quitting, see if that was enough, but it wouldn’t let me.”

“Wouldn’t let you?” Basira repeated. 

“Yes, I couldn’t make my hand move. So I resorted to this, but I heal too quickly. If you could help—“

“Shut up,” Daisy said, cuffing him off. 

“But—“ John began.

“No.”

He just stared at her in confusion. Why didn't she understand? This was his chance to try to fix all of this. Maybe he could atone for a fraction of the harm he had caused them all, and they could finally get out of this. Wasn’t that what they wanted? Why couldn’t Daisy of all people understand? 

“God, what were you thinking?” Basira said, rubbing at her forehead as she stared up at the ceiling. “The Eye is the only reason we haven’t died yet. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s protecting us. What do you think will happen once we’re cut off and you’re gone?”

“You—you won’t be a target anymore,” John said, but suddenly he wasn’t so sure and it came out as more of a question. 

“You can’t know that,” Basira continued. “We’ve all made enemies. And the Eye is the only reason Daisy has been able to hang on as long as she has. And what about Martin? You were really going to abandon him to the Lonely?”

“No!” John exclaimed. “No, he would be fine, he could— he wouldn’t—“ 

He studdered to a stop, feeling like an idiot and so, so afraid. He never wanted to abandon Martin, that had never been his intention. Was he okay? Would he still be okay without him? It was honestly hard to believe that any of them might benefit from his continued existence, and he was horrified by the prospect that he might have left them vulnerable had he succeeded. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

“Just— stay there,” Basira said, and she turned and left. 

Daisy hesitated for a moment, and John tried to think of something to say, but he couldn’t. After a moment, she left as well. John Knew they had taken all sharp implements out of the room. Were they really treating him like a child? No, they were treating him like a suicide risk, which he supposed he sort of was. 

Maybe they just— needed to talk it over, plan for the best way to do this. Yes, that made the most sense. Once they knew what to do, how to protect themselves, they’d probably want John to try again. Maybe they’d even help. Maybe he could try to blind himself again. Hopefully they wouldn’t tell Martin. He didn’t want to upset him. So long as they made sure Martin wasn’t left alone, John would be fine with whatever they decided. 

The door slammed open and he jumped with a start, looking up to see Melanie standing there, staring at him hard. He wasn’t quite sure what to say, but maybe apologizing would be a good place to start. 

“I’m sorry, Melanie,” he said, pulling the towel more closely around his shoulders. ”I realize that must have been a disturbing scene to walk into.“

“You are an idiot,” Melanie interrupted him, apparently completely uninterested in his apology, which he figured was fair. It seemed like he did nothing but apologize to her lately. “You don't get it, do you?”

“I— don’t understand,” John said hesitantly, unsure where this was going, unsure what he was supposed to do or say to fix this. 

”Of course you don’t. You don’t get to die. You’re stuck in here with us, and there’s no way you’re getting out of this so easily.”

“But— don't you want out?” John asked, completely baffled. 

“Not like that!” Melanie exclaimed, waving a hand where she’d found him covered in blood. “I don’t want your blood on my hands.”

“You wouldn’t,” John objected. “I— this was my choice—“

“And it was a shitty choice!” Melanie yelled again, before pulling out a slip of paper and slamming it down on the table in front of him. ”Here.”

“What’s this?” John asked, tentatively reaching out to accept it. 

“My therapist’s number.”

“Oh,” John said, but he was at a complete loss for words. “I don’t— I don’t know if that can help.”

How could anyone make the things he had done all right? How could he ever look himself in the mirror again and not hate the face that stared back at him? How could anyone even want to ease the guilt bubbling inside him? Even a therapist would surely blame him if they knew the whole story. 

“One way to find out,” was Melanie’s simple reply. 

“Right,” John said, holding the paper in his hands, looking down at it. “I-I’ll keep it in mind.”

And then Melanie turned and stormed back out the way she had come. 

John set the piece of paper onto the table beside his cooling tea. He didn’t really know what any of this meant. It wasn’t that he thought Melanie wanted him dead. Moreso he just assumed she wouldn’t care. She would be free and that would be all that mattered. But that didn’t seem to be the case. 

He tried to suppress a shiver, wishing he could go home, but he didn’t exactly have a home anymore. He could try to go back to his office, but someone would probably follow him, if he wasn’t barred from leaving entirely. He missed the Admiral. He missed Georgie. And more than anything, he missed Martin. Too bad none of them were likely to miss him. Well, except for the cat maybe. 

He was startled from his thoughts when the door burst open yet again and he looked up to see— Martin. He was still dressed more formally than he ever had in the library or as an archival assistant, and the grey tones seemed to have seeped into his very being, but right now he had more color than he’d seen on him since before the Unknowing, and it was a relief to see even if he looked red and angry. 

The sight of him made that guilt settle deep behind his ribcage again and he realized how exhausted he felt. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in his presence and finally rest, but that was selfish. Martin had things to do, he didn’t want to be down here, he didn’t want to see him. But John had made such a scene it had forced him to intervene. He was probably beginning to hate him if he didn’t already. 

“Martin?” He asked. He probably should have been wary, but he couldn’t help it. Even if it was only for a moment, even if it was only to tell him how much he hated him, John couldn’t help the relief he felt that he was actually here, proof that he was all right at least for the moment. 

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” Martin demanded, voice sharper than he could remember ever hearing it. 

”I was just— I was trying to do the right thing,” John said.

“Arg, you are so infuriating!” Martin exclaimed. “You’re always looking for the best way to sacrifice yourself to save everyone, you don’t even consider the consequences! The one good thing that’s happened in the past six months was you waking up, and you were just going to throw your life away? What are the others supposed to do without you?”

“I just, I though—“ John stammered. “I just wanted to help for a change. I-I don’t know that it was a good thing I woke up. I don’t even know if I’m me anymore.”

“Oh, trust me, you are,” Martin said, and John didn’t know how he could sound so certain. “Only you would come up with a plan this idiotic.”

And then Martin was pulling him into a crushing hug. To his horror, he realized Martin was crying, his frame shaking as he buried his face in John’s shoulder. He didn’t know what to do, he could barely follow what was happening, and he was afraid he was still going to hurt Martin further if the others wanted him to go through with his plan. 

“Just— promise me you won’t do that again. Okay?” Martin asked, and he sounded so broken, all John could do was hold him tighter. 

“Y-yeah,” he said, because he could never deny Martin anything. Except he would, if he had to. He’d never forgive himself if he lied to Martin, and he knew Martin wouldn’t forgive him either. Maybe that would make it easier for Martin to move on. To forget him and live his life, far away from the Institute and all of the monsters. 

Basira and Daisy came into the room then and he stiffened, afraid of where this conversation might go. Shouldn’t they have waited until Martin left? They had to know he wouldn’t approve. Martin sat down on the sofa beside him, and John couldn’t help but look nervously between them all. 

“Do you understand why we’re upset?” Basira asked, sounding like a disapproving parent. 

“Um—“ John looked between the three of them yet again, unsure what answer they were looking for, if they could even agree on one. “I suppose I was a bit hasty—“

“Hasty,” Martin exclaimed, throwing his arm in the air. 

“No, you idiot,” Daisy growled. “We’re worried about you.”

“A-about me,” John repeated, as if he couldn’t understand. It didn’t really make sense. “But— but this is my fault, and I can fix it—“

“It’s not a fix,” Basira snapped. “God, I can’t believe I thought you might have come back as some sort of monster.”

“You thought what?” Martin demanded and John winced on Basira’s behalf. 

“I did wake up after not having a heartbeat for six months,” John tried to defend for her. 

“Point is, we’re not interested in that kind of fix,” Daisy said. “Not worth it.”

“How can it not—“ John began. 

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Basira snapped, interrupting him. “When I said it’s my job to protect everyone, that includes you. Don’t you dare try a stunt like that again.”

And then John realized— they didn’t want him dead. As difficult, as terrifying as everything was, as angry as they were, and it was easy to let that drive them to lash out. But however they felt, they wanted him alive, and they wanted him here. The thought made his eyes burn. He’d felt like a failure for so long, barely tolerated, waiting for the other shoe to drop, especially after they found out about the live statements. They should hate him, they should blame him and want him dead. But they didn’t for some unfathomable reason. 

He had to clear his throat a few times before he tried to speak again. He hoped they assumed it was just because of his hoarse voice and not because the idea of someone not loathing him had brought him close to tears. 

“Did you listen to the tape?” John asked eventually. 

“Yeah,” Basira said. “Doesn’t change anything. We need you here, on the same side.”

“O-okay,” was all John could really say. “We have to at least consider it, though, right?”

“No!” all three of them shouted at him and he cringed. 

“We’re not losing anyone else,” Daisy said in that matter-of-fact way of hers and somehow that helped. 

“Why do you have a bunch of Georgie and Martin’s old clothes stashed in your office?” Melanie asked, barging into the room at that moment, holding up a few articles of clothing. 

“Oh, I wondered where that had gone,” Martin said, voice quiet. 

“What were you doing going through my things?” John demanded, snatching them from her. 

“I was looking for a change of clothes for you,” she snapped back. “Just answer the question.”

“Georgie had to lend me some while I was hiding out at her place. I-I didn’t exactly have time to go shopping after.”

“And Martin’s?” Melanie prompted.  

“I-I-I just found it, in document storage. I meant to give it back!”

It was a half-truth, but it didn’t seem like she bought it. He could feel his face burning and he did his best not to catch Martin’s gaze. He didn’t think he’d survive that. 

“Uh huh,” was all Melanie said. “Hurry up and change, I’m picking us up dinner and I don’t want to have to keep smelling blood, it’ll kill my appetite.”

“Oh. Right.” He quickly pulled the jumper on over his head. Then he couldn’t help but turn to Martin, unable to keep the hope from his voice. “A-are you staying? For dinner I mean.”

“Why not? I’m already down here,” Martin said, and it seemed like it took him a great effort to look away from the sight of his jumper on John. He tried not to wonder at what that might mean. 

He still felt guilty. Like he’d manipulated Martin into being here. This wasn’t supposed to be a cry for help. He hadn’t done this for sympathy. He still couldn’t help but enjoy his presence though. 

“We’ll find another way,” Basira said, dropping into a chair across the table from them. Her features softened for the first time since he’d woken up. 

“Good,” Martin said, and he took John’s hand under the table, squeezing gently. 

John still didn’t know what to say. He had felt guilty for so long, for most of his life. He didn’t know how to stop, or if he even could. A part of him wished they would just let him do this for them. But a part of him was so grateful that, whatever they felt for him, they wanted him there and alive. He wasn’t sure he wanted himself alive most days. 

And Martin was beside him now, holding his hand, and that in itself felt like a wonder. He’d missed him so much, and he was finally at his side again. Here, sitting like this, it felt like he had friends again. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with this new knowledge, that he was what was trapping them all there. But he would do whatever he could for these people. And this was a reminder that they would do the same. 

[sewermageboy]

Thinking about the relationship between Joker and Kaidan.

How they've both been there since the beginning, how their first scene is them sitting together in the cockpit of the Normandy, teasing each other. How Joker sticks by Shepard's side the entire time while Kaidan doesn't. How Joker judges Kaidan for not coming to fight the Collectors. How Kaidan blames Joker for causing Shepard's first death. How Joker knows Kaidan is right to blame him. How they're both back on the Normandy in the end, saving the galaxy. How they can both lose the person they love (Shepard and EDI) to save everyone else.

[thesummerstorms]

The other thing that I think I would want in an Annabeth Wayne AU that I don't think I've seen so far is Bruce being absolutely pissed at Athena.

It was bad enough with Talia and Damian, but Athena is a literal god of wisdom who should know better AND he doesn't even have the "culpability" of having slept with her.

She one hundred percent saw Batman, tactician of the Justice League, was drawn in by her aspect of the Goddess of Strategy, and proceeded to create a child without his consent, a daughter who she didn't even raise before the child became a weapon.

And like whatever else, however fucked up Damian was by his own training to become a child-weapon, at least Talia loved Damian.

Whereas Athena loves Annabeth in the way a Goddess loves, not the way a Person loves, and I don't think Bruce, whose entire identity is so fixated on his relationship with his own parents, would recognize that as love at all.

And, like, Talia put Damian through a lot of shit. I think Bruce would be angry there too. But when push came to shove, she at least at some point brought him to Bruce because she thought it was in her son's best interests.

Athena actively lead Annabeth away from Bruce and into the streets at the age of seven, which Bruce would never see as in her best interest, whatever Athena's godly perspective is, however badly he reacted after Jason's death, even though he couldn't see (and dismissed the idea of) the spiders and the monsters. She was seven. In the streets of Gotham.

Athena let Annabeth fight a major role in two wars back to back without being there to train her or protect her or love her or even advise her. Athena advocated for the cold blooded murder of the other children who had actually tried to keep his daughter safe. Athena sent Annabeth against Arachne when Athena's children have universally died on that quest for a thousand years.

Athena let Bruce think he had gotten Annabeth killed because of his own inability to handle his grief. Let him think his daughter was dead or worse for years. Would have let him keep thinking that if the Fates didn't have other plans.

And just, in true fashion for all of my ideas on a PJO x DC crossover, everyone really comes out more traumatized than before. This includes Bruce.

Because now he wasn't just used unknowingly for a child just once, but twice. And in both cases he's going to have to live forever with the guilt of not having been able to protect his kids from what their other parent wanted to make of them

(On top of all the ways he has directly failed them and made any complexes worse, of course )

[bikananjarrus]

if yord had lived he'd be leading the hunt for qimir and osha and we would've gotten the most delicious tension between him and qimir. qimir would start out frustrated that yord got away, intent on finishing what he started. and yord, once hunted, now hunter, once an exemplary jedi, and now solely focused on revenge disguised as righteous justice (which it is also a bit of that). and qimir starts to enjoy the game, the chase. and in this timeline, sol still dies, osha still goes with qimir, but yord was unconscious, recovering in a bacta tank, so all he knows when he wakes up is that qimir is out there and took osha, his friend, away. so then you also have the tension of that confrontation, the realization that osha has willingly turned, and that maybe yord can't blame her for that, because what has he been doing these past many months, years, maybe, but give in to the selfish desire to finish what he started too?

[this-acuteneurosis]

In the Silence

Leia and Anakin have finally made it off Geonosis. Neither one of them is entirely sure it's worth it.

[shadyvoidhologram]

I was laying in bed overthinking, as you do, and started to go on a depressive doom spiral. And then, to distract myself I started thinking about the things I like.

[Spoilers and some gross details incoming, you know what Mouthwashing is about]

So, eventually I started thinking about Curly being in a similar headspace as I was, laying down, incapable of doing anything, constantly in pain and hearing time and time again how quickly things are going to shit and that it's all your fault.

Him replaying his mistakes over and over on his head, imagining the many ways things could've gone a different way if only he had done something instead of ignoring the issues to "keep the peace".

Remembering every interaction that led to the accident, Anya's confession, his friends poorly disguised resentment, him ignoring and filtering details of his crew's mental state, her taking the gun, the notice, Jimmy.

Him being a coward and disguising his hate of confrontation with the guise of being a good friend.

And then comming back to reality, to is burning flesh. To the blood, shit and bile staining the bandages, robe and bed, to watching and hearing his friends suffer and die, unable to do anything.

When the kid dies, in the midst of all the emotional chaos, he feels some sick sense of relief knowing that probably Swansea will deal with both of them quickly and it'll be over at last.

Then Jimmy finds the gun.

And he can't help but laugh. He remembers the conversation they had and he cackles bitterly because not even in death can her wishes be respected. She trusted him and he failed her even after she was gone.

Soon enough it's just the two of them left.

Through muffled ears he hears Jimmy rambling, talking to himself, asking questions and answering right after, he sees him moving the bodies around. When Jimmy carries him from the infirmary to the common room table he's still as stone, not a sound leaves his mouth, he doesn't look at the bodies thrown on the chairs around the table, he doesn't even breathe.

But all of Jimmy's attention, hatred, idolatry, and envy are on him only. Eyes glossy, cut pieces of a one sided conversation and a tentative smile on his lips when he reaches for the slightly dented knife.

