#mild spoilers for the edge of sleep

[mummifiedgoose]

[sc3ptre]

A healing touch

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: Clark Kent fics will be posted Thursday nights/Friday mornings depending on where you live so there will be another fic this week but I really wanted to post this extra sweet lil thing bc I’m having so much fun writing these.

Warning: SMUT +18 (with plot) This is descriptive! Okay? Read at your own risk and keep both hands on the damn phone!!! | safe sex, p-in-v, oral m! receiving and mutual masturbation, mild D/S dynamics, physical restriction kink? and power play, mild mentions of injury and blood (non graphic), nipple play, c*m play?, big dick syndrome (size kink) and use of superhuman abilities during intercourse.

Disclaimer: This fic has no spoilers for the movie! But if you're still wary, feel free to skip this for now and come back later!

Word count: 4.7k (i kept telling myself i would stop soon and then didn't)

The open window barely rustled the curtains. From this high up, the city sounded like a distant ocean, with its sirens, horns, and ultimately the murmuring echo of a city that had just barely survived another disaster.

You were already standing near the floor to ceiling windows, watching the sky like you’d been doing for the last hour. The news played footage on a loop until it cut to analysts and headlines, yet none of it was useful making you turn the sound off after the third segment. You didn’t need the voiceover, you’d seen enough to know how bad it was.

You heard it then. It wasn’t a crash or a thud, just a shift in the air pressure and a flicker in the shadows outside. You turned just in time to see him glide through the open window.

He didn’t land so much as fold, his cape catching on the breeze and dragging softly behind him before falling like a second shadow. Clark stumbled with a groan, catching himself on the wall while his other hand gripped his side.

Your heart dropped when you took in his state, his suit torn across his shoulder and chest, the fabric also blackened from being dragged around by a creature fifty times his size and stained with a mix of dried and fresh blood you hoped wasn’t his.

You didn’t speak, not right away but as always, he felt the need to reassure you. Maybe it was your face, or the sound of your heart shattering at the mere sight of him.

“It looks worse than it feels,” he huffed, walking a few unsteady steps to the edge of the living room and sinking down onto the floor beside the low couch, pressing his back to it like he couldn’t trust himself to stay upright without something behind him. Only then did he actually meet your eyes, flashing you the tiniest of smiles. “It’s not that bad.”

Your mouth parted slightly as you looked at him closer, taking tentative steps toward him. There was exhaustion in his eyes, and it wasn’t the kind that sleep could fix. His jaw was tight and his knuckles were bloody and scraped raw. His perfect hair was tousled and one eye slightly swollen and still, he smiled.

You opened your mouth further to ask, but he shook his head slowly, warning you that telling you exactly what happened wouldn’t make it any better. 

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said, voice rough.

You nodded silently, trying to ignore how much your heart ached as you moved quietly to the bag you had brought, unzipping it and pulling out several different bottles, gauze, needle and thread. It looked like you had robbed a pharmacy on the way to his place.

You returned and kneeled beside him, his eyes following every motion. Clark didn’t stop you or object just focused on breathing slowly through his nose, like each inhale took more effort than the last.

When your fingers grazed his skin, just near the edge of a gash along his ribs, he flinched. Not from pain, but from something else…surprise, maybe, and a tenderness he didn’t expect.

You soaked a cotton pad with antiseptic and spoke before you could really think about the words. “This might sting.”

He let out a faint grunt, more breath than sound, but didn't respond.

You worked carefully, wiping away ash and blood. The suit was partially peeled back, exposing more of him than you were used to, but either way, his skin wasn’t flawless tonight. It was streaked with bruises that didn't belong on him—purple, green, and already yellowing around the edges. You couldn’t imagine the force it took to actually hurt him.

You soon realized he was watching you as you worked—your face, not your hands—with that intense, unblinking stare of his.

“What?” you asked, glancing up.

“Your heart’s racing.”

You paused, fingers stilling over the line of a cut and let out a quiet, long breath, something you always did around him to regulate your system. It never worked. “And you’re still bleeding, since we’re…pointing out the obvious,” you said softly.

His lips twitched to just the ghost of a smile, too painful to reach his eyes. “I’ll heal. The sun–”

“Would you rather bleed out until sunrise, Kansas?” you cut in, gentle but firm.

He didn’t argue further. Clark had a feeling you often forgot who he was and what he could do, and he didn’t mind it one bit, especially when you got snarky this close.

You continued swabbing and bandaging with care, letting the heavy silence stretch between you. It was far from uncomfortable since you’d lived in it before. It was where your connection always seemed to grow, in those quiet corners and not with loud confessions.

Once the wound across his lower side was as clean as it would get, you threaded the needle and pressed it to the edge of his skin. You pushed it in with steady hands and watched as it bent before your eyes.

You sighed, lifting it up towards the dim light of the living room. “I always forget about… that.”

The look on your face earned you a small exhale through his nose. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but close.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” You protested.

He couldn’t help the grin now spreading across his face. “Couldn’t bring myself to. You look the sweetest when you’re focused.”

You sighed, sitting defeatedly on the balls of your feet, a sight he couldn’t bear seeing.

“You’ve done more than anyone has…thank you. The sun will take care of the rest,” he assured quietly, wincing as he lifted his hand to your face, caressing it with dizzying softness.

You looked at him again and this time, he didn't look away. His gaze flickered over your face like he was tracing something he already knew but still didn’t understand—There was a pull between you in that moment, an ache that had had you circling each other for months now, too close and then too far, never quite on the same page, yet always in orbit, always looking.

His fingers went to your chin, thumb tracing your lower lip as the both of you surrendered and leaned toward the other, not stopping until your lips touched tentatively for a stretched second before Clark pulled back just enough to give you time to retreat, but you pushed forward, pressing your lips against his in a loving, long awaited kiss.

It was slow and gentle, careful in a way that made it burn even deeper. It was obvious that both of you were trying to learn where the other’s limits were but that line got pushed further back the more he welcomed you into his life. The kiss deepened, and your tongues danced a heated tango influencing you to straddle his hips. He sucked in a breathy wince, his hands moving to rest on both sides of your face, tilting your head while holding you close.

You accommodated yourself on his lap, letting your full weight fall on him and despite yourself, letting out a quiet moan. 

His lips migrated from your mouth to the corner of your lips, then your cheek, as his hand guided your face to enable his actions. You closed your eyes, letting your shaky fingers trace the emblem of his suit.

Clark’s full lips latched onto your neck then, breathing out against your pulse point before kissing higher, toward your earlobe. You moaned quietly, keeping your body from moving too much over him.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you breathed.

Clark’s hands went to both sides of your hips, grabbing you and pressing you down against his hardness, then smiling into your neck when you gasped quietly. “You won’t.”

Your hands steadied on his body as you began moving slowly, seeking relief while allowing his mouth to explore you freely, in the same manner your hands were—both of you acting like this was a common occurrence, with the familiar way his lips wrapped around yours, taking their time in learning what you liked and what made your breathing hitch. 

You kissed in tandem, loving on each other like you were made to do.

“I want you,” you breathed when you pulled apart. “I’ll understand if this isn’t the night for it.”

He shook his head slowly, dismissing your last comment as he gathered your hair in one hand, keeping it off your face so he could see all of you. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

At his nod, you carefully got off his lap and helped him stand the best you could, each groan from his aching body stabbing your heart with a thousand tiny needles.

Once on his feet, he raised a finger to you, signaling for you to wait a second before walking awkwardly—while cursing at the uncomfortable tent in his pants—toward the closest cabinet.

You stood there watching in a daze, your fingers brushing your tingling lips as they stretched into a soft smile, while your pulse rabbitted in your neck. Until the rattle of a chain cut through the quiet, your gaze snapping to him, eyes wide. It was thick and heavy, the kind strong enough to pull a car.

“Clark…what the hell is that?”

His face didn’t change much as he held it up, looking at it like his thought process was the most obvious answer, but his voice was calm. “It’s for me.”

“So we’re flying straight past the handcuffs, huh? D–do I need a safeword or a damn prayer?...Jeez, Clark, warn a girl before you bring out the industrial sized kinks.” you said, cracking a grin.

He laughed with little to no humor. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up…This is serious, okay?” he said. “If I lose control and… I hurt you–”

“You won’t,” you interrupted.

“You don’t know that,” he pointed out.

You stepped close to him again, pressing a hand to his chest, warm beneath your palm. His heart was beating slower than yours, strong, but still at an unusually fast pace.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whispered.

His jaw flexed. “I would never be able to forgive myself if–”

You shook your head. “Nothing’s gonna happen to me because you won’t let it. I’ve seen you at your worst, Clark,” you said. “And I’m still here. That should tell you something.”

You were still touching him, waiting for an answer and he was still looking at you like he didn’t know how this was real. He surrendered then, letting the chain fall to the floor with a loud thud.

“Should I even ask why you have that?” you asked quietly.

“Work-life balance clearly isn't my strong suit." he murmured, leaning in to let his lips brush yours once again, like he wasn’t sure he deserved it at all.

Your hand brushed his jaw, thumb resting just below the cut at the corner of his mouth. Clark leaned right into it, eyes closing briefly while anchoring himself in that one quiet point of contact.

He kissed you back with the kind of care that felt earned, tempered by pain, longing and too much time spent pretending not to feel what he clearly did. 

His huge arms snaked around your body, holding you close to his as your feet lost contact with the ground. The air shifted gently around you both with the quietest sound of lift, like a breath held within the walls. He flew you across the room like it was second nature, like carrying you in his arms was the only thing keeping him upright. His body was still heavy with bruises and cuts, but in the air, he was light, weightless.

His bedroom was quiet when you landed, soft light filtering in through the windows, stars visible beyond the glass. He didn’t let you go right away, no, he just stood there, holding you close to his chest and kissing you like letting you go after setting you down might break the spell.

Your lips parted as his hand brushed the neckline of his ruined suit, the torn, ash-smudged fabric stretched beautifully across his chest. He winced, moving his shoulder again to detach his cape and letting it fall to his feet.

You helped him peel his clothes off slowly and as gently as you could, letting your hands graze over his warm skin unabashedly while his hands trembled under your touch, especially while you helped him undress from the waist down, taking over your steady ones as if your touch could make this end far too soon.

You had daydreamed about how big he would be, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what you saw—thick, heavy, quite literally struggling to hold its own weight up and covered in angry veins that led to a swollen, and already leaking tip. Your mouth watered the more you looked at it.

His hands grabbed at the fabric of your shirt mid-daze, steadier now as he undressed you, taking his time to memorize every dip of skin and muscle that made you who you were, weakening him beyond the damage kryptonite could do. 

He carefully hooked his fingers under the straps of your bra and pulled them off your shoulders, letting them dangle there while he reached behind to unhook it, sliding it off your arms and letting it clutter the space between you on the floor. 

The air current flowing through the room made you suck in a breath, yet it wasn’t what made goosebumps spread all over. It was his scrutiny, just how closely he was looking at you. Your nipples hardened under his unrelenting gaze, pupils dilating as his cock grazed your stomach, spreading a bead of precum under your belly button.

Clark lowered himself to the edge of the bed with a groan, his hands tracing the outside of your thighs up until his fingers hooked under your panties, pulling it down and watching a string of slick stretch and shine in the moonlight. His cock throbbed against his thigh from the sight, and the groan that escaped him could’ve been enough to undo you too—He let his forehead fall to your stomach with a sigh, his hands bringing you close as you could be.

“…This isn’t exactly how I imagined it being.”

You tensed at his words while he flushed, pulling back to look up at you, brow furrowing like he didn’t mean to say that out loud.

“Not—not like I’ve imagined it a lot,” he added quickly, stumbling. “Because I haven’t. I mean, not a lot. Just... moderately. I thought maybe when this happened, if it ever happened, you know… I’d be whole. Not like this, bruised and broken and... It should’ve been different.”

You reached to brush a piece of hair back from his face, making sure he looked right at you.

“Clark.” The name was quiet but firm. “You’re always taking care of everyone… let me take care of you.”

You whispered, pushing him just enough for him to take the hint and lay down in bed, ribs rising and falling unevenly. He groaned quietly under his breath as he leaned back, head hitting the pillows just as you kneeled on the other side of him, leaning down to press soft kisses to his marked and bruised skin, careful not to press into any of the deeper cuts. You traced a path from his sternum down and spoke between kisses.

“Can you do that for me?” you whispered, glad to see him visibly sink deeper into the mattress.

“…Are you sure the chains aren’t needed?”

You smiled faintly, not in mockery whatsoever. “Let’s not pretend they’d hold you back.”

He studied you for a long, still second, holding eye contact as you neared his heavy cock. Something changed behind his eyes then, the tension melted, just enough for him to give you the tiniest of nods.

Your fingers wrapped around the base, tongue flicking out to lap at its length from the very bottom to the sensitive tip. You felt him shiver, letting out a sigh as his hand went to your side, eyes watchful while you teased the tip’s slit with your tongue, tasting the saltiness of him before taking him fully into your mouth, tongue flat, allowing it to create its own path down your throat.

“Golly, sweet mercy…” he breathed as he watched you.

You took him in until his head blocked the very back of your throat, with more length to take and not enough space to do so. You got to work then, for your own pleasure more than his, from the way your eyes were rolling back. You used your hands to take care of the remaining length as you bobbed your head slowly with hollowed cheeks, massaging the base with just enough pressure to keep him on the edge. 

His moans slowly grew louder and less timid, as did his hands, with fingertips that caressed your wet folds from behind while you worked him. 

From the way he lifted his fingers and looked at them glistening, it was clear he didn’t believe all of that was for him, yet you moaned, pushing your ass back against nothing to incite him for more. He complied by replacing his fingers there, twisting his head in an awkward angle to watch himself dip them in slowly, eyes flickering between that image and your face as he pushed both digits deeper and deeper, your body spreading to grant him access.

He drove them in as far as they could go, then pulled them out slowly, watching your reaction whilst repeating the movement, his body trembling with pride once you moaned around his cock, one hand grabbing at his thigh for support.

His pace quickened accordingly, letting the sounds from the finger-fucking mix with the ones from your sweet mouth. Clark matched the rhythm at which you worked, loving how you backed your body to meet his hand shamelessly, until the pleasure from his fingers clouded your resolve—long forgetting the fact his cock blocked the path out for your moans and whimpers while you let him fuck you senseless.

It was a beautiful sight to him, the way your back arched and your pebbled nipples brushed against his skin while you hesitated between giving him pleasure and surrendering to your own. His fingers, covered in slick, moved in and out of you with such ease he envied them, shamelessly licking his lips every time he was strong enough to tear his eyes off your face.

You pulled his cock out of your mouth with a whimper that almost made him come, so desperate and raw, just like the view from where he laid envying a string of spit linking your plumped lips to his gleaming cock.

“Ugnh!” you whimpered, closing your eyes and letting your forehead fall to his lower abdomen, a hand still absentmindedly pumping him while your body rocked to meet his fingers. You turned your head to find his eyes on you, and the mere sight caused your own to roll with pleasure, granting him a nod.

“F–feels so good,” you said breathlessly, knees spreading further almost like you wanted to rub your clit against his dark blue sheets.

“You like that?” he asked, with a boyish grin that almost didn’t belong.

You nodded rapidly, sucking in a breath. “Mmmmyes…yes…fucking love it.”

You felt your inner thighs getting wetter and that knot tightening gradually in your lower abdomen, just as your body arched into his touch and tensed, your eyes shutting forcefully as you came with a hybrid between a moan and a groan. 

Your walls fluttered around Clark’s digits as he maintained the same pace through your climax, only pulling them out when you inhaled—like you’d been underwater the whole time.

His hands massaged your skin to soothe you, easing you back down to earth, while working up the courage to tell you that you could slow down, except your lips were already reaching for his. 

Succumbing to his own needs, he pulled your body down against him—damned be the pain—and hugged you close while kissing you senseless. His hands grabbed at your hair and everywhere he could reach as you stretched across his bed, legs now limp.

“Bedside table,” he murmured mid-kisses, and immediately your hand went to it, pulling out a brand-new box of condoms that you smashed against the edge of the wood to pop it open and haphazardly pulled one out. 