He screams until his lungs close and his throat burns. When he's fed parts of himself he cries and throws up until he is forced to swallow and keep it down.

He's dehidrated, half delirious from the blood loss and emotionally checked out when Jimmy picks him up and tells him they can still fix this, he knows what to do. That he's going home.

Sure, he thinks, he wants to go home.

When he's placed on the cryopod he just stares at Jimmy talk to himself at him some more, about being heroes and everything being all right now. Then he steps out of sight.

It's on the silence after the loud bang when his brain starts working again, he's completely and utterly alone on a crashed ship of a company that's closing it's doors, with a now depleted shipment that wasn't even important enough to guarantee a search party, and no way of fending for himself in the case of 20 years passing and no one coming, even less if the power gave out before that.

As the cryopod finally starts to cool, the few tears he has left fall from his remaining eye.

He hopes he doesn't wake up to see what happens next.

..ok see y'all when I wake up-

[belovedstill]

when the candle goes out (light up your own) (ao3) svsss, yuefang | T | 4.3k, post-canon, hurt & comfort, past qijiu, implied spiritual self-harm, anxiety & depression spiral, before they get together (more on ao3)

After the successful prevention of the realm merge, Yue Qingyuan let Shen Qingqiu go. Too bad his heart didn't catch up. In which, after everything settles into quiet and dark, Yue Qingyuan battles with familiar habits, Sect Leader questions his purpose, Yue Qi fights and mourns the past, and Yue-shixiong finally gets some rest — all in the comfort of Mu Qingfang's presence.

written for @ficwip's all-ships ship week event, for day 1's prompt of "I didn't know where else to go". check the event out and join us in celebrating your ship 🥺

Full fic on ao3 & under the cut

After Shen Qingqiu leaves with Luo Binghe, it’s as if the Mountain’s spirit has left with him. Or so Yue Qingyuan thinks.

It shouldn’t feel that different; it’s been a long time since he actively, repeatedly tried to reconnect with Shen Qingqiu and keep some kind of relationship with him, apologise, try to talk to him. It’s been a long time since his efforts were rebuked time and time again.

A long time since he essentially gave up, darkening Shen Qingqiu’s step less and less often. By the time Shen Qingqiu left the Mountain, it’s been months since Yue Qingyuan visited the bamboo house on his own, with a matter entirely unrelated to peak matters (even if thinly veiled as such). It has been a long time, then, too, since this tense, strange silence has filled his life.

This time, though, Yue Qingyuan swears it's different.

Back then, Shen Qingqiu was still there, on the Mountain, on his Peak, in his house — perhaps not waiting, perhaps not even available, but there, somewhere familiar. A known distance away. If he only wanted to, Yue Qingyuan could go to him and pay a visit, undesired as it was. He’d be met with a cold, stern face in candlelight, a sharp remark, a refusal of entry — and then a door left wide open after a rigid silhouette had disappeared indoors.

He could go there anytime. He wouldn’t, of course. But he could.

Now, though — now the Qing Jing Peak Lord’s dwelling houses nobody, even if it is still full of the lord’s belongings.

Shen Qingqiu has vowed to come back from time to time, to keep up with his duties, to guide his disciples, to keep his peak running — but Yue Qingyuan knows with an alarming clarity that something has changed, irreparably, irrevocably.

Years and years ago, what could very well be several lifetimes, for all it felt like, two slave children vowed to run away someday. They waited for the right time, for the right place, for a safe enough opportunity which never came. They got separated. One ran away. One had to stay back.

One was left behind.

The one who was left behind managed to leave, in the end—just not with Yue Qi, and not from slavery.

With Luo Binghe — a demon lord — and from the chains of the past.

Yue Qingyuan has been a noose around his neck which tightens with each hopeful glance and each hopeful word.

…This way, at least, Shen Qingqiu is truly free, isn't he?

Some of these evenings, he ends up on Qing Jing, wandering mindlessly up the stone path leading to the peak lord’s residence. The late autumn air is crisp in his nostrils. Were he not a cultivator, it would surely hurt.

Evenings are cold and dark, with only the moon illuminating the way, and that’s only when the nights are cloudless. Somehow, whenever Yue Qingyuan visits the peak, now or in the past, the moon is always clouded over, rendering any light gone.

In the past, it didn’t pose much of an issue — he could always find his way to the lone bamboo house. Shen Qingqiu kept a candle burning in a lantern set in his window, conveniently facing Qiong Ding.

Yue Qingyuan makes his way up the stone path in total darkness now and trips over a lone stone in his way.

“Who’s there?”

The peak’s lord might be gone, but his disciples remain.

Left behind, Yue Qingyuan’s brain whispers, even though he knows it’s not the case.

“Stand down and do not fret, disciple Ming Fan,” he says in a tone much calmer than his heart. He hasn’t tripped since his own disciplehood.

Ming Fan recognises him in an instant. “Zhangmen-shibo!!” Robes rustle. He must be bowing. “Can this Ming Fan help in any way? What reason has Zhangmen-shibo to visit the peak?”

He doesn’t know himself. He doesn’t even remember leaving his own dwelling.

“No need for concern,” he answers instead. “This evening was simply… A good time for a stroll. No official matter. Disciple Ming Fan may rest and return to his duties.”

The boy used to be ignorant. Now, even in the darkness, Yue Qingyuan feels his inquisitive gaze. He knows his respects, however, and soon Ming Fan bows again and takes his leave.

He stops after a couple of steps and turns his way again.

“Zhangmen-shibo surely knows this,” he says in a hesitant tone, “but Shizun is not currently on the mountain… He’s—”

“I know.”

Ming Fan shuts his mouth. His clothes rustle in a bow again and he leaves without another word.

Yue Qingyuan feels for the rock with his foot and pushes it away. His next steps are more careful.

The candle lantern is gone from the window, even unlit, cold and flameless.

When did it disappear? When was it hidden away, the light leading his way stolen, taken away, kept from him?

When has Shen Qingqiu given up on him for the final, permanent time?

The lantern was there when the Qing generation ascended. It was there when Shen Qingqiu suffered his first qi deviation as a peak lord. It was there when he took Luo Binghe in as a disciple, when Yue Qingyuan first found out about the boy’s punishments, and whenever he came over for visits under the guise of sect-related matters.

It was there the morning he sat at Shen Qingqiu’s bedside, waiting for him to rouse from his fever, only for the man to wake up different.

He doesn’t remember seeing it during any of the other peak lords’ attempts at testing Shen Qingqiu for possession. He distinctly recalls seeing it gone after the Qiong Ding demon invasion, when he waited at Shen Qingqiu’s bedside — again — after returning to the sect to find him struck with poison and thinking him at death’s door.

His eyes didn’t focus on many things that day. He brushed the lack of the lantern in the window simply as it being daytime.

…has he seen it since?

He doesn’t remember. It’s not like he visited that often. Shen Qingqiu has since seemed to have lost his sharpness; for some reason, it brought him no relief.

The bamboo house is dark, cold, and empty. Yue Qingyuan’s heart clenches in sympathy.

With no light to follow, he turns back and leaves.

Sometimes he wonders what the point of it all is.

The world. The sect. Cultivation. Him.

What is the point of Yue Qingyuan? In the past, he had a clear answer. In the past, the point of Yue Qingyuan was to protect, to keep safe. Even if it meant he had to withdraw into the background, the point of him was to make sure others could live as peacefully as possible.

That was his Shizun’s — the past Sect Leader’s — reasoning for choosing him as the next in line, at least.

He had magnificent spiritual aptitude, they said, and he was capable of leading and protecting those in his care.

He remembers feeling as if he were observing himself hearing those words, standing just to the side, disconnected.

Impostor, his own voice whispered in his mind, at himself. You’ve fooled them all. Who are they speaking about? You couldn’t protect the one person that really mattered; how could you protect the whole sect?

He remembers watching himself open his mouth, face blank and eyes unseeing, and saying — and saying…

“Shizun… This one is not worthy…”

“Humble, too,” the Sect Leader remarked, all the while shooting him a warning look, displeased that he was undermining her decision. “A quality a sect leader should have.”

His face looked green, but none of his seniors seemed to notice.

He doesn’t think anybody has noticed, ever.

He sits on his own bed, one hand on the sheath of his sword and the other on the hilt.

If a demon has made Shen Qingqiu feel safer, more secure than Yue Qingyuan… If getting away from him was what finally brought him freedom…

…maybe he should relinquish the sect, too.

The candlelight is gone. Yue Qi draws the sword.

Life energy drains.

He sits like this with eyes closed.

One minute passes. Two.

Five.

Ten.

He feels — lighter, with each second that passes.

Relief.

This way, everything will finally be right in the world again.

Coward, hisses a sharp voice in his head, his memory, his soul, so loud and clear, it knocks all sense back into him.

He wakes up from the trance with a violent gasp and slams the sword back into the sheath.

Xiao Jiu is right, as always. Qi-ge’s a foolish coward; he will listen to him instead.

A Sect Leader who is ready to throw away his life surely doesn’t deserve to keep the title.

He should keep his life as punishment.

Qian Cao is believed to be quite similar to Qing Jing — just as peaceful, just as quiet — but it feels different. Despite the late hour, or maybe exactly because of it, each path is well-lit by glowing plants growing on either side. Even in his weakened state, Yue Qingyuan has no chance to trip. The paths are even and void of any stubborn rocks and pebbles, too.

Mu Qingfang’s healer quarters are still glowing with warm light despite the halls currently housing no patients. It makes sense for the beds to be empty; after all, the only people who were hurt in any way in the past events are not around, or have been healed already — or are standing at the very steps.

It takes him several moments to make himself knock on the healer’s door, and in the end he doesn't even manage to do that before Mu Qingfang opens the door himself. Clearly, Yue Qingyuan isn’t somebody he’s expected to see.

“Zhangmen-shixiong,” he greets in surprise. His eyes quickly turn assessing. “Is everything alright?”

Yue Qingyuan smiles on instinct, and just as habitually opens his mouth to reassure—

Coward.

“No,” he says instead. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Mu Qingfang blinks. Yue Qingyuan swallows, surprised just as much, if not more.

Then, the healer steps back. “Allow this shidi to try to help.”

He walks in.

Mu Qingfang does not look happy after checking his spiritual veins.

“Zhangmen-shixiong should be more careful with his health,” he chides. “He knows his circumstances are fragile. How will he ascend to godhood along with his sect siblings if he has no life force left when the time comes?”

Ah. Ascension. He’s forgotten about it.

In some ways, having Xuan Su consume his life force truly is a blessing. It could keep him in the mortal realm where he belongs.

At least then Shen Qingqiu will truly be rid of him.

…Will he even choose to ascend, without Luo Binghe? Perhaps the demon will break another taboo and follow right after?

“Zhangmen-shixiong? You’re shaking.”

He hasn’t even noticed.

“Yue Qingyuan,” he whispers. “Yue Qi.”

Mu Qingfang frowns. “What—”

“No titles. Please.”

The pause that follows is so long, he believes Mu Qingfang won’t abide by his request. But then—

“Yue Qi,” the healer says, softly and with such sympathy that it reaches deep, deep inside of him and squeezes.

Mu Qingfang is the closest thing he has to a haven. Even if he doesn’t know exactly what his past consists of, or where he came from, or what exactly his motivations were when he entered the sect — it all concerned Shen Jiu, and Shen Jiu was deeply, deeply ashamed of his past. Protecting his pride was worth never being truly known — he knows more than anybody else still on the mountain.

“Yue Qi.”

Ah, he’s talking.

“Clear your mind.”

“I can’t.”

“Your qi is getting disturbed. Clear your mind.”

“He left.”

“Shen-shixiong will come back, safe and sound. He said so himself,” Mu Qingfang says without any doubt. He presses his fingers to Yue Qingyuan’s wrist and starts a qi transfer. “Clear your mind.”

The qi feels cool and calming. Familiar. His own spiritual veins accept it immediately.

Mu Qingfang’s eyes bore into him with curiosity, calculation, which eventually settles on understanding. Yue Qingyuan can’t bear to see the emotion that’s born out of it.

“Shen-shixiong seemed unburdened when he left the mountain,” Mu Qingfang says, as if it’s a throwaway observation, meant to share the same weight as mentioning the weather.

It’s meant to soothe, but to him it has the opposite effect; it claws his chest apart. Yue Qi feels as if he’s all figured out.

“Mm.”

“Yue Qi seems to be convinced that he won’t return.” Why would he? “But hasn’t Shen-shixiong always returned, no matter the circumstances?”

That he has. No matter his age, or the level of displeasure with Yue Qi, or the sorrow the mountain reminded him of, Shen Qingqiu always came back in the past. Maybe because, before, he had no other place to call home.

Now, though, he has left to accompany the demonic emperor, that Luo Binghe, who no doubt has a dwelling of his own. A lord’s palace, most probably.

The candle is not the only thing that’s disappeared without an explanation, he realises with a start. One day, Shen Qingqiu hissed at him to stop haunting his doorstep, to keep the sect matter talks to the peak lord meetings, all the while keeping the teapot warm.

The next, the contempt was nowhere to be found in his face. It was as if the fever burned away any feelings he had towards Yue Qingyuan — towards Yue Qi — and left only a blank slate. Perhaps to anybody else it would have been a relief, but to Yue Qi it was a life sentence. There was no fixing his mistakes any longer; and if his chance was gone, there was no healing, either. An infinite penance.

“Isn’t it all right now?”

Yue Qingyuan looks up blankly. Mu Qingfang’s eyes are focused and gentle.

“Shen-shixiong is happy and others welcome and seek out his company. There are fewer and fewer people able and willing to harm him, and he himself strays from unnecessary violence. Zhangmen-shixiong...” Mu Qingfang lays a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Yue Qi. This one has long suspected that you and Shen-shixiong have a shared past, and with Madam Qiu’s confession and everything that followed, this one has started putting some long-collected pieces together.”

Yue Qingyuan’s breath freezes in his throat.

It's not even about his secret. If anything, as the sect's primary healer, Mu Qingfang had to have been informed of any health related dangers potentially befalling the sect leader. He knows, just like Yue Qi’s own shizun knew, how Yue Qingyuan’s sword hungers and feasts on his own life once out of its sheath.

It's not about the secret. It's not even about Yue Qingyuan's failure.

It's about Shen Jiu—Shen Qingqiu’s past, the past Shen Qingqiu’s always been so ashamed of, the same past Yue Qi has long sworn in his soul to protect.

If Mu Qingfang’s realisation is in any way guided by Yue Qingyuan’s indiscretion…

Cold weight settles in the pit of his stomach. Failure—his life’s constant companion—turns even more bitter.

Isn’t it alright now? Mu Qingfang has asked, and Yue Qingyuan—Yue Qi—knows it should be. Shen Qingqiu’s happiness should make all the difference.

…but with the lack of sharp looks and the pull at his guilt, and the poking at his conscience, nothing feels right anymore. It’s as if he’s a parched man after years wandering the desert, and his only thirst-quenching flask has just run out of liquid poison. Now, Mu-shidi is offering him chilled water, and it will keep him alive, but the drink will forever lack the familiar relief.

No.

Yue Qingyuan mentally slaps his own face for daring to even think of Shen Jiu as poisonous. Yes, he can be sharp-tongued. Yes, he keeps to himself and rejects any form of help, and lashes out at anybody who crosses an invisible boundary. Shen Jiu who, despite his years and life experience, is a child at heart: distrustful, and suspicious, and ready to leave everything and everyone but Qi-ge — and run far away if only it proved more beneficial.

(...is the Shen Qingqiu who left the mountain with Luo Binghe still the same person? His words are softer now and only their meaning feels sharp. He asks for help, sometimes, and doesn't lash out anymore.)

(He still ran away.)

(Without Qi-ge.)

(More beneficial this way.)

In the moment of silence that follows, with Yue Qingyuan’s eyes dim and Mu Qingfang’s speculating, something shifts. Mu Qingfang briefly tightens his hand on his shoulder, then strokes it soothingly.