You straddled his lap, only stopping the messy kissing to carefully roll on the condom, the latex stretching around his girth and marking every single vein on it. Wasting no time, you lifted your body up and lined him to your entrance, tip pushing past your folds and threatening to slip-in in one swift thrust from how wet every surface was.

You watched as his chest rose and fell, holding eye contact while slowly sinking down on his thick cock, walls accommodating his girth beyond capacity and already twitching as if his size alone was enough to make you climax. You eased down inch by inch, thighs trembling as you took him to the hilt, savoring the delicious curve of him already caressing your g-spot while the base promised exciting friction to your clit. 

Clark gasped a low, broken sound at the pressure your body subjected his to. His hands clutched your hips, guiding your descent, while his eyes lit up at the slight bulge in your stomach.

“Take it easy on me, will you?” he groaned, eyes roaming your body reverently as you lifted yourself barely an inch before dropping back down on him. You moaned, your head already falling back in pleasure before you repeated the same movement a few times. As sick as anyone might’ve thought it was, Clark couldn’t help but look deeper, using his x-ray vision to see his tip pressed flush against your cervix.

“You hear me? I said “take it easy”.”

You grinned. “Worrying about hypotheticals, Clark?”

“There’s nothing hypothetical about it, trust me.” His palms smoothed over your thighs and up your waist before cupping your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened beneath his touch.

Your eyes narrowed briefly before catching onto the way he was staring at your stomach. “I feel as though my anatomical privacy is being invaded.”

His eyes snapped up to your face, slightly wide. “What? No. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to... well, I did–”

“Joke, Clark. It was a joke,” you chuckled, giving a tentative roll of your hips to savor the stretch of him inside you, feeling fuller than you ever thought possible. “Fuck, you’re big,” you breathed, more to yourself than to him, then leaned forward, ghosting your lips over his as you picked up a rhythm that his hands on your hips eagerly assisted.

"Attagirl," he murmured, voice thick from a side of him you didn’t know had always belonged to you, thumbs brushing over your hips as you moved.

“Like this?” you asked, voice fading into a moan, your breath catching every time he bottomed out.

“Mhm,” he nodded, sucking in a sharp breath. “Exactly like this, beautiful.”

No more words were needed and you both knew it. Language dissolved into moans and the sharp rhythm of skin slapping against skin.

He was big, and every thrust brought that aching kind of pleasure that made your toes curl and your core clench. You arched your back, bracing your hands on his chest and rode him with growing confidence, lifting then dropping, slick and hot and impossibly connected. Your entrance stretched for him, his unforgiving thrusts scraping your walls clean of every drop of slick, only to serve as lubrication for the next. Wetness clung to your bodies, forming clear, glistening strings between you as you fucked.

Clark’s aching body was long forgotten as his sheets took the worst of it, blood and precum baptizing the bed on both ends of the human experience. Your clit pulsed from the friction, every motion sparking fire through your nerves while he groaned beneath you, wounded but desperate, watching every twitch of your hips like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

He moaned proudly into your mouth, hands trembling as they kneaded your flesh, squeezing your tender breasts with care.

He knew then that he wouldn’t wait for your moans to grow louder or your pace to grow messier. His hand hovered between your legs, sliding his thumb over your swollen clit and circling in slow, precise motions that made you gasp and clench around him. His touch was reverent, worshipful and skilled, building you up until your thighs quaked with the effort of holding back.

“There you go,” you heard him murmur softly, just before your climax shattered through you. 

You came with a cry, shuddering around him as he whispered more praise that pushed you to keep going. You collapsed forward for a breath, forehead resting on his shoulder, while allowing your hips to still roll as you rode the aftershocks.

Clark stroked your back and kissed your temple, his voice ragged but still so gentle, splitting his focus between your bliss and holding himself back. “I want to make you feel good again.”

You surged up for another kiss, grinding down harder now, chasing your next peak while he looked at you like he could do this ten more times without pause. One hand gripped your hip, firmly, while the other slid up to cradle your breast again, rolling your nipple between two fingers until you were a whimpering mess.

Despite the pain, he began to thrust up to meet your rhythm, careful and still mindful of wounds that would begin healing at sunrise, but you could still feel the effort thrumming under his skin along the tension, the coiled power and the pent-up need trembling through every muscle of his.

The room became a black box of rhythm and ruin—skin colliding, masculine groans, airless moans, and high-pitched whimpers as you took each unforgiving thrust with parted lips and rolling, wet eyes.

Unsurprisingly so, your third orgasm crashed into you suddenly and far more intensely, leaving you wrung out and boneless. Your nails clawed at his skin as your body bowed and clenched. 

Clark was trembling beneath you, sweat gleaming on his brow and chest heaving as he stared at the thundering flesh of your ass, shamelessly grabbing handfuls like it belonged to him.

Blinking through the blur and focusing on his expression felt like seeing an entirely new man, one who sounded and looked just as mortal as you were. Which was exactly when it dawned on you that he wasn’t.

“Ughhh! Fuck, Clark! Are you–are you c-close?” you whispered, breathless.

He nodded, jaw clenched tight, trying to hold off for a few more seconds with you.

You kissed messily along his jaw, down to his throat, then sat upright, rolling your hips with abandon and meeting each thrust with grace despite the ache in your thighs and your trembling body. From this angle, it felt like he was rearranging your insides.

With a ragged cry, he finally let go, roughly pulling you down and crushing your lips to his as he spilled a heavy load inside the condom, hips jerking up into you with such force that each thrust stole the air from your lungs.

He halted with a groan, staying buried deep inside you for a few shuddering seconds before collapsing onto the mattress, your body limp and slumped over his. Your chests heaved in unison, hearts slowing in tandem, caught in those still, fragile minutes that made you question whether you had ever truly enjoyed sex before this.

One of his hands cradled the back of your head, gentle and rhythmic, while the other traced along the curve of your side so softly it almost felt imagined. You laid there unmoving, your ear over his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heart and the steady rise and fall of his breath as the sun began stretching over the horizon, casting a golden light over your glistening skin.

“So…where exactly were you planning to attach those chains?” you asked quietly, your breathing finally levelled.

It took him a few seconds to reply, his fingertips lazily tracing small, absentminded shapes along the curve of your back. “I didn’t think that far ahead,” he murmured.

You chuckled, your body shaking against his. “Liar.”

You laid there way past sunrise, trapped in your own bubble with no news from the outside world, letting yourselves believe every day could be like this. Maybe you'd work toward it, because when two orbiting bodies drift too close for too long, gravity does what it does best: pulls, tangles and devours…And eventually, combustion isn’t just inevitable... it’s the only possible ending.

----

💌: This is one of the longest pieces i've ever written and it's lead me to ask myself everyday since why tf i didn't chose to write in my own goddamn language. anyway this was great and i want dick :(

[jordiemeow]

home (is you) ✩ c.k

summary: your boyfriend clark always seems to find the light in everything. but with several hard fights back to back ending in numerous civilian casualties to weigh him down, he just needs a gentle touch to soothe him and coax him back to his former brightness.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ smut, porn w minimal plot, mild comfort in the form of sex, very brief dry humping, riding, no protection, kind of soft dom!reader, no superman spoilers

wc: 1.9k

notes: started a more dom!clark version of this but idk this felt more fitting. lil short but had to get Something for him out. slowburn fic in the works but i have some joaquín stuff to wrap up first <3

—

You always knew what you were signing up for when you fell in love with Clark Kent.

Not just the farm-boy charm or the unflinching kindness that makes the people of Metropolis trust him within minutes. Not even the gentle way he always holds your hand like you're something fragile. Delicate, to be cherished.

No, you knew what came with loving him. You signed up for the cape, the responsibility stitched into every seam of that blue and red suit. The scars that never get the chance to stay, but still mark him in ways you can't always see. For the nights he comes home smelling like ozone and steel and sweat, shoulders bowed with the entire weight of the world, and for the ache that comes with knowing he's the only one strong enough to carry it.

And you signed up for the silences. Especially on nights like this one, where he doesn't really talk much, voice crushed under the weight of what he deems to be failure.