“Yue Qi must have gone through a lot in his life,” he says in a gentle tone, more a friend than a healer now. He pulls his hand away and sits right next to him on the patient’s bed. Yue Qingyuan follows his movements half-heartedly in the peripherals of his vision.

Mu Qingfang puts a comforting hand over his wrist and sends forward a soothing stream of qi — not examining, not healing — just comforting. A connection.

“It’s only natural that he’s afraid to let go of what he knows.”

Part of him wants to bristle at being laid so bare. He can’t be afraid. He shouldn’t be afraid. He can’t afford to be afraid.

Beneath Mu Qingfang’s familiar touch, though, maybe it’s not — maybe it’s not so shameful to admit that — that sometimes, when he’s alone after another nightmare of charred remains of the sect, the bodies of his martial brothers and sisters and their disciples, youths never even blossomed, piled on top of one another among the ruins of ash-laden mountain peaks, spiritual caves long depleted and destroyed, the rainbow bridge shattered to pieces — that he’s afraid, so afraid that he’ll fail, that’s it’s just a matter of time…

Life moves in cycles, and the cycle of Yue Qingyuan’s is a constant of failures and too lates and almosts and not enoughs.

“However, what Yue Qi knows is not all that there is.”

Not all…?

His blank look must tell Mu Qingfang everything he needs to know: he smiles and curls his fingers around Yue Qingyuan’s wrist, a stable presence. The qi he sends forward feels warmer.

“Yue Qi’s past was full of difficulties. To aid him through them, to protect him from them, his mind developed… shields.” Mu Qingfang tilts his head in consideration. “Many of them. Shields are perfectly reasonable to carry when there’s danger around. Holding one in battle is exactly what one should do.”

Yue Qingyuan’s heart aches at the onslaught of past memories: small phantom nails digging into the skin of his arm, desperate promises urged and given freely, eyes full of terror and blood and fiery smoke, and cold winter-morning-like clarity… The need to protect, to rescue, to keep safe. If he fails—if it’s gone—what purpose does he have?

Mu Qingfang’s voice drifts around him like a fog, wraps him in a cocoon of cover nearly tangible on all his senses. He continues, as if there was never any break (Was there? How long has he been here?):

“What if the battle is long over?” The words, combined with the stream of qi receding, shatter something deep within Yue Qingyuan. He startles and clutches to Mu Qingfang’s hand with his free one, keeping it in place before it can move away.

Begging again, does he ever do anything but beg?

Mu Qingfang covers that hand of his with his own. Comforting. Grounding. Not leaving. “Does carrying the many shields offer protection or does it hinder one’s every move?”

When Yue Qingyuan turns his head, Mu Qingfang is already looking at him with a warmth both alien and familiar at the same time.

“Yue Qi,” he says, so gently Yue Qingyuan’s soul aches. “The battle is over. You have survived. Put down your shields.”

He would. He really would, if it were that easy.

“I told him,” Yue Qingyuan whispers instead. And, shockingly, Mu Qingfang doesn’t look reproachful, but—proud? Glad? Encouraging? Why? “I told him everything.”

“Mm?”

There’s a moment of surprise. He’s frozen in his seat, overwhelmed, his tongue heavy with all the words flooding his mouth all at once now that there’s somebody willing to listen.

Mu Qingfang seems to understand. He takes the lead and asks, “How did he react?”

“He listened. To everything. Didn’t want to talk. Cut ties to our past.”

“What did you want him to say?”

What did you expect him to do, after everything you’ve done? Yue Qingyuan hears in that question, and has to chase the thought away. That’s not what Mu Qingfang’s asking.

What did he want Shen Qingqiu to say back then?

He wanted him to know that he’d never forgotten about him. That Qi-ge had always been searching for a way back. That Qi-ge had failed to listen to him even after they’d parted, and recklessly rushed into cultivating as fast as possible. That he’d suffered a set-back and had been imprisoned against his will, with nobody listening to his cries and reasonings and pleas.

That he’d gone back for him, but all he’d found was rubble.

That he was sorry.

And he wanted—he wanted Shen Qingqiu, knowing all of this, to look at him again, really look at him, and cling tight to his arm, and shake him, and say, Stuipid Qi-ge! How many times do I have to tell you not to be reckless? Look what you’ve done, look where it all got us!

And he wanted him to say, I’ll just have to stay here and keep an eye on you so you don’t do it again.

And the words, no matter how harsh and sharp, would mean—

“‘You’re forgiven.’”

All of him shakes under the thundering typhoon of shame crashing within him—his body, his thoughts, his voice, his vision, all swimming—and sinking—and caving in—

“Yue Qi,” Mu Qingfang says softly, yet somehow his voice rings loud and clear over the chaos in Yue Qingyuan’s mind. “You’re forgiven.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not that simple.”

It shouldn’t be.

The comforting qi is back.

“It is that simple. You’re forgiven.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“Then tell me.”

“...I can’t.”

“That’s okay. You’re forgiven.”

“Why?” he asks, finally.

Mu Qingfang’s hands tighten on his in a reassuring hold. “Because you’ve long since repented, no matter what you’ve done, and there’s no more repenting for you to do.”

“Then why—” he chokes on the words, like they’re trying to suffocate him not to let them out. He shuts his eyes and forces them out anyway. “Why—does it—feel like—it’s not—enough—?”

“Perhaps it’s not Shen Qingqiu whose forgiveness you need.”

Not Shen Qingqiu’s—?

“Yue Qi,” Mu Qingfang says, then repeats his old name again and again until Yue Qingyuan opens his eyes and looks at him. “Put down that load. It’s time for you to forgive yourself.”

Himself…?

It’s such an absurd idea—that he could ever dare to allow himself to simply let go, with no consequences—that something in his mind is knocked into place, and the overwhelming fog disperses, and his vision clears. He stares at Mu Qingfang in utter confusion, eyes clear and his qi stabilising.

Shen Jiu will never forgive me, he thinks for the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time, but this time—this time it tastes different. This time, it’s a realisation with no hope woven between the words, teasing at the possibility and stringing him along. This time, it feels final.

The candle has burnt out. The lantern has been hidden. No one's lighting it again.

The battle is over.

The survivors have moved on.

There is no closure. Without the other half of his past, there really is nothing he can do—nothing that would ever be enough—to right this wrong.

It will all remain with him.

It should be destroying him. It should be crushing his mind into a pulp and breaking his soul into countless shards for him to step on for eternity.

What he feels instead is relief; empty, lonely, peaceful.

When he speaks next, his voice no longer trembles.

“I don’t think I deserve to.”

It sounds right, like a fact he’s always hoped to disprove, but now that he’s found solid proof, he can only accept it and move on.

Mu Qingfang watches him with all the care a healer—a sect sibling, a friend, a confidant—could possess.

“Yue Qi.”

He smiles, and it’s as sad as it’s relieved. “Yue Qingyuan.”

“Yue Qingyuan,” Mu-shidi echoes, and squeezes his hands again before moving his touch up his arms. “You deserve forgiveness.”

He waits for the familiar turmoil to come back, to rage against the mere notion, to slam within his ribcage with all the pained conviction.

It never comes. The strange peace remains.

“If Mu-shidi says so.”

It’s not meant to sound dismissive, and Mu Qingfang seems to sense it, because he steels his face into pure certainty and nods, confidence and dedication brimming in his eyes.

“I know so,” he says. His hands feel secure where they hold his arms.

Only when his eyelids grow heavy does Yue Qingyuan realise these very hands have supported his weight all the while.

“I’m very tired,” he admits through the sudden weakness taking over his limbs. As if together with the heaviness and chaos and the load he’s carried within, for two lifetimes, his soul has decided to leave, too.

Weightless.

He tightens his fingers on Mu Qingfang’s robes not to fly away, nor sink underground.

Mu Qingfang firms up his grip in response. “I know. I’ll help,” he assures. “Lean on me, Yue-shixiong. Rest.”

He goes willingly—lets go of any remaining control and sinks where Mu Qingfang’s hands guide him.

Mu-shidi smells like healing.

“I’ll be here,” Mu Qingfang whispers near his ear.

The flame dancing within the candle lantern in the room dims down to a comfortable shade.

The pressure on his head releases with the removal of his hair guan.

Gentle, secure arms hold him close.

Yue Qingyuan closes his eyes, all shields down, and rests.

[starlight-storytime]

ok so blame it on the dead guy has to be the danny phantom or dc wip right

surprisingly not! "Alright, blame it on the dead guy" is actually my unsub!Spencer Reid fic bc it is CRIMINAL how few plot-driven fics with serial killer Spence assigned his own case are out there

like?? he has SO much potential but I've never come across an Unsub Reid fic that interested me so I decided to write one myself 🥸 1k snippet under the cut!

Spencer volunteered to go first, shifty and nervous. “We—ah, well, we might as well get this out of the way.”

They didn't think to take her out of the viewing room—or, still trusted her enough not to—because they let Elle stay in the corner to watch that stupid, sweet boy get through an interrogation with Hotch. The reality, the potential, hadn't really set in. The team were still scoffing and disbelieving about the mere idea that Elle was a suspect, let alone actually considering she could have killed someone and should be kept aside in a waiting room.

She didn't know whether their trust was heartwarming, or if it hurt to know she was betraying it. That she was making Spencer betray it.

“Where were you last night?” Hotch asked bluntly, diving right to the thick of it.

“890 Glendale Avenue, Queen’s Motel, room 128.” Spencer answered immediately, staring at his shirt cuff as he picked at it.

“A motel?" Hotch raised a brow. "Why weren't you at home?”

“I was, um, visiting Elle. Like I said, this case got us both really heated, and I thought as—as her friend, I should comfort her, y'know?” Spencer looked up as if asking for Hotch's approval, before realizing where he was, and looking back down at his hands awkwardly.

“How long were you at the motel?”

“From 7:23pm to 6:51am.”

“All night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what room was Elle staying in?”

“128.”

“So then—wait.” Hotch visibly double taked. “What room did you stay in?”

“128. Sir.”

Spencer was turning a shade of delicate rose, those honey amber doe eyes burning a hole into the ground as he very determinedly stared down at the table, lips slightly twisted.

“How many beds were in the—”

“We slept together!” Spencer burst out, hands over his face as if he couldn't bare to be seen and his ears a burning flame. “They only have queens at Queen’s Motel, which is why they're mostly popular for discreet hookups, affairs, and young couples for privacy. There's no cameras on premise for that exact reason but I can guarantee that we were preoccupied for the entire night and didn't have time to go kill anyone.”

Spencer looked up at his boss beseechingly, and his every move screamed earnest innocence. Hotch was briefly stunned silent by the outburst.

The viewing room, on the other hand, is hooting and hollering, gasping and grinning and exchanging promises to pay back bets they had apparently made.

"That's why he's so nervous, that sly dog!” Morgan crowed.

Elle stared at the picture of embarrassed, inexperienced young coworker spilling about an unlikely office romance in front of her, and now understood exactly why Spencer had said what he did on the car ride over

“I have a tattoo of four dice on my left hip, in the order 1, 3, 1, 2. I got it for twenty bucks at a Halloween flash sale in Vegas, when I was 16.”

Elle was so overwhelmed by everything going on after hiding a body and disposing of evidence, she can barely process the spontaneous fun fact Spencer shared.

“Is that your worst secret or something? Trying to make it even now that you— have mine?” Elle weakly joked. It seemed so Spencer that the worst thing he ever did was get an underage tattoo.

Spencer glanced at her briefly before turning back to the dark road he was speeding down, headlights off. “Just remember it. It's on my left hip, an inch above the bone.”

The entire viewing room was staring at Elle now, any ideas of her involvement with the murder last night swept out the door. She can only confidently manage a secretive tilt of her head before she's looking away, towards the sight of her best friend saving her from a charge of second degree murder.

“You and Elle…slept in the same bed the entire night, then?” Spencer nodded behind his hands. “Alright. Sure. She never got up to use the bathroom, get a drink, anything like that?” Hotch's attempts to keep up professionalism were crumbling, with Spencer looking exactly like an embarrassed teen who desperately didn't want to talk about girls with his father.

“We were occupied until roughly 11pm, and slept in the same bed the entire night. We never left the room, she never left my line of sight, please just hurry this up.” Spencer says directly into his hands, not even pretending to not be hiding from eye contact anymore.

Hotch grimaced, as much as the man ever showed weakness. “You say she never left your line of sight, rather than she never left the bed.”

“The only time we got out of bed was to take a shower and replace the sheets, but those all came in the suite. We did them all together, barely an arms length away from when I entered the hotel room to when I got into this interrogation room. We fell asleep cuddling and woke up the same way. I'm a light enough sleeper that she couldn't have moved me without drugging me, and I didn't take anything unsealed last night. ” Spencer peeked out from between his fingers, and the skin that can be seen is an impressively tomato red. “Please, Hotch.”

Hotch sighed, kneading his brow for a long moment before picking his papers up and motioning for Spencer to leave. The boy practically sprints, going straight out the door and into the viewing room with such an apologetic face Elle can almost believe they did have this night he implied, rather than the one that really happened.

"I'm really, really sorry about having to talk about this with the whole team, Elle." Spencer apologized, even as Morgan was shaking his shoulders like the kid had scored the winning play of the season.

He didn't even lie when he said we spent the whole night together, an arms length away. Elle realized incredulously, filled with exhilarated relief at the fact that they were actually going to get a way with it. We did sleep in that queen bed together, even if nothing happened.

Hotch put his head in reluctantly. "This will be brief, but for the sake of protocol..."

Elle put on her best swagger and a smile for Hotch. "Of course, boss." She blew a kiss behind her on a whim, and the team burst into another round of whispers and gossip as the door shut.

Elle reclined in the metal chair, half nervous and half amused. The look in Hotch’s eyes is so tired dad that she can fool herself into thinking this is a meet-the-parents scenario.

“Did you know he has a tattoo?" Elle said idly, picking at her cuticle. "On his hip, the left one. You'll never guess the story behind it.”

The tired look he gave her aged him ten years, and Elle laughs so hard she almost cries.

She dramatically goes over the tattoo story she heard in the car, and then proceeds to make up one of the best nights of her life, using unnecessarily raunchy detail until it's all too much. Too much in general outside of an erotic romance novel, but way too much for her boss to hear about from a coworker he has to look in the eyes. (And, the boy she can tell he's starting to consider like a son.)

Elle doesn't get arrested for murder that day. The least she can do is cover for Spencer now, when he's being blamed for a string of murders he didn't even do.

[kozzax]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Homestuck Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Terezi Pyrope & Wayward Vagabond Characters: Wayward Vagabond, Terezi Pyrope Additional Tags: Mentioned Wayward Vagabond/Aimless Renegade, Mentioned Wayward Vagabond/Peregrine Mendicant, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Can Town (Homestuck), Wayward Vagabond Has PTSD, Grief/Mourning, to some degree. they're learning to grow past it Series: Part 3 of Meteor Moments Summary:

Your name is the WISTFUL VENTURER and you have been integrating yourself into the company of the heroes quite well. In the weeks since you asked the hero Kanaya to fix your Rag of Souls, you have been able to relax into your work on the meteor. It is comforting, to take emptied cans and other discarded materials and create a new world out of them. The heroes seem to agree, as several of them have spent a fair amount of time working on Can Town alongside you.

For today, you work alone. Though, given the area you are working on, maybe that is not a bad thing. As you step back to see it from a distance, you can’t help but notice that the courthouse is made up of primarily golden-yellow cans.

The heroes would not understand the significance of this, you do not think. Would not understand why these three buildings are so central to the town you are developing. You do not think they would insist on changing the layout, as they have thus far been very respectful of Can Town as your project, but they would not understand the details of it all.

---

Or, in which the Wistful Venturer and the hero Terezi have a conversation about Can Town's justice system.

Title from 'Theseus' by The Oh Hellos

[justatiredghost]

Blame and Guilt ch1 ao3

What if Jonathan Sims found out the assistants were bound to him, not the Eye, and that his death would release them? What if he tried to act on it, forcing everyone to confront the line between human and monster, and what their freedom is really worth to them?

Set in s4

(thank you so much to @princessraptor for helping me with this fic and giving me ideas, I really appreciate it and I hope you enjoy the outcome!)

-

(tw for self harm and attempted suicide)

This was it. Jonathan Sims had found absolute proof that this all really was his fault. He’d blamed himself, sure, but he never could have guessed just how true that was, how deep all of this really went. 

That knowledge sat heavy in John’s chest as he stared down at the tape recorder, and the guilt ached like his chest might break open. Every horrible thing that had happened to all of them might as well have been his doing. He might as well have been the one that trapped them all here, forcing them to go through so many horrors with no escape. He killed Sasha. He killed Tim. 

He’d found the tape in another hidden compartment in his office. He was pretty sure Gertrude had done something, to hide this from more than just the Eye. Maybe even the Web. He wasn’t meant to hear this, he knew with how hard it had been to even hit play. If only he’d heard it so much earlier, before it was too late. 

They were all bound to the Archives, through the Archivist. He existed as the teather that trapped them all here, preventing them from leaving as the Eye slowly fed off them. They lacked that direct connection to the Eye, which meant the solution here was incredibly simple. If he was removed from the picture, it would no longer be able to reach them. They would be free. 

He just needed to die. 

If he died, they would all be released. Martin, Melanie, Basira, Daisy; they would finally be free from this nightmare. They wouldn’t be trapped in this misery, constantly in danger, with nightmares seeking their death. They wouldn’t be targets anymore. They would be safe and out of harm's way. 

It was a good thing Martin had turned him down like he had. He still felt a wash of shame at the memory, that he’d tried to ask Martin to gouge out his eyes and run away with him. Of course he’d turned him down. Of course he wouldn’t want that. There was no way being with John could be worth that risk. But it wasn’t necessary now anyway. 

No one else needed to get hurt. And all it would cost was his own life. He wasn’t really human anymore, not since the coma. It would just be one less monster in the world, and that had to be a good thing. It was practically no price at all for their lives and their freedom. He shouldn’t have come back, he should have stayed dead, and they all knew it. This was just— correcting a mistake. 

And yet, selfish bastard that he was, he still didn’t want to die. He had hurt all of them so much, destroyed their lives, but he still hesitated because he just didn’t want to die. That self loathing sat heavy in his gut, weighing him down, crushing him. All he had to do was die, but he was still too much of a coward. 

He realized he’d started crying at some point and he scrubbed viciously at his face, frustrated with himself. He didn’t have a right to feel sorry for himself after everything he’d done. He put his head in his hands, but as he leaned over his desk, he spotted a second tape recorder that he hadn’t put there. It was recording. He snatched it up and hurled it across the room. 

Time was running out, especially if whoever was listening through the tapes had heard all that. Besides, Martin was being drawn further and further into the Lonely, and he needed him to be okay. He didn’t want to mess up Martin’s plans, but maybe it would be easier for him to escape once he was done if the Eye didn’t have a stranglehold on him any longer. John would do anything if it might give him some edge, some way out of the danger he was in. 

He was breathing heavily now, trying to swallow down the terror. He had to do this. Maybe— maybe he could start with blinding himself. Maybe he could do that first, see if everyone could quit after that. And if not, he could always kill himself after. Assuming gouging out his own eyes didn’t kill him outright, of course. What was a creature of the Eye without eyes? 

It was an easy solution. An easy choice to make. He even still had the knife he’d used to try to cut off his finger. Although, that had been a fairly pointless endeavor. Every time he’d cut the finger off, it had simply re-absorbed the blood and fused back together. Maybe he wouldn’t even be able to blind himself. He could find Jerod Hopworth again, but he doubted he’d be interested in letting him walk away a second time. He’d been lucky enough for the first, and he did not want to imagine what he might do with his body. 

He took several steadying breaths. No, if he was going to try this, he had to do it now, before he lost his nerve, before Elias and the Eye could interfere. He could feel his heart thundering in his chest, the fear and uncertainty drowned out by the horrible guilt and his need to atone, to save these people he cared so much about. He’d done nothing but fail them, but he couldn’t fail them now.

He brought the knife up and stared down at the tip of the blade. He took another steadying breath, trying to figure out how to get the angle right, if he should hold his eyelid out of the way, but then, he supposed that hardly mattered. He took a deep breath and pushed—

And nothing happened. There was no splitting pain, no agony, he simply continued to stare down at the knife tip. He gripped the blade with both hands and tried again, tried to lean forward, but it was like his body wouldn’t let him no matter how hard he strained. 

Shit. It was the Eye, it was fighting against him. It wouldn’t let him gouge out his own eyes. What was he supposed to do? Maybe death really was his only option. Feeling a swell of defiance, he angled the blade down, and plunged it into his chest without a second thought. 

He’d been aiming for his heart, but struck a rib, the vibrations of the impact sending a shock of pain through the nerves. He gasped in pain and doubled over, eyes closed tightly as he tried to recover. It took him a moment, then he managed to change the angle and try again, the blade scraping along bone causing him to cry out, agony lancing through his torso, down his arms, almost making him drop the knife. But then he’d done it, and the blade finally pierced through, past his ribs. 

It was only then that he realized that the angle had been too high, and Knew he’d managed to miss any vital organs. With a distressed whimper, he wrenched the blade free and that white hot pain was just as bad coming out. He sat there gasping as blood soaked through his shirt. His hands were trembling as he set the knife on the table, heedless of the pool of blood he left there.

He leaned forward, resting his head on his desk as he tried to catch his breath, riding out the agony. He needed to get himself together, he needed to try again. He forced himself to straighten, but froze in shock when there wasn’t the pain he’d been expecting. Reaching up, he realized the wound had completely healed already. Shit. 

He supposed he should have expected this. Maybe he couldn’t even be killed by normal means. But then, maybe he could still die from blood loss, even if the Eye made it difficult to hit anything vital. It was worth a try. And if that didn’t work, he’d have to get creative. 

He staggered to his feet and made his way to the break room, leaning heavily against the wall as he went. He was glad no one was likely to be in for some time. He was sure he made for a disturbing sight. Once in the break room, he grabbed every knife he could find. If taking the knife out caused him to heal, he’d just have to leave them in. 

By the end, he had two knives in his chest, and one in his side, but it was still taking too long. He set his left hand out on the counter, palm up, and sliced along his wrist, hoping to hit a vein. He supposed he could have gone for his throat, but he really didn’t want to have to do that. He didn’t want to do anything that might make him relive that night when Daisy had almost killed him. If only Basira hadn’t stopped her. 

He looked around and realized how much blood was on the floor and winced. Maybe he should have thought more about this. Maybe he should have found a bathtub or something. Too late now, though. He was finally starting to feel woozy with the blood loss, but it wasn’t enough. He was desperately wracking his brain for what to try next when the break room door opened and Melanie froze in the doorway, eyes wide. 

“Melanie, good!” John exclaimed. “Quickly, I need your help. Can I borrow your knife?”

“What the fuck?” Melanie said, her voice somewhere between horror and fury. “What the fuck.”

“It’s fine, it’s okay,” John tried to assure her. “I think I know how to set everyone free. I just need—“

“No, nope, I don’t think so, I am not dealing with this,” Melanie said, and she turned and stormed back out. 

John tried to call after her, desperation gripping him suddenly, but she ignored him. Shit. He didn’t think he could do this alone anymore. Maybe Hopworth really had been a better choice. Or any other entity, so many wanted him dead these days. Or maybe he could throw himself off the top of the building? He just wasn’t sure how he’d get there now in the state he was in. 

“Fuck.” He looked up to see Basira in the doorway now, and he thought maybe not all hope was lost. “Thought Melanie was exaggerating.”

“Basira,” John said quickly. “I know how to get everyone free of the Eye, but I need—“

“You need to, what, kill yourself?” Basira demanded, and he couldn’t understand why she looked so disapproving and angry. 

John didn’t answer, he couldn’t think of what to say, what might come close to fixing this. If only he’d been quicker, then it would be over and they’d be free. 

“Are you serious?” Basira demanded.  

“No,” Daisy said as she entered behind her, voice so final that he fell silent out of reflex. She moved forward and grabbed John by his good arm. “Brace.”

That was the only warning he had before Daisy grabbed one of the knives in his chest and pulled. He cried out as his vision dimmed, and he was finally embraced by unconsciousness.

[fandom-hoarder]

"I mean, yeah... you did some messed up things---"

[cw: referenced csa, referenced underage samjohn, set in 14x13: Lebanon]

Sam cuts himself off. Dad had done a lot of fucked up things, not the least of which were many of the ways he'd touched Sam. Or let Sam touch him. It didn't matter that Sam had wanted it.

...but he'd wanted it.

[all-thestories-aretrue]

Please consider: Aviva taking off John's makeup for him.

Alternatively, please consider: Aviva doing John's makeup for him.

[thetimelordbatgirl]

I fucking love how I can do anything my mom asks, but as soon as I say no to one thing, all the shit I've already done disappears because she acts like I'm lazy and don't do anything to help her...all because I said no to one thing.

[feliciadraws]

Thinking about how Waka's trauma must affect his relationship with Mei very often has me like

[colouredbyd]

hey, can i request a poly!marauders fic where remus ends up hurting reader so bad durig a full moon, like lots of angst and obviously u can pick a fit ending. i love ur writing, ur so talented!!

Secrets Have Teeth

poly!marauders x fem!reader

synopsis: A prank gone wrong shatters the quiet trust between four lovers, leaving behind wounds deeper than any scar. In the aftermath, two broken souls face the wreckage with guilt clinging to skin and silence weighing heavier than blame. When forgiveness finally flickers to life, it does not erase the pain but dares to ask if something softer can still survive.

warnings: graphic injury, blood, post-transformation trauma, emotional breakdown, panic attacks, guilt, bathing scenes (non-sexual), intense regret, betrayal, depiction of self-loathing, partial nudity (non-sexual), heavy angst, complex grief, subtle references to recovery and healing. basically The Prank but with some comfort

w/c: 10k

a/n: this was abit challenging to write but i loved the idea <3

masterlist

Secrets are heavy things. They press against the ribs, nestle deep in the cavity of the heart, whispering their weight into your bones. 

You’ve carried theirs for months now, cradled in the hollow of your chest like something fragile, something dangerous. It lingers in the spaces they leave behind, the silence that drips from their mouths when they think you’re not listening. 

It’s the way Remus flinches when you touch his hand sometimes, the way his eyes flicker with something haunted, something raw.

It’s James, all restless energy and tight-lipped smiles, his gaze skittering away from yours at the end of every month like he’s afraid of what you might see there.

It’s Sirius, with mud caked on his boots and leaves tangled in his hair, laughter too bright, edges too sharp.

You know them. You know them like you know the lines of your own palms, the shape of your own breath. You know the way James’s voice softens when he’s apologetic, how Sirius’s grin goes crooked when he’s lying, how Remus’s shoulders tense when he’s afraid.

But this is different. This is not a harmless prank or a secret rendezvous. 

This is something that twists in the pit of your stomach, something that grows between them like tangled roots, thick and unyielding.

You feel it most in the silences. Those quiet moments where the world narrows to the space between heartbeats, and the air feels heavy with something unspoken.

You see it in the way they look at each other sometimes, as if speaking without words, as if deciding what not to say.

You wonder if it’s you. If you are the fracture in their perfect, unspoken language. If you are the secret they cannot share. It claws at you, fangs of insecurity sinking deep. 

Because you see it—the way their eyes meet across rooms, quick glances like unspoken conversations, the way they slip away without a word, leaving you in the warmth of the common room fire, staring into the flames as if they might hold the answers.

You’ve tried to ignore it, tried to be patient, but patience is a fraying thread, and you feel it unraveling more and more each day.

You hate it—the way your mind spirals into questions you don’t want to ask. Are they tired of you? Are you a burden? Something to be set aside while they run off to do God-knows-what in the dead of night?

You imagine them whispering secrets you aren’t privy to, huddled together under the weight of something important, something sacred, and your chest aches with the hollowness of being left behind.

Sirius still kisses you like you are his favorite sin, hands tangled in your hair, mouth all heat and promise. James still pulls you onto his lap with that bright grin of his, fingers tracing circles on your hips as if he’s trying to memorize the feel of you. Remus still holds you like you’re fragile, cradles you against him with a gentleness that feels like both love and apology. 

But it’s not enough to quiet the questions. Not enough to drown out the whisper of doubt that lingers in the back of your mind.

You start to second-guess everything. The way Sirius’s gaze sometimes flickers away when you ask him where he’s been. The way James laughs off your questions with a joke or a grin, always deflecting, always distracting. The way Remus looks at you with eyes full of ghosts, haunted and hollow, like he’s holding back an ocean of secrets.

It gnaws at you, eats away at your resolve until you can’t tell if you’re being paranoid or perceptive.

Sometimes, you catch them whispering in low voices, huddled together in the corners of the library or just outside the common room door.

They fall silent the moment you approach, smiles too bright, voices too loud, shifting to jokes and easy laughter as if nothing at all is wrong.

But you see it—the way Sirius’s hand will linger on Remus’s shoulder, the way James’s fingers brush against Sirius’s arm, a silent promise, a wordless reassurance.

You feel like you’re chasing shadows, hands grasping for something that slips through your fingers every time you get close. You want to ask them. You want to demand answers, to force them to share whatever it is they’re keeping from you. 

But you don’t. Because some part of you is afraid of the answer, afraid of what it might mean if you tear down the walls they’ve built and find yourself standing alone on the other side.

So you wait. You wait and you watch, heart heavy with the weight of secrets that are not yours to keep, wondering if there will come a day when they finally decide to let you in—or if the door will remain locked, the key hidden away in whispered conversations and midnight disappearances.

Because secrets are heavy things. And you are tired of carrying theirs.

The day unfurls like fraying ribbon, slipping through your fingers faster than you can hold on. There’s a heaviness to it, a weight pressing against your shoulders as you move through the halls, weaving between groups of students who laugh too loud and talk too fast.

Marlene walks beside you, her voice a gentle hum, but the words blur together, softened by the roar of your thoughts.

You think of them—of Sirius’s sharp grin and James’s steady hands, of Remus’s soft-spoken words and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles. You think of the way they’ve always been yours, and you theirs, a tangled mess of limbs and laughter and quiet whispers beneath the covers. You think of the way it feels like coming home, like belonging.

But lately, there’s been something else.

A flicker of something that passes between them, a look, a whisper, moments that pull tight like thread, snapping back before you can catch hold of it.

It’s the late-night disappearances, the hushed conversations that end the moment you step into the room. It’s the way Sirius’s eyes dart away from yours sometimes, how James’s smile falters, how Remus’s hands shake when he thinks you aren’t looking.

You try to brush it off, try to bury it beneath logic and trust and the weight of their love. But it festers in the quiet moments, slipping in through the cracks when you’re alone, curling around your thoughts and whispering things you don’t want to hear. It’s loneliness, sharp and unyielding, and it grips tight, leaving bruises where you can’t see them.

Marlene’s hand finds your arm, squeezing gently. “You alright?” she asks, voice softening at the edges.

You blink, dragging yourself back to the present, to the corridor stretching out before you and the sunlight slanting through the windows. “Yeah,” you lie, the word sticking to your tongue like tar. “Just tired.”

She hums, unconvinced, but doesn’t push. You’re grateful for it. The silence stretches out between you, comfortable and warm, and you let it hold you for a moment, let it cradle you in something soft and unspoken.

But the weight is still there, pressing at the back of your mind, a whisper of something fragile and breaking.

By the time you reach the dormitory, the ache has settled low in your bones, a steady thrum that makes you want to curl into yourself and hide from the world.

Marlene offers you a soft smile and a quick hug before she disappears down the hall, and you watch her go, feeling the space she leaves behind like a phantom limb.

You push open the door, and the warmth of the room spills out to greet you, soft and familiar. The fire crackles low in the hearth, and the soft murmur of conversation drifts through the air. For a moment, you just stand there, watching them.

Sirius is sprawled across the couch, his head in James’s lap, eyes half-lidded as James’s fingers card gently through his hair.

There’s something unguarded in the way he leans into the touch, the tension bleeding out of his frame with each gentle stroke.