You can tell by the slow way the apartment door shuts behind him, like he's on edge and afraid of breaking the hinges. No text in advance. No warm "I'm home!" No unmistakeable smell of sugary street donuts drifting down the hall. His footsteps are too quiet for a man his size, boots barely making a thud against the wood of the hallway. And when he rounds the corner, he doesn't look at you. He just drops to the edge of the bed, elbows on knees and fingers loosely laced, breathing like he's trying not to cry.

He won't. He never does. But just the thought makes your stomach churn.

When you look up from the book you've been pretending to read for the last hour, awaiting his return home, your heart cracks. "Clark?" You prompt, voice soft and gentle amidst the silence.

He's still deathly quiet, staring at the floor, his clothes clinging to his skin, muscles drawn tight beneath the fabric. You close the book quietly and set it aside. Stand and cross the room, steps slow and careful to avoid putting him even more on edge. When you reach him, you kneel between his knees and rest your hands lightly on his tense thighs.

He's changed out of his suit, but his skin is still tainted with the aftermath of battle, smeared with streaks of blood that definitely aren't his own and littered with fading bruises. He's a little drained, and with the sun hidden behind a dark sky smattered with stars, he just wants to go about it the human way of healing: sleeping it off. Clark shakes his head, jaw clenched, staring at some point past your shoulder. "Don't. I'll get soot on you."

"I don't care."

His hands twitch restlessly, bruised knuckles turning white from the tension. You see it now—the faintest tremor in his fingers. The clench of his jaw. The haunted look in those blue eyes that usually glow so easily with adoration when he looks at you.

"Clark," you try again, kneeling in front of him now. "Please?"

That breaks something in him. You can see it. Just a little, but you know him too well to not. His throat works around a sound he doesn't let escape. "I couldn't save them," he whispers when he finds his voice, raw and broken. It's nothing like the deep, charming timbre of the voice the rest of the city knows to be Superman. "There were too many. But I—I did everything I could. I swear, I did—"

"I know," you interject. Because he always does. "But you're not God, Clark."

His eyes flick up to meet yours, pain shining within the sapphire depths. "Sometimes I think people forget that."

"Then let me remind you."

Clark doesn't like to ask for help. He doesn't like showing weakness—not when the world counts on him to be indestructible. But when you rise up on higher your knees and press your forehead to his, his breath stutters and his resolve breaks. You cradle his jaw, thumbs brushing the dirt-streaked angles of his cheeks, and kiss the corner of his mouth in a gesture that isn't hungry. Hell, it's not even romantic. Just… grounding. Something that says hey, I'm right here. Always here.

"It's been a long week," he says hoarsely, a last-ditch attempt to brush your concerns off. He never likes to be a burden. Not to anyone, but certainly not you. "I'll be fine."

"You always say that," you chide gently. God, you remind him so much of his Ma sometimes. "But you're not steel, Clark. You bleed. You feel."

He tries to smile, but it's brittle at best, so you decide not to press. You just slide your hands up to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them one at a time. Your movement is slow and careful, but the pace sets his nerves alight between your touch. Your knuckles brush a bruise along his ribs and his breath catches—not from pain, he's faced much worse, but from the intimacy of your touch. You lean in and kiss it anyway. Another one on his hip. His sternum. His shoulder. Every mark you find becomes pure under your lips, as if your tenderness could erase the damage.

He watches you in silence when you push his shirt off his shoulders. You're still in your pyjamas—nothing particularly sexy, either. Just some cotton shorts and a faded grey tank top with the logo of his 'S' on the chest you brough home as a joke one night after work. But he still looks at you like you're bathed in silk and starlight rather than $20 worth of shitty merchandise.

"I hate seeing you like this," you admit in a whisper. "Torn down. Worn out. Freaks me out."

His hand cups your cheek, calloused thumb brushing just under your eye in a silent apology. He isn't able to find words, so you duck to press a kiss to his clothed knee and then stand slowly, coaxing him back onto the bed. His back hits the mattress with a low exhale, and you follow, straddling his lap with deliberate slowness. He groans at the weight of you, his hands moving to your hips to steady you both.

"You always carry so much," you continue, your words a soft breath that tickles his temple. "Let me carry this for you tonight."

You grind down gently, just enough for your bodies to brush through the fabric—his pants still on, your cotton shorts already damp and clinging. The friction is minimal but the pair of you share a stuttered breath. He's already getting hard beneath you, throbbing where your hips meet, but he doesn't buck. He waits. For you.

Always for you.

When you kiss him—slow and deep—you taste the iron of his split lip and soothe it with your tongue. He groans into your mouth, and that’s when the shift finally happens: he lets go, melting beneath you until he's practically one with the sheets.

"I don’t need much tonight, sweetheart," he whispers when you pull back for air. You almost laugh. Clark can always go for hours—you have Kryptonian stamina to thank for that—but you're not opposed to something slow tonight. Gentle. Loving. Something to remind him you're right there with him. "Just you."

Your hand slips between you, finding the fly of his pants to unzip. His hips lift a little to help you push them down, starry boxers and all, and then he visibly shudders beneath you when you draw him out. His cock is thick and hot and already leaking at the tip. You wrap your fingers around him, stroking him slowly, and his hips jerk despite himself.

He's so sensitive tonight. A smile graces your face, but you choose not to tease, not when he's in such a fragile state.

You tug your shorts aside, not even bothering to remove them fully. Just enough to let the heat between your thighs brush against him, a choked moan escaping you. You glide his cock along your folds—slick, teasing friction that makes him hiss through his teeth when your wetness lubes him up.

"Let me ride you," you murmur, breath catching. "Wanna take care of you."

"Are you sure?" He asks, even now, even like this—hard, throbbing, aching—he's always checking in, always so careful with you.

"I need to," you whisper.

You guide him in slowly, achingly, taking just the tip first. The stretch is deep, almost unbearable, but you don't rush. You've shared enough jokes about him having a Super-dick to know how to ease into it. You breathe through it, eyes locked on his, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. Inch by inch, you sink down until he's fully seated inside you, hips flush together.

He groans like it actually hurts him to feel this good. Ironic, considering you're the one being split open.

"Fuck," he chokes out.

"What happened to 'Superman doesn't swear?'"

He barely manage a laugh. "Shut up. Oh, you feel like heaven."

You finally start to move—slow, deliberate rolls of your hips that drag his cock along your walls in a rhythm that makes you both whimper. Every time you rise and fall, your cunt squeezes him just right, and his head drops back and his mouth falls open. The strain in his jaw softens, melts, and your name is an endless moan pouring from his lips.

He can't even fathom why he'd ever considered spending the night at the Fortress of Solitude instead of here with you.

"You're doing so good, Clark," you groan, rocking back against him. "That's it. Fuck, right there."

His breath hitches, eyes fluttering shut. He thrusts up just once, hips chasing yours, instinct breaking through discipline. You don't even have it in you to tut at him.

"I'm close," he confesses, voice cracking so hard with pleasure it borders on a whine. "Oh, fuck—baby, 'm gonna—nghhh—"

"You can cum inside me," you breathe. "I want you to."

He lets go instantly when he's granted permission. You can feel it—the shudder that overtakes him, the sharp intake of breath, the way his whole body trembles beneath you as he spills inside you with a low, broken moan. You can feel him pulsing as the warmth fills you, sudden and overwhelming. The fluttering of your walls prolongs his pleasure until his hips are canting up and his face is contorted in sheer ecstasy.

"Oh God, yes."

You keep moving in slow, lazy circles until his orgasm fades and he's softening inside you. Your fingers move to stroke through his hair, nails gently scraping his scalp, and he melts into it gratefully. Eyes half-shut, a light sheen of sweat covering his skin.

Eventually, you lift off him and guide him beneath the covers, ignoring the mess between your thighs when you fix your shorts back in place. He doesn't let go of you, pulling you with him, strong arms wrapping around you without preamble.

There's a long silence where all you can hear is his soft pants. Then, quietly, it's broken with:

"…You're the only thing that makes it bearable sometimes," he murmurs. "The only place I can breathe. Makes me feel human when all the Earth wants is some invincible hero."

You press a kiss to his jaw, and then a careful one to his bruised lip that'll no doubt be plump and healed soon. "You never have to be Superman with me."