James is murmuring something soft, too low for you to hear, and his other hand is resting on Sirius’s shoulder, grounding him.

Remus is curled up in the armchair, a book spread open across his lap, fingers idly tapping against the spine in rhythm with whatever thought is playing behind his eyes.

He looks peaceful, brow unfurrowed, mouth softened at the edges. It’s a rare thing—to see him unburdened, unbothered—and you don’t want to break it.

You linger in the doorway, watching them, and for a moment, it’s enough just to exist there, on the edge of something beautiful.

But then Sirius glances up, his gaze catching on yours, and his eyes brighten.

“There she is,” he drawls, a lazy smile stretching across his lips, though you can see the way his hand trembles where it rests against James’s knee. “Wondered when you’d come back to us.”

You force a smile, stepping into the room, the wooden door groaning behind you. The space is warm with the soft glow of lamplight, and you take in the tangle of limbs, the way Sirius leans so comfortably against James, the way Remus’s long fingers are still pressed into the spine of his book. It looks like belonging, like home.

And yet, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re standing on the edge of it, fingers curled around the windowsill, peering in.

You clear your throat, and three heads turn towards you, Remus’s eyes softening the instant they land on your face.

He’s the first to rise, marking his page with a quick slip of parchment before crossing the room in a few long strides. His hands are warm when they cup your face, eyes searching yours with a tenderness that nearly unravels you.

“What’s wrong, darling?” he murmurs, his thumb brushing lightly across your cheekbone. His gaze is steady, achingly gentle, and it makes something splinter in your chest.

You lean into his touch, your hands wrapping around his wrists. “Just a bad day,” you whisper, voice catching at the edges. “Wanted to be with you. All of you.”

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—guilt, maybe, or something darker—but it’s gone before you can name it. He nods, presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

“We’re right here, my love,” he says softly. “Always.”

You hear movement behind him, and Sirius appears at his side, James right behind him, both of them looking at you with expressions that tighten the knot in your chest.

“Come here,” Sirius says, and you’re pulled into the warmth of their arms, the scent of cedar and smoke and something distinctly theirs flooding your senses. It’s grounding, familiar.

But beneath it, the ache lingers. 

When Remus pulls away, his hand is gentle at your back. “Come on,” he murmurs, voice soft as spring rain. “Let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

His eyes are warm, and the softness there unravels you completely. You nod, and let him lead you towards the bathroom, his touch a tether in the quiet.

The bathroom is softly lit, shadows dancing along the tiled walls as Remus moves about, turning the tap and letting steam fill the space.

He turns back to you, his hands finding yours, guiding you gently to the edge of the tub. “Let me take care of you,” he whispers, voice like something sacred.

Steam curls at the edges of the mirror, blurring the reflection into softened shapes and tender echoes. The bathroom is awash with warmth, the flicker of candlelight catching on water droplets that gather and run down the tiles like tiny rivers.

The tub is filled nearly to the brim, wisps of lavender and cedar curling through the air, softening the edges of everything sharp and jagged.

You stand there, arms wrapped around yourself as Remus’s hands work at the buttons of your shirt, fingers deft and gentle.

He doesn’t rush, doesn’t fumble, just unfastens each button with practiced ease, his gaze steady and patient.

When the last one comes undone, he slides the fabric from your shoulders, and it pools at your feet in a whisper of cotton.

James is already rolling up his sleeves, his eyes never leaving yours. There’s something unyielding in his gaze, an anchor that keeps you grounded even when the world feels like it’s fraying at the edges.

Sirius is beside him, leaning against the sink with his arms crossed, a grin softening into something tender as he watches you, eyes bright with a fondness that makes your heart twist.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, voice soft but unsteady.

Sirius’s grin widen just a bit, a sliver of moonlight breaking through the clouds.

“Can you blame me?” he drawls, pushing off the counter to step closer. His hands find your shoulders, warm and grounding.

“We’ve got the most beautiful girl in the world standing right here. You expect us not to look?”

Heat flushes your cheeks, and you look down, eyes catching on the curve of your bare feet against the tile.

Remus’s hands come to rest on your shoulders, gentle and grounding. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice soft and achingly tender. “Look at me.”

You do, slowly, and his gaze is steady, unyielding. “You know we love you, right?”

It’s a simple question, one you’ve heard before, one you’ve answered a thousand times.

But tonight, the weight of it settles heavy in your chest, and you swallow hard, your throat bobbing with the effort. “I know,” you whisper, though it wavers at the edges.

Sirius’s fingers brush your cheek, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t think you do,” he says softly, and his voice is raw, stripped down to something real. “Not really.”

There’s a pause, thick and heavy with unspoken things. James steps forward, his hands settling at your waist.

“Whatever that pretty mind of yours is telling you, it isn’t true, darlin', you know that, right?” he whispers, the words slipping through the quiet like a prayer.

His thumb strokes gentle circles into your hip, grounding and real.

You nod, not trusting your voice, and James’s smile softens at the edges. His hands guide you to the edge of the tub, and Remus’s hands are still at your shoulders, steady and sure.

“In you go, darling,” he murmurs, and you let them guide you down into the water, warmth curling around your skin and washing away the chill.

The water laps softly at your shoulders, steam curling around your face. Remus kneels beside the tub, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.

“Lean back,” he says gently, and you do, letting your head rest against the lip of the tub as he scoops water into his hands, drizzling it over your shoulders.

James is at your other side, his hands gentle as he brushes back your hair, fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that makes your breath catch.

Sirius perches on the edge of the tub, one hand resting lightly on your knee beneath the water. His thumb strokes lazy circles there, his grin soft and unguarded.

They work in tandem, hands moving with practiced ease, soft murmurs passing between them as they pour water over your skin, rub gentle circles into your shoulders, your arms.

It’s reverent, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world just to be here with you.

“You’re safe here,” Remus whispers as his hands brush over your collarbones, his eyes steady and sure. “With us. Always.”

But your breath catches, fingers curling against the edge of the tub. Safe. Always.

The words hang heavy in the air, thick with meaning you want so desperately to believe. “For keeps?” you whisper, and the question is so small, so fragile that it barely breaks the surface of the silence.

Sirius’s hand stills on your knee, and he leans in, eyes dark and unflinching.

“For keeps,” he answers, and the promise hums between you all, ancient and unbreakable.

His thumb resumes its gentle circles, grounding you back into this warmth, this moment.

A grin breaks across his face, wild and free, and James lets out a breath of laughter, his hand squeezing yours beneath the water. “See?” he murmurs, voice low and warm. “We’re not going anywhere.”

You nod, the knot in your chest unraveling just a bit, the warmth of their hands grounding you, tethering you to this moment.

For a while, it’s just that—the gentle lap of water, the steady rhythm of their hands, the murmur of their voices threading through the quiet. They wash away the ache, the doubt, until there’s nothing left but warmth and the soft thrum of belonging.

And for once, you let yourself believe it.

You close your eyes and lean into the warmth, the steady rhythm of their hands soothing the ache in your chest.

But then, James’s hand splashes against the water, breaking the stillness. His eyes flicker with something bright and mischievous.

“Would you look at that?” he grins, flicking a bit of water towards Sirius, who jerks back, sputtering.

“Oh, you absolute menace,” Sirius huffs, eyes narrowing with playful fury.

Before you can blink, he’s scooped a handful of water and splashes it back, catching both you and James in the crossfire.

You squeal, hands coming up to shield your face, but the damage is done—water drips from your lashes, and James is laughing, full-bodied and unrestrained, the sound filling the bathroom with unrestrained joy.

Remus, who had been standing up to grab towels, turns back to see water arcing through the air, James slinging droplets at Sirius, who’s now fully on his knees beside the tub, splashing back with reckless abandon.

His eyes widen, a hand on his hip. “You lot are absolute children, you know that?”

“Only sometimes,” Sirius counters with a grin, flinging another handful in Remus’s direction. “We’ve got to keep it interesting, haven’t we?”

A flicker of laughter escapes you, and Remus’s stern expression softens, though he rolls his eyes. “I’m gone two minutes, and you’ve already started a war.”

James shrugs, unbothered, droplets dripping from his hair. “What can we say? We’re efficient.”

Remus sighs, grabbing a towel and shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re all impossible.”

“And you love it,” Sirius quips, leaning back with a splash. Remus just shakes his head, moving to your side with the towel, his eyes softening as he meets yours.

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, voice warm and steady. “Let’s get you out before these two flood the whole place.”

The night slipped away in a haze of warmth and whispered jokes, Sirius launching playful jabs at James, who retaliated with splashes that left the room echoing with laughter.

By the time Remus pulled you from the water and wrapped you in soft towels, your heart felt lighter, the fog of your earlier doubts dissipating under their hands.

The four of you ended up tangled in blankets, Sirius still chuckling softly at some joke James had made, Remus’s arm curled around your waist, his breath steady and warm against the back of your neck.

You drifted off like that, wrapped in them, feeling—if only for a moment—that maybe everything really was as perfect as it seemed.

But morning brings clarity. You wake to the soft light filtering through the curtains, the space beside you empty but still warm. The muffled sounds of conversation drift from the common room, low and hurried, punctuated with soft laughter.

You follow the noise, rubbing sleep from your eyes, and catch sight of them huddled together—Remus’s face drawn and pale, Sirius leaning in, his hands gesturing wildly, James with a hand on his shoulder, firm and grounding.

They don’t notice you at first, too caught up in their whispered words and secretive glances. You hover in the doorway, something heavy and unyielding curling in your stomach.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen them like this—locked in some private world that you are not a part of. But this time, it’s different. This time, you can’t shake the feeling that whatever it is, it’s breaking them apart.

When James catches your eye, his expression shifts—softens—but there’s something guarded there, too, something that makes your breath catch.

Remus straightens, running a hand through his hair, and Sirius plasters on a grin, too bright to be real.

“Morning, love,” Remus greets you, his voice softer, wearier. “Did you sleep well?”

And just like that, the walls go up again.

Whatever it was, whatever they were discussing, it’s hidden behind their smiles, and you feel it like a bruise.

You smile back, but it feels hollow. “Yeah… I did.”

But doubt settled in your bones, curling thick and unyielding around your heart. Something was wrong. And for the first time, you were sure of it.

You dressed quietly, Marlene’s chatter a distant hum as she twisted her hair into a knot and rambled about Quidditch practice. Your hands worked methodically, tying laces, fastening buttons, but your mind was elsewhere.

Something was off. You could feel it in the pit of your stomach, the gnawing unease that hadn’t left since the whispers and the lingering glances.

You tried to shake it off as you made your way to breakfast, but it lingered, curling around your ribs and pressing tight.

Classes dragged. Potions felt endless, Slughorn’s voice fading into the background as you stared blankly at your bubbling cauldron. Transfiguration was much the same—McGonagall’s sharp eyes missing the way your quill stopped moving halfway through her lecture.

Even Charms, which you usually enjoyed, was nothing more than a blur of flicking wands and murmured incantations.

By midday, you found yourself wandering through the courtyard, the chill biting at your cheeks as you made your way toward the edge of the castle grounds.

That was where you usually found them, tucked away from prying eyes, sprawled out beneath the trees or leaning against the stone walls, thick scarves looped around their necks and laughter dancing in the air.

But when you approached, there was no laughter. Just low voices, hushed and clipped. You stopped short, slipping behind a stone column, heart hammering in your chest.

You knew it was wrong, but curiosity rooted you to the spot.

“…tonight, then?” Sirius’s voice was the first you recognized, low and edged with something you couldn’t place.

“Has to be,” James replied. “Full moon, and if he’s right, Snape’s already sniffing around. Bloody idiot’s got a death wish.”

Remus didn’t speak, but you could hear him—his sigh, heavy and weary, like he’d aged ten years since you’d seen him at breakfast.

You peeked around the edge, just enough to catch sight of him leaning against the stone, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shadowed and distant.

He looked exhausted. Worse than yesterday. Worse than last week.

“Full moon?” you whispered to yourself, brows knitting together.

Why would that matter? And why would Snape be sniffing around? You racked your brain, but nothing came up. Nothing that made sense.

Then, footsteps—too light to be James or Remus, too quick to be Sirius.

You shrank back, just in time to see Severus Snape stride up to them, black robes billowing out behind him. You clamped a hand over your mouth, confusion sparking like wildfire in your chest.

Snape? With them? They hated Snape. Always had. There was the incident with the Potions classroom first year, the hex Sirius threw at him in third, the prank James had pulled just last term.

And yet, here he was, standing just a few feet away, chin lifted defiantly as he glared at Sirius.

“You’d better not be lying, Black,” Snape sneered, voice dripping with disdain.

Sirius just smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. “Would I lie to you, Snivellus?”

“Just be there. Midnight. Near the shack.”

Snape’s eyes glittered with something sharp and dangerous. “I will.”

You barely heard the rest, heart thundering in your chest.

The shack? Midnight? What the hell was going on? Your mind whirred with questions, none of them landing long enough for you to grab hold. But there was one thing you knew for certain.

You were going to follow them.

Whatever this was—whatever they were hiding—you would find out. You had to.

Night came slow and heavy, the castle settling into stillness as you pulled on your cloak, heart thrumming with anticipation and something else. Fear, maybe. Or desperation.

You slipped through the corridors on silent feet, weaving between shadows until you found yourself near the Entrance Hall, waiting. Watching.

They moved in silence, slipping through the doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched, eyes downcast.

Then James and Sirius, their footsteps softer than usual, expressions set and grim.

Whatever Sirius had told Snape, James and Remus clearly didn’t know about it—the tension rippled off them, sharp and electric.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before following, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to stay hidden.

You ducked behind a tree, watching as James pulled something from his pocket—a small, rounded object that glowed faintly in the moonlight.

He pressed it against a knot in the tree, and the branches stilled, frozen mid-sway.

You sucked in a breath as they disappeared beneath the roots, vanishing into shadow.

Remus had looked like he was seconds from collapsing, his steps unsteady, shoulders taut with strain. James and Remus didn’t seem to know about whatever Sirius had told Snape—it was clear on their faces, etched in their tension and the way Remus’s hands shook slightly as he vanished into the darkness.

Whatever lay beyond that entrance, you were going to find out. Even if it broke you.

The night stretched out heavy and silent, moonlight bleeding silver across the grounds. It felt colder than usual, the kind of chill that seeped into bones and lingered there, whispering unease with every breath.

You shivered as you waited, huddled in the shadows just beyond the Entrance Hall, heart pounding in your ears. It was a reckless idea—mad, really—to follow them out here.

But you couldn’t ignore the coil of dread tightening in your stomach, the way it had wound itself around your ribs ever since you’d heard them talking near the courtyard.

They moved in silence, slipping through the great doors one by one. First Remus, his shoulders hunched and eyes downcast, like he was carrying the weight of the world on his back.

His footsteps were slow, hesitant, and you could almost hear the strain in his breathing from where you hid.

Something was wrong—you’d known it for weeks—but tonight, it clung to him like a shadow.

You waited until they were halfway across the grounds before you moved, your breath clouding the air as you hurried to catch up, careful to keep your distance.

You waited, breath held tight in your lungs. That’s when you saw him—Snape, creeping through the shadows, eyes alight with that familiar, hateful gleam.

He moved with purpose, hands shaking with adrenaline as he approached the now-frozen branches of the Willow. He stopped just shy of the entrance, glancing around before taking a tentative step forward.

Before he could slip inside, James appeared, blocking his path, wand raised and voice sharp. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Snape sneered, lifting his chin. “Black told me. Said there was something interesting inside. Something you three have been hiding.”

James’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You’re not going anywhere near there.”

“What, afraid of what I’ll find?” Snape taunted, his voice a venomous whisper.

James stepped closer, the tension snapping taut between them. “I’m warning you, Snivellus. Turn around. Now.”

Snape glared, fists clenching at his sides. “Why? So you can keep covering for your precious friends? Or maybe it’s because you’re afraid of what your little club is really up to.”

James didn’t flinch, his wand steady and gaze unyielding. “Last chance.”

But Snape didn’t back down. He only smirked, the kind of grin that made your skin crawl. “I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself.”

He took another step forward, but James moved quicker, wand tip sparking with light. “Expelliarmus!”

Snape’s wand flew from his hand, clattering against the frozen earth. For a heartbeat, everything went still—no wind, no whispers, just the heavy thud of your heartbeat crashing in your ears.

“That’s enough,” came a voice from behind them.

Sirius stepped into view, arms crossed over his chest, expression caught between amusement and something sharper. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

James didn’t lower his wand. “What the hell were you thinking, Sirius?”

Sirius shrugged, the ghost of a grin tugging at his mouth. “Just a bit of fun. Snivellus is always poking his nose where it doesn’t belong. Thought I’d give him something to find.”

James’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Are you out of your mind? Remus is in there! What if he got in? What if he saw?”

Sirius scoffed, waving a hand. “James, please. He wasn’t actually going to get inside. It’s just a bit of a scare.”

“A scare?” James’s voice rose, disbelief cracking it. “You think this is a fucking joke? He could have died, Sirius. Remus could have killed him—and it would have been your fault!”

Sirius’s smile faltered, but he didn’t back down. “Well, he didn’t. You stopped him.”

James took a step forward, wand still in his hand, knuckles white around it. “You’re not listening. You don’t get to just...just throw people into the line of fire for fun. That’s not a prank, Sirius!”

Sirius’s eyes flashed with something dark, but he swallowed it back. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Am I?” James shot back, voice trembling with fury. “Remus doesn’t even know. You did this behind his back! I swear, if he finds out—”

But before he could finish, a sound broke the argument—a low, guttural growl that rumbled from the depths of the shack, primal and raw.

You froze, heart leaping into your throat. It was followed by another, more desperate sound.

“Remus,” you whispered under your breath, fear coiling tight and sharp in your stomach.

You slipped through the tangled roots, heart lurching as you reached the back of the shack.

Its wooden slats were splintered and rotting in places, gaps wide enough for you to catch flashes of movement inside. Shadows flickered across the walls—elongated and monstrous, twisting with the flicker of lamplight.

There was a small hole, nearly hidden behind a stack of fallen branches, just large enough for you to fit through if you were careful.

You hesitated, breath clouding in the frigid air, before steeling yourself and crawling through. Your hands scraped against rough wood, splinters catching on your palms, but you ignored the sting.

The shack groaned under your weight as you landed inside, breath catching in your throat. It was dark, the air thick with the scent of dust and something metallic that made your head swim

Your breath puffed white in the cold air, heart pounding, every instinct in your body suddenly screaming at you to stop—to leave, to turn around, to run. Something was wrong.

Inside, the shack was musty and dark. Dust hung thick in the air, floating in the moonlight that poured in through the cracks in the boarded windows. Broken chairs lay in jagged pieces, shadows clinging to every surface. It was too quiet.

You rose slowly to your feet, brushing dirt from your knees.

Your eyes scanned the room—empty. No sign of Remus. No sign of anyone. Only the stale scent of old wood and something sharper, metallic, and wrong.

Then—from outside—you heard it.

Yelling.

You turned your head toward the front of the shack.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, Sirius?” James’s voice, loud, shaking.

Snape’s voice cut through: “You’re all bloody mad—”

“You brought him here? To this place?!” James roared. “You think this is a game?! You told him how to find Moony?!”

A scuffle. Scraping feet on frozen earth. Something breaking.

Then Sirius, laughing—a harsh, ugly sound. “It was a prank, James! A joke! He wasn’t supposed to actually come!”

“A joke? A bloody joke?! He could have died, Sirius! Or worse—Remus—”

The argument grew louder, more violent, their voices crashing against each other like waves. You blinked, unsettled, heart pounding harder now—not just from what they were saying, but from something else. Something inside.

You turned, the hairs on the back of your neck rising.

Why had James been so desperate to keep Snape away? What was so dangerous, so hidden inside this shack?

You took a slow step back, suddenly aware of how thick the air had become. Your fingers twitched toward your wand, but you didn’t know why.

Then you felt it.

A shift.

A presence behind you.

The breath caught in your throat.

You turned.

And the world split in half.

The wolf stood there, bathed in shadow and moonlight. Towering. Muscled. Massive. Its amber eyes gleamed like twin suns, fixed solely on you. Its breath came heavy, the sound guttural and animal and wrong.

You didn’t understand.

You couldn’t understand.

Then it moved.

Fast. Too fast.

You screamed as its weight slammed into you, hurling you backward. You crashed to the floor, your head cracking against the boards with a sickening thud. Pain exploded across your vision, stars blooming behind your eyes.

You barely had time to breathe before it was on you.

Claws tore through your coat, then your skin. Blood spattered the walls. You screamed again, voice raw and terrified. The wolf’s snarl was deafening, fangs snapping inches from your face. You scrambled, twisted, tried to crawl away, but it was no use. Another rake of claws—your shoulder. Your side.

You sobbed, pain white-hot and everywhere.

From the front of the shack, you heard the door shake violently.

“Moony!” James’s voice, frantic. “Moony! No!!”

“She’s in there!” Sirius screamed. “She’s in with him!”

You kicked, thrashed, felt blood soaking into the wood beneath you.

The shack shook from the weight of them slamming into the door.

“Open it! Open it!” James was screaming.

You tried to call out—but your throat barely worked, raw with terror and smoke and blood.

“Remus, Stop!” Sirius shouted, voice cracking.

“It’s her—it’s her!” James bellowed. “Moony, no, no, no, no, gosh!”

But the wolf didn’t stop.

It kept going.

And you lay there, barely breathing, praying they would break the door down in time.

You stumbled back, heart slamming against your ribs, and the beast—Remus—stalked forward, claws scraping against the wooden floor with each step. His eyes—those eyes you’d known for so long, gentle and warm—were wild now, feral with hunger and rage.

He lunged, the force of it sending a gust of wind spiraling through the room. 

“Remus!” you cried, voice cracking with desperation, but there was nothing human in his gaze—just the moon’s curse and the monster it carved from him.

He turned, shoulders heaving with each breath, and for a moment, you swore you saw something flicker in his eyes. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by that primal hunger.

He snarled again, saliva dripping from his fangs, and you scrambled backward, mind racing for an escape.

Your back hit the far wall with a thud, dust and debris scattering from the impact. Remus prowled closer, head low, eyes locked onto yours like prey.

You were shaking, adrenaline burning through your veins as you searched frantically for a way out—any way out. But there was nothing. Just you and him, trapped in the confines of this cursed shack.

The breath rattled from your lungs as he lunged again. 

Agony burst across your stomach as claws tore through you like paper. Your scream shattered the silence.

Blood spilled hot and fast, soaking your clothes, splattering across the floor. Another slash—your thigh, deep and unrelenting. Your vision fractured with pain, body writhing beneath him as you tried to crawl away, but he pinned you easily.

Claws dug into your ribs. Fangs grazed your shoulder. You could hear your own heartbeat, deafening, drowning everything else out. The air stank of blood and sweat and the sharp edge of death. You sobbed, barely able to breathe, choking on the taste of iron and fear.

Then—the shack door burst open with a splintering crack.

Sirius came first, Padfoot in full form, fur bristling, eyes blazing.

He threw himself at the wolf with a savage growl, tackling Moony off you with all his strength.

The force of the impact sent them both crashing into the far wall. You were left gasping, blinking through blood and splinters and shock.

James followed—Prongs—before shifting back mid-step, falling to his knees at your side.

“Hey. Hey, no, no, no,” he breathed, voice shaking, hands hovering over your wounds like he didn’t know where to touch, where to start. “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

But you weren’t. You could feel yourself slipping, the cold creeping in.

You turned your head just enough to see the trail of blood stretching behind you, the smear of crimson across the wood. Your hand twitched, fingers stained red.

The last thing you saw was Sirius, still fighting tooth and claw to hold Remus back, and James’s face—ashen, eyes wide with something between guilt and horror.

You were here because they kept secrets. And secrets are heavy things to carry.

-

You woke to pain.

It throbbed in waves, hot and pulsing and sharp, blooming in your abdomen and thigh. Every breath was a struggle, every inch of movement a riot of agony beneath your skin.

The air was cold, sterile, heavy with antiseptic. The ceiling above you was white stone, too clean, too quiet. The scent of blood clung to your skin. You blinked, your vision swimming, your mouth dry and thick with the taste of iron and betrayal.

And then—realization. It hit like another wound. Remus. The wolf. Lycanthropy. That’s what they had been hiding. That’s what James had refused to tell you, what Sirius had laughed off, what Remus had always tucked behind those sad eyes and hollow smiles.

You remembered it now—his eyes, glowing in the dark; the snarl that tore from his throat; the claws, the fangs, the way the pain swallowed you whole.

He had mauled you.

The door creaked open with a quiet groan, and James was there in an instant.

He nearly stumbled into the room, hair wild, eyes wild, like he hadn’t slept. His chest was heaving as he rushed to your side, voice already breaking.

"You’re awake—thank Merlin—" He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching for your hand but hesitating at the last second when he saw the bandages wrapped around it. "You—you're okay. You're safe now. We got you out. We—"

But before he could finish, Sirius was in the doorway, shoulders tense, face pale and drawn.

One step in—and James turned on him like a storm breaking.

"No. No, get out."

Sirius flinched. "James—"

"No!" James shoved him, not holding back. "She’s bleeding, Sirius! There was so much blood—I couldn’t—I didn’t know if she was breathing—"

Sirius’s voice cracked. "Jamie, please—she’s my girlfriend too—"

James slammed him back against the wall, rage surging.

"Don’t fucking 'Jamie' me right now, Sirius! Remus is out there asking where she is, completely clueless about what happened—what the fuck are you gonna tell him? Huh? You gonna say you brought Snape In as a prank, and instead our girlfriend snuck into the shack and got ripped apart?"

"Is that what you’re gonna say?”

Sirius flinched like the words had struck him in the face. His eyes were glassy now, guilt etched so deeply into the hollows of his cheeks it looked like it might never leave.

His lips parted as if to defend himself but there was nothing firm behind the breath he drew in. Nothing solid enough to hold against James’s rage.

“I didn’t know she followed—” he tried, voice trailing off into silence like it couldn’t bear the weight of the truth.

“But you knew what that shack was,” James snapped, louder now, voice raw and fraying. “You knew what Moony was. You knew what would happen.”

They were so close now they could’ve been mirrors of fury and betrayal. Chest to chest, heart to heart, breathing like it hurt.

The kind of closeness that had once meant brotherhood, now sparking with something jagged and breaking.

“You think saying she’s my girlfriend too makes it better?” James’s hands were shaking and his mouth twisted like he was choking on grief. “You endangered all of us—Snape, her, Moony—because you wanted to mess around like it was a fucking joke.”

Sirius tried to speak again, but his voice came out cracked and too soft to stand on. “I didn’t mean—”

“You never mean to,” James said, and this time it wasn’t a shout. It was something worse.

His voice dropped into that space where hurt lived, where betrayal was a living thing in the room.

“That’s the problem. You never think past the spark of it. It’s always a fire to you, isn’t it? A dare, a thrill. And now she—”

You were sitting up now, breath catching like it didn’t know how to move through your chest anymore.

Their voices filled the room like smoke, thick and impossible to swallow, and still they didn’t see you. Still they didn’t stop.

The anger curled in you like a second pulse, slow and volcanic, fed by the sound of your name twisted in their mouths like an afterthought.

You looked down at your body, at the map of pain they’d drawn across your skin, at the bandages tight around your arms and side and thigh.

You reached for one with trembling fingers and peeled it back slowly, too slowly, like your body was a secret you weren’t supposed to see.

The wound beneath was deep and still red-raw, an angry thing that refused to scab. You stared at it, not blinking. As if staring long enough would make it make sense.

As if blood had a language you could finally understand.

What stared back at you were jagged, red scars, the kind that didn’t heal clean. Bite marks turned purple at the edges, cruel crescents sinking into your skin like the moon had tried to eat you alive.

Deep gashes crossed your side in a brutal lattice, torn flesh barely held together by uneven stitching and the trembling hands of someone too late. A shudder rolled through you, slow and relentless, like something crawling beneath your skin.

You would carry these forever.

Your hand rose to your neck, fingers ghosting over the place where you remembered teeth grazing bone, where the pain had cracked you open from the inside.

You didn’t need a mirror to see it. It was carved into memory. A sob caught in your throat, not loud, but sharp enough to hurt.

"Get out," you said, your voice low and cracked like dry earth before the storm.

They didn’t hear you. They were still yelling, still wrapped in their own pain, their own shame, drowning in the echo of their guilt while you sat there bleeding.

"I said get out!" your voice shattered through the room like glass, and the noise stopped instantly.

The silence rang.

They turned to you slowly, like they’d just remembered you were there, like it hadn’t occurred to them that the thing they were fighting about had ears and a spine and a soul.

James took a hesitant step forward, his eyes soft with apology, but you met him with something he hadn’t seen in you before. Not fear. Not even heartbreak. Just fury, quiet and precise, the kind of anger born from betrayal that simmers instead of explodes.

"You kept this from me," you said, each word dragged from somewhere deep, somewhere scorched.

"All of you. You let me walk in there blind. You let me bleed for a secret that was never mine to carry."

James opened his mouth but no words followed. Nothing could. His guilt hollowed him, but you didn’t care. Not anymore.

Sirius looked wrecked, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach for you, but your eyes stopped him cold.

You didn’t want to see his sorrow. You didn’t want to be comforted by the hands that led you to the edge and watched you fall.

"I almost died because of your secrets," you whispered, and though your voice trembled, it rang with steel. "Because none of you trusted me enough to tell the truth. You called it love, and then you let me be devoured by it."

They were silent. Boys made of noise, finally quiet. And somehow that silence was louder than their shouting ever was.

You looked at the door, then back to them, the air around you sharp as broken promises.

"Out," you said again, quieter now, but it cut deeper for it.

Neither of them argued. They didn’t beg or explain or try to fix what had already bled too long. They just turned, slowly, and walked away.

The door shut behind them with a hollow click.

And the silence that followed was unbearable.

Not because it was empty.

But because it sounded exactly like the moment you realized you were alone.

It echoed louder than the shouting, louder than the pain, louder than the memories still clawing at the edges of your mind. The silence didn’t offer peace—it rang like a scream swallowed too late, like the lingering howl of something wild and ruined.

You sat there in it, trembling, your hands shaking in your lap, the gauze dark with the slow seep of blood.

You stared down at them, fingers twitching like they didn’t belong to you, like maybe none of this belonged to you, not the pain, not the scarred skin, not even the breath you were struggling to draw in.

Each inhale scraped your throat like broken glass, each exhale trembled beneath the weight of everything they never told you.

The tears came suddenly—choking, ungraceful things, messy and aching. They clawed up from somewhere you hadn’t known existed, from the place where trust once lived.

They spilled past your defenses, soaked your cheeks, made your chest rise and fall in ugly, shuddering sobs.

You pressed a trembling hand to your mouth to trap the sound, to make yourself small, but the grief pushed through your fingers anyway, raw and human and desperate.

You didn’t want to be here. Not in this bed, not in this room, not in the body that remembered every second too well.

You didn’t want to be near that shack, or that truth, or those boys whose love had been too conditional, too secret, too much like a trap. Not when it all still clung to your skin like smoke, like something scorched into you that wouldn’t come off, no matter how hard you tried to forget.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed. Pain flared like fire beneath your skin, sharp and blinding, but you gritted your teeth and bit down on the sound.

You forced yourself upright, spine shaking, the world tilting like it didn’t know where to place you anymore. You reached for the nightstand, knuckles white around the edge, and steadied yourself against the weight of gravity and grief alike.

Madam Pomfrey would return soon. She would ask questions—about the bite marks on your shoulder, the blood staining your sheets, the torn muscle stitched back into place like fabric.

Dumbledore would be informed. Whispers would curl through the corridors. Rumors would spread, sprouting like weeds in spring. You could already hear them.

You didn’t want to lie. You weren’t sure you even could. But the truth? The truth was worse.

The truth was a monster’s name whispered behind closed doors.