His arms tighten around you. He exhales into your hair, warm and shaky and finally, finally at peace after a long week. Or a long life, if he's being honest.

"I know," he whispers. "That’s why I keep coming home."

Home: right here, with you.

—

taglist: @newrochellechallenger2019 @gibsongirrl @imperishablereverie @gracelynnx @ellaynaonsaturn — (join here)

[drunkenlionwrites]

Verso relationship headcanons

Pairing: g/n reader x painted Verso

Warnings: MDNI, canon setting, mild spoilers for the game, some nsfw smutty headcanons in the last part

Writer's note: i have few ideas and wanna write a few little somethings, so just wanted to define Verso a little bit more for myself before I start doing all this. Support banner by @cafekitsune

Verso doesn’t chase people, but he stays beside you. When he first meets you, he’s watchful, quiet. He listens more than he speaks, and his presence feels calm but unreadable. At first, you think he’s simply reserved. Later, you realize: he’s always looking for someone to hold onto.

He surprises you with how funny he is. Not the loud, outrageous kind of funny. Verso’s humor is dry, clever, and timed just right. He’s the guy who’ll quip softly under his breath at the worst possible time just to get you to laugh in the middle of a crisis.

You were the one who made the first move, or thought you did. In truth, he was quietly encouraging you the whole time. The small glances, the subtle closeness, the soft way he said your name - it was all intentional. He just never wanted to rush you.

Touch is sacred to him. He never takes it for granted. When you hold his hand, his fingers curl around yours so gently, like he’s afraid of breaking something fragile.

He’s not overtly clingy, but if you sit next to him, he’ll gradually lean in until your shoulders are touching. If you lie down beside him, he’ll shift closer until his forehead rests against yours, or you're tucked securely under his chin.

He kisses you slowly, thoughtfully. Like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he’s not sure he’ll get to do it again. It’s always careful, but never cold.

He holds you in his sleep. Always. Even if he starts on the other side of the bed, he’ll be curled around you by morning. You’ve woken up to find his hand in your hair, his face tucked against your neck, his breath soft and even.

He likes to do things with you. Even if it’s quiet work - making memos, cleaning weapons, preparing rations - he feels more grounded when you’re nearby.

He’s surprisingly good at small, domestic tasks. He braids rope better than anyone in the camp, and he brews tea like it’s a ritual. If you’re injured, he’s the one you want redressing your wounds: he’s gentle, precise, and always murmuring quiet reassurances.

He remembers everything. Your favorite way to eat eggs. Favorite pastry. Which side you sleep on. The fact that you get cold when the wind shifts. He rarely says anything about it, he just adjusts accordingly.

He doesn’t share easily, but he does with you. Not in big confessions, but in moments: a story, a sigh, a half-finished sentence. You learn to read the things he leaves unsaid.

You don’t know why he sometimes stares at the campfire like he’s mourning something. Or why he hesitates before kissing you goodnight. You don’t know what he carries, but you feel it. You’ve told him before: “Whatever it is, you don’t have to carry it alone.” He didn’t answer, but he kissed your forehead and held you until morning. NSFW headcanons:

Verso is gentle until he’s not. He starts off slow. Careful. Every touch is like a prayer. But once you’re his, once you ask for more, there’s a darker edge beneath the surface. He holds nothing back. He can’t.

He doesn’t treat sex casually. Whether it’s your first time or your fiftieth, there’s always an air of meaning behind it. You’ll catch him staring at you mid-act like he’s memorizing the way your body arches, the way you say his name.

He always puts you first. You won’t even have to ask, he’s attuned to every breath you take, every small sound, and he reads your reactions like scripture. Your pleasure is his anchor, his obsession. He needs to make you feel good like it’s the only way he can prove he’s real.

He doesn't do dirty talk per se, bu oh does he talk. He’s not loud, but when he speaks? It's all in that low, close voice that feels like it crawls down your spine. “There… that’s it. That’s what I wanted to hear.” “Tell me what you need. I’ll give you anything.” “You’re perfect like this… you know that?”

He wants to hear you. If you’re shy? He’ll tease it out of you slowly, murmuring praise in your ear, coaxing your voice with his touch. If you’re vocal? He drinks in every sound like it’s a gift.

He struggles sometimes with vulnerability afterward. You might see him get a little quiet after, especially if it was intense or loving. He’ll hold you like he’s afraid to let go but won’t always say why. He’ll just ask, “Was that okay?” with more weight behind it than he lets on.

He does have a praise kink -for yours, not his. He needs to be told he’s doing good. That he’s wanted. That he feels real to you. Whispering, “I want you,” or “You’re mine,” will wreck him every time.

Giving oral? An art form. Verso takes his time, devotes himself to it like it’s sacred. Expect strong arms pinning your thighs down while he loses himself between them. He’d do it for hours if you let him. He loves the way you come undone.

He’s into eye contact. Intense, soul-searching, “don’t-look-away-from-me” kind of eye contact. He wants to see you fall apart and wants you to see how much he feels for you when you do.

Loves it when you take initiative. If you climb into his lap, straddle him, or whisper in his ear that you want him? He gets so still. Like his breath catches in his throat. He’ll blink once, then reach for you with shaking hands, like you just gave him the stars.

Loves aftercare. Whether it was sweet or intense, he’s all about holding you close afterward. Pulling the blanket around both of you. Stroking your back. Kissing the top of your head and whispering, “You’re everything to me.”

There’s always something just beneath the surface. A tension, like he’s fighting something, holding back too much emotion or too much truth. But in these moments, it slips out: The way he touches you like you’re a memory he’s terrified of losing.The way he gasps your name like he’s grateful to be saying it.The way he holds you after like he might never get the chance again.

He never says it during sex, not I love you. Not directly. But it’s in every touch, every look. You feel it more than you hear it.

[blindmagdalena]

Night Terrors

1.6k homelander x reader. established relationship. pure comfort fic. remaster of this old prompt. very mild spoilers for s4 if you squint. mostly just wanted to self-soothe with some comfort/cuddle fic. gif credit.

It's been decades since Homelander last stepped foot in The Bad Room, but when he wakes from a nightmare of it in your shared bed, it's as if he never left.

Most of the nights you spend with Homelander are peaceful. 

Tonight is not most nights.

The scream that wakes you from a dead sleep is guttural, barely human. Homelander is sitting upright, frenzied and wild-eyed, the ocean blue of them obscured by crimson glow. You're not even sure that he sees you through it when he looks at you. He's panting like he just ran a marathon, and the comforter is ripped cleanly in half, the two sides strewn on either side of him. "John," you call softly, reaching out to touch his arm, but he jerks away from your hand like you've burned him. "Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, wrapping his arms around himself. Sometimes he is small during these fits, curled in on himself, begging you to make it stop. Not tonight. Tonight he is another self, spitting rage and violence through remembered agony. A cornered animal. "I'll fucking kill you!" "John," you say again, pleading. You know he isn't talking to you. He's speaking to the ghosts of his past. "You're in our bed. You're with me. I would never hurt you. I love you, John." His name is a double-edged sword. It cuts clean through to something at the core of him in a way that “Homelander” doesn’t. Each use of it acts like a shock to his irregulated system.

You keep your hands outstretched, but you don't touch him. You show him that you aren't holding anything. Not a pen, not a notepad, not a needle. You show that you don't mean him any harm. 

God knows he's suffered enough. With the sound of your voice, the red glow of his eyes gradually dims, flickers, and then finally it goes out entirely. He's still panting, hands moving slowly down his arms, his torso, checking himself for injury. Though his body bears no scars of the pain he’s endured, his mind knows exactly where each one of them would be. Bit by bit, you watch him come back to himself. He looks around the room, taking in the evidence of your truth. Framed photos, décor, the life you’ve built together. It isn't a concrete dungeon. It isn’t a lab. It isn’t an incinerator. It's home. "Fuck," he says quietly, hiccupping the word into his palm. He says it again, louder, screwing his glassy eyes shut. The third time he says it, it's nearly a sob. It’s agony to wait, but you don’t touch him before he’s ready. You fist the bedsheets, you don’t stop talking. I’m here. I’m right here. I love you. You’re safe. You’re not sure if it’s minutes or seconds before he reaches for you. All you know is you act immediately. You move swiftly up on your knees, climbing over the ruined blankets to take him into your arms, pulling his head to rest against your chest, bringing his ear close to the beat of your heart. You hush him while you work to unstick the words from your throat, unable to help the tears that well in your eyes.