The truth was betrayal in the shape of friendship.

The truth was pain that had no neat answer, no punishment that could make it make sense.

You took a step. Then another. Every motion dragged behind the last like you were underwater, like your body was remembering how to exist and failing.

It hurt in places you hadn’t thought could ache—bone-deep, nerve-deep, the kind of hurt that didn’t just throb but screamed.

You passed the mirror near the infirmary door and caught sight of yourself.

You stopped.

Your reflection stared back like something unrecognizable. There was dried blood in your hair, matted at the roots like rust. Bruises bloomed along your collarbone and down your arms like ink spilled under the skin.

The bandage over your ribs had darkened, blood soaking through in slow, patient circles. Your lips were cracked. Your eyes—God, your eyes.

You looked like a ghost still wandering the world, too stubborn or too broken to realize it had died.

You turned away before you could recognize yourself, before your reflection could speak back all the truths you weren’t ready to hear.

You didn’t know where you were going.

You just knew you couldn’t stay.

The hall was dim and quiet, cloaked in the kind of stillness that only came long after midnight had folded over the world. The torches burned low, their flames flickering soft shadows across stone, and even the portraits lining the walls seemed to sleep, their painted eyes closed or turned away.

Your footsteps echoed in the emptiness—slow, uneven things that barely registered, like the castle itself was trying not to notice you. Each step jarred your side, sharp pain flashing behind your eyes, blooming like lightning beneath your skin.

One hand clutched your ribs, your breath catching each time your heel met stone.

Maybe you should’ve stayed in bed. Maybe you should’ve screamed louder when it happened. Maybe you shouldn’t have followed the sound at all.

You could trace every mistake in your mind, each one lit like a torch in the dark, but none of it mattered now. Not really. Not when the damage was already done. Not when the blood had already soaked the floor, your skin, your memory.

You were already bleeding.

You made it to the end of the corridor before the tears found you again, rising from the pit of your stomach like a storm breaking loose. You crumpled without grace, back to the wall, forehead pressed hard to the cool stone as if it might hold you together.

You didn’t bother to stifle the sob that slipped from your mouth, cracked and breathless. Let the castle hear it. Let the ghosts carry it through the walls, let them whisper your name into every corner of this place. Let every brick and beam know exactly what had happened. Let the truth echo where their silence had lived.

You were in this mess because people you loved had looked you in the eye and decided you didn’t deserve the truth.

And through the sobs, through the broken air and the trembling of your limbs, that thought was the one that stayed.

This didn’t have to happen.

You could’ve stayed safe. You could’ve stayed whole. But they let you walk in blind. They let you bleed for something that was never yours to carry.

Pain flared again, a cruel spike up your side, white-hot and dragging like a knife pulled slow—but it was nothing compared to what twisted beneath your ribs.

You pressed your palm to your stomach, to the bandages under your robes, and for a moment you hoped the sharpness would ground you, keep you tethered.

Instead, it felt like drowning, like trying to breathe through water, through memory, through the echo of a scream that wouldn’t stop playing behind your eyes.

You thought of the Shack. Of the way the air smelled inside, coppery and wrong. You thought of the creak of old wood under your feet. Of the sound his bones made when they broke—sharp, wet, unforgettable. Of the stillness just before the scream shattered the world.

And you broke.

The sob that tore from your throat wasn’t soft. It was jagged, ugly, ripped straight from the center of you. Another followed, then another, and then you were falling—knees folding, back sliding down the stone, until you were curled on the cold floor, cheek pressed to it, chest heaving with each desperate breath.

Your body shook with the force of it, and still the sound came, raw and real and unrelenting.

It was too much. Too much to carry. Too much to name. Too much to bury beneath bandages and silence.

You didn’t even realize you were whispering his name until it left your lips.

"Remus…"

Just a breath. A ghost of a sound. But it shattered something in you. Cracked the dam wide open.

Because he didn’t know. He didn’t know what he had done.

And somehow—God, somehow—that made it worse.

That you had been ripped apart by someone who would never remember. That the hands that once traced poems into your skin had unknowingly rewritten you in blood.

That the boy who looked at you like you were the first star he’d ever seen was the same one who had carved your name into the floorboards with claw and fang.

You curled in tighter, arms wrapped around your ribs, trying—failing—to hold yourself together. But everything inside you was unraveling. Your breath hitched, broken. Your fingers trembled like your bones were afraid. You could still feel it—all of it.

The weight of him, wild and terrible. The heat of breath on your neck. The moment skin gave way.

You remembered his smile. The one he saved just for you. You remembered how his voice softened when he said your name, like he couldn’t believe it belonged to him for even a second.

You remembered how he once said, “You shouldn’t love me.” And now you knew why.

Because teeth remember hunger. Because wolves don’t ask permission. Because even the gentlest boy can disappear beneath the moonlight.

But oh, God, you hated that he didn't know. That he would wake up in the morning with his soul intact while you were left stitching yours together in the dark.

You pressed your hand to the wound at your side, felt the throb of it echo through your whole body. You wanted to forget. You wanted to go back. You wanted him to be anything but the thing that had hurt you.

You didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

The boy and the beast. The hands that once brushed your cheek like a promise, and the claws that had torn through your skin like paper. The mouth that had whispered your name like it meant something—and the one that had bitten down to the bone. It was all the same now.

One shape, one shadow, stitched into the fabric of your memory with blood and betrayal. You couldn’t separate him from it. You weren’t sure you wanted to.

You pressed your forehead to the cold stone wall, the chill biting into your skin, but it was nothing compared to the fire still burning inside you. Your tears came hot and fast, streaking your cheeks, scalding your lips.

You tried to swallow them back, to bury the noise, but your body wouldn’t obey. You wanted to scream. You wanted to disappear. You wanted to tear yourself apart just to match the way he’d already broken you open.

But all you could do was sit there. And feel it.

You hated him. You loved him. You hated that you loved him. You hated that the boy who had once kissed your temple like it was sacred was the same one who’d left you bleeding in the dirt.

Maybe if they'd told me, you thought bitterly, each word laced with salt and fury, I wouldn’t have followed that sound.

Maybe if they’d trusted me with the truth, I would’ve run the other way.

Maybe if I’d known what he was, I wouldn’t be standing here trying to forgive something that nearly killed me.

But they hadn’t.

So now you knew.

Remus was a wolf.

James and Sirius were liars.

And you were just the wreckage left behind.

The pain grounded you for a moment. Not enough. You remembered James shouting. Sirius pleading. Both of them drowning in their own guilt and still too proud to hand you a life raft. They hadn’t told you because they were afraid. Not for you—but for him.

You meant less than the secret.

You were an acceptable loss.

You forced yourself to stand, legs trembling, hands white-knuckled against the stone. You thought your knees might give out, but you didn’t care.

You had to see him. You had to know. If he still had your voice in his bones. If anything in him recognized the destruction he’d left behind.

You limped through the hallway like a shadow. The castle around you was too quiet, too still, as if it knew something had gone terribly wrong and was trying not to breathe.

Your side ached with every step. The bandages beneath your robes were warm and wet, and you didn’t want to know if it was fresh blood or just the old wounds leaking again. It didn’t matter. You felt hollow. Not empty—stripped.

You walked past the portraits, but none stirred. Even the ghosts seemed to shrink from you. Maybe they recognized you now. Not as a student. But as someone touched by death.

And then—shouting.

Ragged, desperate. Voices you knew.

Your heart twisted violently, nausea rising. You quickened your pace despite the pain, your breath hitching with every step. The ache in your chest sharpened as you turned a corner and—

Remus was screaming.

James had both arms locked tight around him, teeth grit as he struggled to keep Remus from hurling himself down the corridor.

Every inch of Remus's body fought against him, wild and unhinged, as if the rage had torn through muscle and bone and made something feral of him all over again.

"You brought Snape?!" he shouted, voice cracking with disbelief. "Are you fucking serious, Sirius?! You brought him—there—knowing what I am?!"

Sirius didn’t move. He stood like a statue, hands shoved into the pockets of his robes, jaw clenched, eyes hard.

"I didn’t think he’d actually go in," he said flatly. "I thought he’d get scared. Turn back."

"You thought—?" Remus’s breath hitched, then came out in something like a growl. "You don’t get to think, Sirius. You don’t get to gamble with that."

He thrashed in James’s arms again.

"And where the fuck is she?! Why is no one telling me where Y/N is?!"

James held tighter.

"Moony, don’t—"

"Don’t what?" Remus twisted around to face him. "Don’t ask why no one will look me in the fucking eye?! Don’t ask where the girl I—" His voice caught, strangled in his throat. "Where is she?"

And then he saw you.

The world stopped moving.

You stood at the far end of the hall, pressed against the stone wall like it might hold you up if your legs gave out. Your shirt was torn at the shoulder. The bandages had come loose. Blood had soaked through. A thin line of bruising curled along your cheekbone. The mark on your collarbone—his mark—was dark and angry and violet.

Remus's gaze dropped to your arms, your limp, slow steps. Then back to James.

"I did that," he whispered. The words seemed to strike him in the throat. "Didn’t I?"

James looked at the floor. That was answer enough.

Remus folded to his knees like his body had finally realized the weight of the truth. His hands hit the ground. He stared down at the stone like it might split open beneath him.

"Tell me I didn’t," he murmured. "Tell me I didn’t do that. Please, James. Tell me I didn’t do this."

No one spoke.

"Tell me I didn’t hurt her," he begged, louder now. "Tell me I didn’t—"

"You don’t remember," you said.

Your voice didn’t echo. It didn’t need to.

Three heads snapped toward you. But you only looked at him.

Remus's breath caught. He looked like he’d been stabbed.

"I—I don’t remember what happens," he stammered. "I never do. I wake up, and I’m—covered in blood, and I never know if it’s mine or someone else’s and—"

He clawed at his own sleeves, nails digging through fabric, through skin, desperate to feel pain that might match what was screaming inside his chest.

James tried to steady him, arms still locked tight around his shoulders, but Remus tore away with a howl that didn’t sound human.

“I tore her apart,” he gasped, voice wrecked. “I—I felt it—I smelled blood—I wanted it—Merlin, I wanted it—” He curled forward like the words had gutted him, fingers clutching at his head.

“I should be locked up. I should be dead.”

“No,” James said firmly, stepping forward, but Remus flinched and scrambled back like he’d touched fire.

“Don’t—don’t touch me—I’m not—I’m not safe—” He looked at you again, and this time, he really saw you.

Your limp. Your wince. Your bruises and the slow, shaking breath you took just to stay standing. His entire body stilled. Then: he crawled backwards, hands raised, like distance might erase the horror.

“I hurt you.”

Your name was a sob in his throat.

“I hurt you—I knew I would—I told them to keep me away—I told them—fuck—”

“Remus,” you whispered.

He looked away.

“Remus,” you said again, louder this time, voice cracked but sure.

“I’m a monster,” he choked out, voice barely more than a strangled whisper. “Don’t come near me. Please—I’ll hurt you again. I will.”

You took a step forward anyway, ignoring the scream of pain in your leg and the sharp crack of your ribs.

Every breath was a jagged knife, but something inside you refused to stay still.

“I said don’t!” he roared suddenly, flinching hard enough to slam his back against the cold stone wall. His hands flew up to cover his face, as if he couldn’t bear to see the damage—your pain, his pain, everything shattered between you.

“Please. I’ll ruin you. I ruin everything. Don’t—please—”

But you couldn’t stop. You wouldn’t stop.

Each step was a struggle, your body trembling with exhaustion and fear. Five staggering steps. Then you dropped to your knees in front of him, breathless and broken, the room tilting around you.

And then, without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him.

Every muscle tensed, every breath caught in his chest. For a long, endless moment, he didn’t move at all.

You were warm. Solid. Real. Against the ruins of his skin, against the guilt that was tearing him apart from the inside—you were alive.

And you were holding him.

He tried to pull away, voice frantic and raw. “No—no, don’t—I don’t deserve this—I hurt you—”

“I know,” you whispered softly, your voice a fragile thread in the silence, sinking into his hair, his chest, every ragged breath he took. “I know.”

He started to cry again—violently, uncontrollably. The kind of sobs that wrench a person apart from the inside out. His body shook like he was trying to shake free from some invisible weight dragging him under. His breaths came in ragged, broken gasps, each one tearing at his chest with fresh agony.

You could feel the rawness in him, the shattered pieces trembling just beneath the surface. And still, you held on tighter, as if your arms could somehow keep him from falling all the way apart.

“You’re not a monster,” you whispered, your voice low and steady, a lifeline thrown across the storm.

You said it again, over and over, even when his head shook so hard it seemed like it might come off his shoulders.

Even when he whispered, so broken it barely sounded like words, yes I am.

Even when his fingers clawed at the floor, desperate and frantic, as if tearing at the ground could tear him out of his own skin.

“You’re not a monster. You’re not a monster. You’re not.”

Your words became a chant, a prayer. You said them so many times you thought your throat might break.

But still, you kept saying them. Because if you didn’t, who else would? If you didn’t believe it for him, then how could he ever believe it for himself?

Then, slowly, painfully, he collapsed into you. It was as if he’d been falling forever, and for the first time he found something to catch him—a place to land, even if it was fragile and trembling beneath the weight of his grief. His body sagged against yours, heavy and defeated.

You cradled his head in your shaking hands, fingers threading through his hair as though anchoring him to the world. You held him through the sobs, through the storm, through the unbearable silence between each tear.

“I forgive you.”

And again.

“I forgive you.”

Your voice cracked, raw with all the tears you hadn’t even realized were falling down your cheeks. Your throat burned like fire from saying it so many times. Your bandages pressed painfully against his skin, a sharp reminder that your body, too, was broken. But still, you said it—because someone had to say it.

Because sometimes forgiveness is the hardest thing to give and the most necessary thing to hear.

“I forgive you. I forgive you. I forgive you.”

Remus broke completely. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you close as if you were the only solid thing left in the world.

His face buried deep in your shoulder, muffling the desperate whispers of I’m sorry that spilled from his lips like a litany, like a prayer, like a curse he couldn’t undo. The weight of those words hung heavy between you, suffocating and real.

Maybe some wounds could never fully heal. Maybe some mistakes could never be undone. But you held him anyway, steady and sure, even when your own body trembled with pain.

Because sometimes, love is the only thing strong enough to hold two broken people together when everything else falls apart.

He didn’t look up. His head hung low, shoulders trembling with a quiet, desperate shudder. His breaths came in ragged gasps, shallow and uneven, like the air itself was betraying him.

Your fingers found his face, trembling as you gently cupped his cheeks, warm beneath your cold touch.

For a moment, he froze—still as if your presence was something fragile, something he wasn’t sure he deserved.

“Look at me,” you whispered, voice soft but firm.

You pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling, heart pounding loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Remus. Please. Look at me.”

Slowly—agonizingly slow—his eyes lifted, meeting yours.

What you saw there nearly shattered you.

It wasn’t guilt. Not even horror. It was grief. Endless, bone-deep, all-consuming grief.

Like he had already buried you somewhere inside his mind and didn’t know how to find his way back to the living world. Like a weight pressed so hard on his chest he couldn’t breathe without breaking.

You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing a tear away as it slipped silently down his face.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice trembling but steady.

His breath hitched, caught somewhere between hope and despair.

“It’s not,” he croaked, voice raw and broken.

“But I’m here.”

You let the silence stretch between you, letting your touch be the anchor in the storm of his pain. Letting the quiet speak the words you both couldn’t say aloud.

Then, with a gentle nudge, you reached up and helped him to his feet. 

He didn’t speak. Didn’t question. Just followed as you led him down the corridor, your fingers laced with his, your steps slow and uneven.

He swayed as he stood, unsteady, eyes still glassy with unshed tears. He didn’t let go of your hand.

You didn’t let go of him either.

Your fingers laced through his, and you took a small step forward. He followed. Another step. Another.

You guided him through the corridor like that, hand in hand, limping slightly with each movement but refusing to stop. His steps were heavy, dragging, as if every footfall carried the weight of what he’d done. But he followed you.

When you reached the bathroom, you nudged the door open with your shoulder and led him inside.

The light was dim. Everything smelled like old tile and lavender soap. The only sound was the drip of a tap and the hush of your breaths. You turned the knobs with aching fingers, letting warm water spill into the tub, steam curling into the air like a kind of gentleness neither of you had known in days.

He stood by the door, unmoving.

You stepped toward him again, slower this time, and reached for the hem of his shirt.

He flinched.

“I can go,” you said, voice low, careful.

He looked at you—just looked—and then, finally, shook his head

You peeled the tattered shirt off his frame, revealing bruises and scratches and old scars that mapped out years of hurt across his skin. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t look away. You undid the buttons of his trousers, helped him step out of them, folding them into a soft pile on the counter.

He didn’t speak. He only watched you with wide, haunted eyes, as if each tender movement was something he couldn’t understand.

Like he didn’t know what to do with this softness.

You reached for his hand again.

“Come on,” you said quietly. “It’s warm.”

He let you guide him into the tub. The water rose around him, lapping gently at his arms and shoulders. He shivered—not from cold, but from everything.

You knelt beside the tub, dipping a cloth into the water, wringing it out. Then, slowly, you brought it to his skin.

You washed him the way you’d cradle something delicate.

You ran the cloth down his arm. Across his shoulder. Behind his ear. Over his chest, where his heart beat wild and trembling under your hand.

You bathed him in silence, each movement slow and deliberate, as if you could wash away the weight of everything between you. Your hands trembled slightly as you carefully wiped the dried blood from his fingers, tracing the lines of his knuckles where the skin was torn and raw.

You cleaned the sweat that clung to his brow, cool and sticky beneath your touch. Then you pressed your palm gently over his heart, feeling the faint, uneven thud beneath your palm—a stubborn, fragile reminder that it was still beating, still alive.

He didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t say a word. Just sat there, water swirling around him, eyes distant and unfocused, lost somewhere far away, in a place you couldn’t reach—yet.

But you promised yourself, silently, fiercely, that you would reach him. No matter how long it took. No matter how many walls he built around himself.

He was still there when you finally broke the silence. Your voice was soft, almost fragile, like a whisper carrying through the fog.

“I wish someone had told me,” you said quietly, not daring to meet his gaze. “I wish you had told me.”

Remus tensed beneath the water, muscles knotting, and you felt it through your fingertips. You wrung the cloth between your fingers, heart pounding with every second of silence that stretched between you.

“I don’t care how painful it would’ve been,” you added, voice steadier now, more certain. “I deserved to know.”

He exhaled slowly, as if the words themselves carved into him. “I didn’t want you to see me that way.”

Your tone sharpened, the raw hurt breaking through your calm. “You didn’t get to decide that for me. You don’t get to protect me by lying. Not when it nearly killed me.”

The weight of those words fell heavy into the space between you. For a moment, the only sound was the faint drip of water from the cloth.

Then his eyes lifted slowly, meeting yours for the first time in what felt like forever—fragile, vulnerable, full of everything he’d been too scared to say.

“I didn’t think you'd ever look at me the same,” he whispered, voice cracking under the weight of his fear. “If you knew.”

A bitter laugh escaped your throat, sharp and sudden, breaking the tension.

“You think I don’t see you now? You think I’m not looking at you, right now, with every part of me?”

He swallowed hard, eyes flickering with something almost like hope.

“I see you, Remus. All of you. I see the way you flinch from love like it’s a blade. I see the grief carved into your silence. I see the boy who would rather bury himself than risk hurting someone else.”

Your gaze dropped to your hands—wounded, trembling, wrapped in ragged bandages—and the pain in your voice was honest, unfiltered. “But I also see the boy who never trusted me enough to tell me the truth. And that… that hurts more than any scar.”

He looked broken, hollowed out in a way that left your chest aching, but he didn’t turn away. Didn’t close his eyes. Instead, his voice came, raw and low.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice barely more than a whisper. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve trusted you.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of your words settling between you like a fragile promise. “Yes. You should’ve.”

The steam from the warm water curled around your faces, softening the harsh edges of everything unsaid, blurring the sharp lines of pain into something almost gentle.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just breathing in the shared silence. Then he leaned forward, his forehead resting lightly against yours, a quiet gesture that spoke of tentative hope and fragile trust.

“I want to try,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “If you’ll let me.”

Your own voice trembled as it broke free. “Start by telling me everything.”

He nodded again, slower this time, like anchoring himself to the present. And with that, something shifted—an opening, a fragile thread weaving back between you.

And this time, he did.

It came slowly at first, like drawing words from the marrow of his bones—halting, rough, like he’d forgotten how to shape language without flinching.

He told you what he could remember from that night—shards of memory coated in blood and fear, barely coherent. He told you what it felt like to lose himself, to slip out of time, to wake up in a skin that didn’t feel like his own.

The nightmares that curled around his ribcage. The silence that tasted like penance. The months—years—spent learning how to live without letting anyone close enough to see the damage. How he'd convinced himself that silence was kindness, that distance was protection, that truth was a luxury people like him couldn’t afford.

And still, you listened.

You didn’t interrupt. You didn’t turn away. You let his voice break against you like waves on a cliffside, let him collapse into pauses and shake through the parts he couldn’t finish. You held the silence between his sentences like it was something sacred. Even when it hurt.

Even when it cracked open something raw and old inside your chest. Because somewhere inside you, you knew—this wasn’t just a story he was telling. It was a confession. A quiet unraveling.

Not everything was said. Not everything could be. There were still silences he couldn’t break open and wounds you weren’t sure how to touch. But it was a beginning. A single stone placed in what might one day be a bridge.

And still, there was so much more.

The things Sirius had done—reckless, cruel, even if born of desperation—hung in the air like smoke that would not clear. You had not spoken to him since it all unraveled. You were not sure what you would say.

You didn’t know if Remus would ever find it in himself to forgive Sirius, or to trust him again. Some things fracture differently. Some betrayals do not bleed clean.

And James, with his steady eyes and soft-spoken guilt, had kept his own silences. Even he, who had always tried to protect you, had made choices that left you cut open.

All three of them had lied in different ways. Lied in the name of protection. Lied out of fear. Lied out of love. And those lies still lingered in the spaces behind your teeth. You hadn’t even begun to decide what to do with that.

You knew, deep down, that some scars would not close. That no amount of tenderness could undo certain kinds of damage. That some trust, once fractured, might never return in the shape it once held.

You had changed. They had, too. And now you would have to figure out if those new shapes could still fit beside one another without splintering again.

You would have to grieve what you’d lost—who you’d been before all this. You would have to learn how to trust again, not just them, but yourself. Your instincts. Your worth. You’d have to forgive the parts of you that stayed too quiet, too long. You would carry this with you, no matter how far you ran—these bruised memories, these broken truths—but you didn’t have to carry them alone anymore.

Healing would not be a soft road.

There would be nights you’d wake trembling. Days the anger would rise without warning. There would be guilt, and fear, and moments when you weren’t sure if you could keep choosing to stay.

But there would also be mornings, slow and gold. There would be laughter again, strange at first, then easier. There would be cups of tea gone cold on the windowsill. A hand held out when you least expected it. A voice calling you back when you wandered too far.

But you also knew this. You were no longer alone in it.

You helped Remus out of the tub when the water turned cold. He was quiet, pliant, letting you wrap the towel around his shaking shoulders. His head tilted toward yours as you led him through the dim apartment, your steps slow but steady, his breath catching in the hush between rooms.

You found him a fresh shirt, helped him into bed without asking, and tucked the blanket over his trembling limbs. He lay still as stone, but his fingers found yours. And held.

You sat beside him, watching the moonlight shift across the floorboards, and for a while, neither of you spoke.

When Remus finally turned to face you, his expression was soft with exhaustion, but something in his eyes had steadied.

He took your hand again, thumb grazing the inside of your wrist like he was trying to memorize the rhythm of you.

“Do you think,” he asked, his voice just above a whisper, “there’s a chance for us? After everything?”

The question lingered between you. Not desperate. Not demanding. Just honest.

You took a breath and met his gaze. “Yes,” you said. “I do.”

His hand tightened gently in yours. He closed his eyes for a moment, like he was letting that answer settle inside his chest.

Then he looked at you again, quieter this time.

“For keeps?”

You blinked, heart rising painfully. You didn’t hesitate.

“For keeps.”

a/n: this is so over the place, i am so sorry anon </3

[veraiku]

like you mad at me, baby !

─ ➤ In which he accidentally eavesdrops on your conversation with a friend regarding your fantasies of him going rough. and as your boyfriend, who was he to deny his pretty girlfriend?

⊹˙. ꒰ featuring ─ Yukimiya Kenyu x fem! reader ꒱ .˙⊹

** warnings : fem! reader, light cheek slapping (like twice), light choking, pet names (sweetheart, love, baby), p in v, mating press I think, unprotected sex (don’t try this at home !!), mentions of manhandling, and poorly written smut hehe ૮˶´ ᵕˋ ა . .

** note : hihi !! this is my first fanfic / drabble ever so I’m sorry if it’s weird + english isn’t my first language so please excuse the mistakes that are made .. and honestly I was half asleep making this fic LOL .. buut if you do enjoy, do consider reblogging maybe ;3 ? tqq !!

** wc : 1,565 words !

໒ ; be warned ! smut below the cut. ;

Yukimiya Kenyu has the patience of a saint. he’s sweet — kind, caring, the synonyms go as long as a grocery shopping list. and oh, not to mention his respect for women. it’s truly endearing how he’s not afraid to express that to you — how he’s not afraid to make sure that you know that you’re his first and last love. by carrying your groceries, giving his jacket when it’s cold out, he truly never fails to show how much he loves you.

now, he’s also not one to eavesdrop. he finds it truly disrespectful and meaningless. he’s sure to keep his ears and mind to himself whenever a phone call or conversation is happening around him — friend or not, even if it’s just a word he had heard — he doesn’t enjoy eavesdropping, no matter who it is talking.

but now, even if he hates to admit it, he’s slightly thankful that he eavesdropped a small bit on your conversation with a friend on the other line. even if the guilt is gnawing at him — eating him alive for even thinking on invading your privacy and for him to feel somewhat glad he did, another part of him wants to make your wishes come true.

“I dunno. it’s not that he doesn’t satisfy me — hell, he’s more than enough. I just want to know what he’s like if he’s a little rough, y’know what I mean?”

oh, he knows what you mean. he’s not shaming you for it — your wishes are completely valid and understandable. he has always been rather gentle and soft during intimacy — hands interlocked as he whispers praises into your ear, thrusts slow but deep — deep enough to hit that gummy spot inside of you and have your toes curling.

he doesn’t want to overstep boundaries, or do something you don’t like. the two of you have been in love for as long as he can remember, from where he was an unknown football player to a rising star of bastard münchen. he’d honestly rather lose his career than to lose you, because what would he ever do if his other half was missing?

chained by the worry of accidentally hurting you, he’s been keeping himself on his best behavior during intimacy, holding back the urge to start ravaging you and show you what he’s been wanting to do for so long. why else do you think he laces his fingers with yours gently, caressing your body affectionately while kissing every inch of your skin? even through the temptation he gets, from the talks in the locker rooms and the videos he’s watched — he has to hold himself and his thoughts together, trying to ignore the way his dick springs up at the thought of your eyes rolling to the back of your head and nails scratching his back to leave pretty marks as he fucks the life out of you.

after all, your pleasure and comfort was his top priority, he doesn’t blame you for wanting a change of pace. but as your boyfriend, it’s his duty to make your wishes come true — right?

“k-kenyu -! what’s — mmph, gotten i-into you..!”

oh, you sound and look so pretty. lips parted in ecstasy with your brows furrowed, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes as you whine and writhe — if he knew this was what you wanted all along, he would’ve done this sooner, much much sooner. his grip on your legs grow tighter, making sure they don’t fall off his shoulders as he meanly drills his cock inside of your gummy walls.

“hm? thought this was what you wanted, sweetheart.” his tone was sickeningly sweet, as if he was comforting you on a bad day — as if his length wasn’t abusing your poor, sopping cunt. his glasses were folded neatly on the bedside table, as if he’s been planning on doing this for so long, as if he’s planned this from the very, very beginning.

what a silly question — he thinks. he could practically see the gears working in your head, as you suck your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to make out what he was trying to imply behind that sweet and soothing tone of his — even through the way he was molding your pretty pussy into the precise shape of his cock, to its tip down to its veins, through the way that he was slowly engraving his name on your brain.

“h-haah ? — what do y-you mean, Ken—”

“I overheard your conversation.”

he wastes little to no time on cutting you off of your words. he lifts your hips a little higher, angling his own to hit even deeper inside of you. to him, him overhearing your conversation was nothing more than a silly excuse to fuck you a little rougher than he usually would. he would never intentionally eavesdrop on any phone call you were having. he couldn’t bite back the chuckle bubbling in his chest as you still looked up at him, dazed and confused — trying to focus on him and his words.

“about you wanting me to go rough.”

he almost wants to laugh at the way your eyes widen, lips parting to say something to defend yourself — but once more, he cuts you off, this time — with a sharp thrust of his hips against yours, watching in amusement and pleasure as your words abruptly turn into a choked moan.

“ ‘m not mad, love.” he reassures gently, leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss on the top of your forehead, one hand leaving your thighs to move to cup your cheeks, his hold gentle yet firm, a huge contrast to the way the sound of skin slapping quickly filled the room. a sleazy grin tugs the corners of his lips, as he lets out a soft, shaky exhale.

“haah — though I did wish you could’ve told me sooner,” he breathed out gently, slowly finding himself lost in the feeling of your walls wrapped so snugly around him — pulling him in deeper like a drug.

“you d-don’t know how — ugh, long I’ve been wanting to do this.” his eyes take in the pretty sight below him, how your chest heaves and breasts bounce with each harsh thrust. his hand trails down from your chin to your left boob, squeezing it gently.

he snickers at the way your head was tilting to the side slowly, as if you were completely fucked out already — your vision blurry with tears.

“look at me when I’m talking to you, sweetheart.” his hand gently slaps your cheek not once, but twice — gentle but firm enough to get your full attention. “makes me wonder. do you like it when I manhandle you, then?” tilting his head to the side slightly, his slender fingers trail down once more — wrapping around your pretty neck just enough to keep your head in place, pushing it against pillows gently.

“o-oh, yes — Kenyu, right there-!”

his cock hits that gummy spot inside of you which makes you loll your head back, the heel of your feet digging into his back as wanton moans escape your throat.

His brows knit together, soft grunts escaping his throat as he could feel you clench around him. it’s like his first time with you all over again. his hips moved at an inhuman speed — a speed he normally conserved for when he was on the field, whereas his goal would be to score the winning shot, but this time? his goal was to score his load into you as deep as he fucking could.

if his memory was bound to be erased, leaving him with only one choice on which memory he would like to keep, he would definitely choose this one.

shit. he could feel his dick twitching inside of you the more he took in the sight of his fingers wrapped around your throat, tears now streaming down your cheeks as the sound of skin slapping bounces off the walls — his balls hitting against your hole so perfectly. and he’s trying not to shoot his load just yet, because God does he want this moment to last, but with the way your eyes are rolled to the back of your head? it’s proving to be much more difficult then he had originally thought.

it’s almost unfair how pretty you look. a light sheen of sweat coating your body, a few strands of hair sticking to your forehead due to said sweat. how can you expect him to last? this was so much better than his imagination, so so much better than the thoughts his mind would visualize out during those nights where he’d fist his cock tightly to the thoughts of you.

“I-I’m sorry,, Kenyu — d-didn’t mean it that way, I swear —“ you say in between thrusts, struggling to keep your voice loud enough for him to hear properly. you could make out the chuckle escaping his lips, his hand reaching up to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

“now, what’s there to be sorry about, love?” he coos gently,

“If anything, jus’ gives me more of a reason to have your eyes rolling further to the back of your skull.”

— a/n ! : ts lowkey ass but it’ll have to do for now woopsies, hope you guys liked this !!

I do not give consent to plagiarize, copy, or translate in any form whatsoever — thank you!