The fear and misery in him is so palpable, you nearly feel as if it’s your own. He wraps his arms around you without hesitation, pulling you to sit sideways in his lap as he weeps against you. It's taken a long time to reach this point. He used to swallow it back like bile, adamant for the longest time that you not see this side of him, this aspect of himself that he thinks ugly, imperfect, broken. You fought for this. As you hold him through these bone-deep sobs, it shatters you that it's taken him this long for him to find someone who would. "You're safe," you whisper, battling to keep the tears from your voice. "You're home. You're with me. You're safe. I love you so, so much." He rocks back and forth, choking on his sobs. “I could feel it,” he tells you, the words barely escaping the clench of his teeth. “It hurt. Every second of it, and they just–they all just watched.”

You close your eyes, tears rolling down your cheeks and disappearing into the softness of his hair. You kiss the crown of his head again and again, combing your fingers through his hair where it’s damp with sweat and your own tears. “You’re safe now,” you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. It isn’t enough, but these words and touches are all you have to offer him against the torment of his childhood.

His grip on you tightens. It wouldn’t take much for him to snap you in half.

That scare you? He’d asked you once. How easily I could break you?”

No, you admitted. It makes me appreciate how hard you try not to. It takes time for his breathing to even out. His hold softens, but he doesn't relinquish you. For as terrible as the nightmares are, it's the shame he experiences in the aftermath that often requires the most care. 

You rub firm circles on his back with one hand while cradling the back of his head with the other, trailing butterfly kisses along his temple, his forehead, down to his cheek. Any part of him you can reach, you kiss, murmuring quiet assurances in between, as if to imbue him with each word. Eventually, the rocking stops. He's breathing more steadily now, arms encircled firmly around your waist. He gives a shaking sigh. "Sorry," he whispers, voice strained. That's a word in his vocabulary that rarely comes up, but when it does, it is always drenched in shame. He hates himself for this. "Don't," you whisper, carding your fingers through his hair. You sniff back your tears, letting out a breath. "I asked for this. I begged you for this," you emphasize, earnest. You cup his face, angling him to look up at you. "Let me do this for you. Please. You have nothing to be ashamed of." He stares at you with large, watery blue eyes. The whites are red, strained by the force of his grief, his durability tested only by his own power. In his gaze you see damage done to him that may never heal, but your words settle over invisible scars like a soothing balm. It’s that very look of vulnerability that has driven you to this depth of love. You know his violence, his viciousness, but so too do you know the fragile man it protects.

Most of all, the scared boy beneath it all.

His grip on you flexes, his jaw clenched. The nature of your insight into him is both a blessing and a curse to him. He cannot hide from you. You know his shame, and despite how deeply he needs your compassion, your understanding, it’s something he has to bleed for every time. He’s perpetually torn between his desperation to be your perfect hero, and his soul-deep yearning to be safely vulnerable. 

If you have to, you'll spend the rest of your life convincing him that he can have both.

Finally, his shoulders sag. "I love you," he says, quietly defeated by your warmth. "I'll never hurt you. Ever." You recognize the plea in his words. He's terrified that someday it will be too much. You’ll see what everyone else sees, and your love will be tainted–destroyed–by your inevitable fear of him. You hope one day that he’ll understand why that will never happen. Someday the depths of your love will soak in as deep as the misery of his past, and he’ll be able to forgive himself for the human way his god’s heart bleeds. "I know. I know that.” You kiss the top of his head, still rubbing his back, taking your hand away only to swipe the tears from your face. “I love you, too. Every part of you."

Even the parts you hate. Gingerly, he lifts you just enough to lay you back down on the bed. He wastes no time cuddling back in against you, burrowing his face into the crook of your neck. The bedding is ruined, but he runs warm enough that you hardly notice the absence of cover while he’s holding you. Your legs tangle with his, bodies slotting together easily. He nuzzles as if he can worm his way closer than skin to skin. If you could, you’d open your ribcage to welcome him inside. He could eat your heart if it kept his beating another day.

"Will you... talk me to sleep?" He asks, threads of shame lingering in the request. The tension has drained away, leaving him vulnerable and exhausted. His blinks are slow, the curve of his lips mournful. "Of course," you whisper, smoothing your hand up and down his back. This isn’t the first time you’ve talked him back to sleep, and you doubt it’ll be the last. Sometimes you tell him the plot of a book as best you can recall, other times it's random anecdotes from your life. Sometimes it's complete nonsense. To him, it doesn't matter what you say. All that matters is that when he does finally drift back into sleep, it's your voice that safeguards him there. 

Gladly, he rests his head back down on your chest, closing his eyes with a rumbling sigh while your nails drag along his scalp. You cradle him there, savoring the warmth of him as it seeps into the marrow of your bones, the weight of him grounding you.

You tell him stories until sleep finds him. Even then, you continue to speak until your voice frays and you can no longer keep your eyes open. You speak and speak and speak hoping that somehow, in some small way, you can help make up for the years he spent with only his own voice for comfort.

[junuru]

・☄︎ CRUSH

chapter 08:

SYNOPSIS — The last thing ten-year-old you ever imagined was falling in love at fourteen, getting your heart broken at seventeen, and spending your early twenties hunting down Jujutsu Society’s most wanted — your (ex?) boyfriend. But the last thing your twenty-something-year-old self expected? Falling for his best friend... just before your ex comes crashing back into your life after over a decade of silence.

WC — (7.7k) not proofread

CONTENT — HI arc spoilers, angst/comfort?, mei mei descriptions of violence, canon character death(s), implied intercourse, depression, mental health

a/n: in honour of the HI/PD movie that came out this week... im posting this and going RIGHT to sleep dont hate me too much el oh el

series m. list | m. list

Spring, 2006

You blink twice, eyes adjusting to the dull light streaming through cracked paper screens, and turn your head just enough to see Mei Mei dusting off her coat with mild annoyance.

"That’s the third time we’ve passed that exact pile of trash," Mei Mei said, voice calm but pointed as she paused in the corridor. "Same newspaper, same broken cup. This hallway’s looping."

You stopped next to her, brow furrowed. The stagnant air felt heavier with every step, like something was pressing down on your chest.

"Do you think it’s the cursed spirit’s domain?" Utahime asked, glancing over her shoulder.

Mei Mei shook her head. “Unlikely. A domain is a manifestation of the user’s mindscape. This is too… consistent. We’re in a barrier designed to trap prey.”

You let your hand fall to the hilt of your weapon, cursed energy humming low. “So we’re basically stuck on repeat until we figure out how to break the loop?”

"Exactly." Mei Mei turned slightly, casting Utahime a pointed look. “So. What’s our best move?”

You recognized the tone immediately.

Utahime straightened. “It’s not circular. I’ve been counting steps, the layout resets, but it’s not curving. It’s patching together the same hallway as we walk. If we outrun it, at some point, it’ll break.”

Mei Mei’s mouth curled in something that resembled a smile. “Ninety points. We’ll have to split up and run in opposite directions. If we’re lucky, we’ll hit the barrier’s edge faster than it can reconfigure.”

“Guess that means I’m sprinting,” you muttered, flexing your fingers, already channeling cursed energy to your legs.

“Don’t fall behind,” Mei Mei said smoothly. “Or do. I’ll still get out.”

You shot her a look, but nodded regardless.

The three of you took position. A breath.

“Now!” Utahime shouted.

You shot forward, feet slamming against the wooden floor, the mansion blurring past — but something felt wrong. The walls began to groan, wood splitting and shaking. You staggered slightly as the structure began to shudder around you.

“Wait!” Utahime’s voice rang out from somewhere behind you. “Something’s—!”

The floor collapsed beneath your feet.

You hit the ground hard, coughing as dust and splinters clouded the air. Something sharp nicked your arm as rubble poured over you. For a moment, you couldn't breathe.

Then… silence.

You heard footsteps first. Fast, purposeful.

“Baby!”

You blinked, eyes fluttering open as a hand gripped your arm and began clearing debris from your body.

"Suguru," you gasped. "You're here?"

He smiled down at you, hair loose and covered in dust, but relief soft in his expression. “Of course I’m here. You were gone for so long.”

From above, a familiar voice shouted, “I’m here to save you, Utahime! You crying?”

"No, I’m not crying!" Utahime snapped from where she was climbing out of the debris, scowling as Gojo hovered above her, impossibly clean and smug despite the wreckage. “Be more polite!”

Geto helped you sit up gently, checking your arm, and turning your attention away from their bickering. “You okay?”

You nodded, winded. “Bruised, only a little.”

“Good.” He stood, offered his hand. “Let’s go join the others before Gojo starts making comments about us.”

You took it, letting him pull you up as the broken remnants of the mansion finally settled around you.

A shriek echoed through the rubble as the cursed spirit — the one that had trapped you inside the house — burst up from the earth, grotesque and twisted, its mouth splitting wide in a jagged roar.

Your cursed energy surged, instinct snapping through your veins, pulsing to your arms as you dropped into a stance, ready to fight.

But Suguru didn't move.

He barely glanced at the curse before sighing, like it was more of a chore than a threat.

Then, without warning, another curse exploded from beneath the first, even larger, its black form curling up and swallowing the smaller spirit whole in one clean snap.

“Don’t swallow it,” he instructed calmly, eyes flicking toward the beast. “I’ll absorb it later.”

You exhaled, releasing the tension in your shoulders, your cursed energy settling as you stepped closer, looping your arm around his again. The two of you continued walking, heading back toward the others.

“Satoru,” he called out lazily, voice teasing as Gojo came into view, “It’s not nice to pick on the weak, you know?”

You elbowed his side, a quick jab of protest for calling your friend weak.

“Well, I suppose you’re calling your girlfriend weak too then?” he added, grin curling as he looked down at you.

You rolled your eyes, but before you could fire back, the group finally came into view.

“Nah,” he said, pressing a kiss to your cheek, his voice dropping softer. “My baby’s the strongest.”

“Ew,” Gojo sticks his tongue out. “And what kind of idiot picks on the strongest?”

You roll your eyes, brushing stray dust from your cheek with the back of your hand, muttering something under your breath as Suguru smirks beside you.

“You’re the one naturally fanning the flames, Geto,” Mei Mei calls out coolly, implying that his smugness might’ve just triggered another Gojo-level ego spiral.

Utahime turns around slowly, her expression darkening like a storm cloud. She’s never been particularly fond of your choice in a boyfriend — too arrogant, too smooth, too Geto. And something about watching him drape himself around you like you were made of spun gold seemed to ignite her fuse just a little quicker.

But before she can launch into an outburst, a voice cuts through the breeze, distant but familiar.

It calls out your name. Then, louder — “Utahime!”

Everyone turns toward the hill. Utahime’s scowl vanishes instantly, her face shifting into one of stunned relief as she spots the figure climbing steadily up the incline.

“Shoko!” she breathes, and takes off running.

“I was so worried about you,” Shoko says, letting the other girl crash into her. “We hadn’t heard from you guys in two whole days.”

“Shokooo,” she flops against her friend’s shoulder like a child needing comfort. “Don’t let yourself turn out like those two, okay?”

Shoko chuckles, catching sight of you clinging to Suguru’s arm and shooting you a wink. “Nah,” she says with a smug grin. “I’m not trash like they are.”

Gojo giggles, already leaning forward with a gleam in his eye as Suguru helps steady you up the last few steps of the hill. “Hey, you guys don’t turn out like Utahime.”

Suguru snorts, but catches your unimpressed look. He lets out a breathy laugh before muttering with a shrug, “Eh, shut up.”

You finally make it up the hill, Suguru’s hand steady at your back until the moment you break away to join the other two girls in a messy, relieved group hug. The air is cool, sharp with lingering cursed energy, but you barely notice it. Utahime pulls back first, eyes searching your face with quiet concern, her hands landing gently on both of your shoulders.

“Wait—two whole days?” she asks, confusion furrowing her brow.

Behind her, Gojo tilts his head toward Mei Mei. “Ah… was the cursed spirit’s barrier one of those that messes with time?”

She nods once, brushing ash off her sleeve. “That would make sense.”

Gojo narrows his eyes, catching the glint of calculation on her face. “Something wrong?”

“Not really,” she says simply, arms crossing. “That means it took two full days of labour, so I was thinking about how to rewrite the invoice for extra fees now owed to me.”

Utahime sighs, leaning in closer until her forehead gently presses against yours and Shoko’s, whispering, “She’s planning to overscharge again.”

You stifle a laugh, but before you can respond, Mei Mei’s tone sharpens. “More importantly,” she says, straightening up, “what about the veil?”

The mood drops like a stone.

Satoru. Suguru. Shoko. All freeze where they stand.

You and Utahime share a deadpan look, while the others slowly process the mistake.

Because… shit.

Since you were fighting a curse inside an abandoned mansion, no one had thought a veil was necessary. But when the boys arrived, the cursed spirit’s domain had collapsed. The indoor structure was shredded, and in its wake, you’d all been pushed outside… into the very public outskirts of Hamamatsu City.

Meaning no veil had been placed to conceal the fight. Meaning everything — the cursed spirits, the explosions, the debris — was fully visible. To everyone.

Suguru rubs his temple, groaning. “We are so screwed.”

“I’m going to be in so much paperwork hell,” Shoko mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Eh,” Gojo says, already waving it off as he steps toward you. “I’ll just blame it on Mei Mei.”

“You wouldn’t,” she answers flatly, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder.

“Let’s just go before someone tries to arrest us,” Utahime groans, pulling your sleeve as she begins marching down the other side of the hill.

You don’t even argue, too tired and sore to think clearly, your body still half-numb from adrenaline and your boyfriend’s curse wrapping protectively around your waist.

Shoko exhales, looking at her watch. “I can call in the veil after the fact and file it as a long-distance grade emergency. Might save us from an inquiry.”

Suguru chuckles beside you. “You’re evil.”

She shrugs. “I learned from the best.”

With what’s left of your strength, you all begin making your way back toward the cars, bloodied and dusty, knowing that the aftermath would probably be worse than the curse.

You’re half-asleep atop one of Suguru’s curses, curled on the gym floor where the early afternoon sun filters through the high windows. The faint sound of rubber slapping hardwood, Satoru’s dramatic shouting, and Suguru’s dry comebacks blend together into a sort of chaotic lullaby. The curse beneath you hums gently, dulling the vibration of the bouncing basketball and cradling you just enough to keep you from fully waking.

Until it doesn’t.

Without warning, the curse slithers out from under you, dissipating into black smoke as your body hits the polished floor with a soft thud.

Your eyes blink open slowly, met with the sight of Suguru rubbing the back of his neck as he mumbles something to Satoru. His cursed spirit obediently coils behind him like a scolded dog.

“Sorry, baby,” Suguru says over his shoulder, the smallest smirk tugging at his lips.

“Gross,” Satoru mutters, pretending to retch loudly.

You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes just as they return to their bickering — voices overlapping in some ridiculous debate about sorcerers and non-sorcerers.

The gym doors bang open.

“How long are you going to be fooling around?” Yaga’s voice booms across the space, causing both boys to flinch and immediately step apart, feigning stretches like they weren’t just two seconds from strangling each other.

“Where did Shoko go?” Yaga demands, scanning the gym.

“Who knows?” Suguru says with a shrug, his curse vanishing entirely.

“Little girls room?” Satoru suggests, all teeth and mischief.

“Whatever,” Yaga sighs. “This mission is being assigned only to you two anyway.”

Satoru’s face lights up like a child getting picked first for dodgeball.

You start dusting yourself off as Yaga’s gaze shifts to you. “Out,” he says flatly.

You nod, already halfway to the door. “I’ll go find Shoko,” you say as you slip out, the echo of Satoru and Suguru’s voices quickly muffled behind the heavy gym doors.

The hallways are quieter than usual. Afternoon light casts long shadows along the polished floors as you round the corner toward the infirmary. No sign of Shoko there. You double back, checking the lounge next, only to find an untouched cup of coffee still steaming on the table.

You eventually find her on the rooftop, seated on the ledge with a cigarette between her fingers, squinting up at the clouds like they’re about to offer her a new reason to be annoyed.

She turns her head slightly as you step closer. “Yaga send you?”

You nod, walking over and plopping down beside her.

“He say I was skipping again?”

You shrug. “He was more concerned about where you vanished to. Suguru and Satoru are apparently going on some sort of mission.”

Shoko huffs a small laugh, exhaling a stream of smoke. “Good. Maybe they’ll burn off some of that testosterone.”

You smile, leaning back beside her. The silence between you is comfortable, the kind that only exists between people who have seen too much together.

After a minute, she offers the cigarette your way.

“You look like you need this more than I do.”

You shake your head softly. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

Shoko doesn’t press. She nods once, slowly, and takes another drag from her cigarette.

“Two full days awake and not even realizing it… guess it’s catching up to me,” you murmur, the weight of it all finally sinking into your bones as you lean over, resting your head on her shoulder.

She hums in response.

You sit like that for a moment, letting the silence stretch, broken only by the breeze and the low city hum in the distance.

“Time’s weird, huh,” Shoko says, half to herself. “You thought it was just an afternoon.”

You let out a tired laugh, eyes still closed. “And somehow it didn’t even feel like we were gone. Like we blinked and the sun jumped two days ahead.”

Shoko takes one last drag, then flicks the cigarette over the ledge.

You pull your knees up to your chest, gaze soft as you look out over the rooftops. “I kept thinking about him,” you admit. “Suguru.”

She glances at you, quiet for a beat. “Yeah. He didn’t stop worrying about you while you were gone.”

You smile, tired but warm.

“You’re lucky,” she says. “Even if I want to slap the both of you most days.”

“I’ll take the slap,” you say, eyes flicking toward her with a ghost of a grin, “as long as I don’t have to go back in that damn house again.”

Shoko pushes up from the ledge and stretches, arms overhead. “Well, you don’t — for now. But you do have to get off your ass and come eat. I stole one of Mei Mei’s onigiris before she started her invoice breakdown.”

You laugh, dragging yourself to your feet beside her. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me a lot more than that,” she smirks, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk toward the door.

Suguru came to say goodbye about an hour and a half later, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up and a mission file tucked under his arm. He looked tired, like he already had too much on his mind.

“The mission’s only supposed to last a couple days,” he said, brushing your hair back as you leaned into him at the gates. “Two or three at most. We’ll be back before you even miss us.”

You didn’t doubt it. Not with both him and Satoru on it. The Star Plasma Vessel wasn’t a walk in the park, but if anyone could handle it, it was the two of them.

“Be safe,” you told him, standing on your toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “And tell Satoru not to get too cocky.”

He chuckled, hand catching yours before he pulled away. “No promises.”

And for the first two days, you weren’t worried.

You filled your time at Jujutsu High with sparring sessions and patrols, occasionally helping Yaga organize curse reports for the incoming summer wave. The two new first-years — Nanami and Haibara — had started clinging to you like shadows, trailing behind with eager questions and bright eyes that reminded you a little too much of a younger version of your team.

By day three, Suguru still hadn’t returned. You figured maybe they hit a snag. Maybe Satoru had gotten cocky and dragged things out. It wasn’t unusual.

By midday, the atmosphere around Jujutsu High had shifted.

A sudden fly-head curse attack erupted across the school grounds. You’d seen them before — minor curses, usually attached to the weak or those with residual negativity from nearby towns.

Everyone was mobilized immediately, the school buzzing with movement as students and staff leapt into formation. You, too, stepped in without hesitation, exorcising the pests with a flick of your wrist, your cursed energy slicing through clusters of the grotesque things.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended.

The curses were gone and the campus was quiet again.

Nanami muttered under her breath as he helped Shoko clean up a few first years who had taken minor hits.

“It’s probably a prank,” he said, rolling her eyes. “Kyoto’s version of a joke.”

But even as laughter started to return and teachers waved the incident off, the worry in your chest only deepened.

By day four, you noticed Shoko was nowhere to be found either. Yaga’s office had been locked for nearly 48 hours. A few teachers murmured about “something big” — but no one had answers. That was when the unease began to settle in your gut like a weight.

You’d fall asleep with your phone next to your pillow, waiting for a message that never came. Nanami noticed. Haibara too. They didn’t ask, but they stayed close.

On the evening of the fifth day, you sat alone under the shade of the old camphor tree by the courtyard, watching the shadows stretch across the stone. The sun had dipped low behind the roofline, and the breeze carried the heavy scent of summer storms.

Still no word. No sign of Suguru. Or Satoru.

And for the first time, you felt it — that low, gnawing fear in your chest.

Because when Gojo was quiet, something was wrong.

And when Suguru didn’t come home?

Something was very wrong.

Shoko came around the next morning, but something was different.

She didn’t look at you the same way she used to. Her usual dry humor was absent, replaced with clipped responses and a distant expression. You caught her lingering in doorways, always half-turned away, always too quick to leave. When you asked if she wanted coffee, she said she wasn’t staying long.

You didn’t ask questions. You couldn’t — the weight in her eyes already told you too much.

But then you noticed something else: the school was quiet. Too quiet.

There were fewer students walking the halls, fewer teachers in the staff rooms. You caught glimpses of second-years murmuring in corners, eyes darting toward the sealed-off northern wing like they were waiting for something—or someone.

A barrier had been placed there. Thick, dark, pulsing with cursed energy. No one was allowed in or out. The entrance was completely blocked off, wrapped in talismans you hadn’t seen before, reinforced with something stronger than just jujutsu.

When you’d asked Nanami, he’d just shaken his head. “They’re not supposed to talk about it.”

And Haibara had frowned, fiddling with the hem of his sleeve. “It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know.

But when you passed the northern corridor and felt the air grow cold—when your cursed energy prickled at the edge of that barrier like it was recoiling—you started to suspect what you didn’t want to believe.

Something terrible had happened.

And no one was telling you the truth.

That night, a soft knock echoed through your dorm room.

You’d already been crying. You hadn’t even heard the first few knocks over the sound of your own sobs. Every awful thought had spiraled through your mind like a storm you couldn’t outrun.

What if Suguru was hurt?What if he was dead?What if he needed help and no one was there to save him?

Then came the voice.

“Hey, sweet girl,” came from the other side of the door. “I know you’re awake. Can you let me in, please?”

You were on your feet in an instant.

The door flew open, and there he was — Suguru, alive and in one piece, though his posture was stiff and there were dark shadows under his eyes. He wore a loose grey t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair pulled back sloppily like he hadn’t slept in days.

You launched yourself into his arms, only for him to grunt softly, wincing.

“Easy,” he murmured, catching you anyway, cradling you against him like he’d die before letting go.

Before you could ask what had happened, he gently stepped inside, guiding you toward your bed. He sat down and pulled you into his lap, his hands moving to cup your face as he kissed the tear tracks from your cheeks, over and over again.

“Why’re you crying, baby?” he asked, voice barely more than a whisper. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth. “Who did this to you?”

“I was worried,” you said, your voice cracking. “No one told me anything. You didn’t come back. And I thought— I thought something happened—”

He kissed you again, stopping the words. “I know. I know, I’m sorry.” His forehead leaned against yours. “I’m not supposed to say anything. But I came to tell you anyway.”

You blinked at him, heart pounding.

“I couldn’t leave you in the dark like that,” he whispered. “Not you.”

Suguru's hands were warm around yours as he sat beside you on your bed, fingers tangled with yours like he was afraid to let go. His body was tense—wound tight like a string pulled too far. You had your knees pulled up, leaning into him, heart pounding too hard in your chest as you waited for him to speak.

He took a shaky breath and started.

“It was supposed to be simple. Escort the girl—Riko Amanai—to Tengen. Keep her safe. That’s it.” His jaw clenched. “It felt... almost easy, at first. She was a kid, kind of annoying, but not in a bad way. Full of life. She was normal. Wanted to go to the beach, eat junk, sneak around like any girl her age.”

He looked down at your hands in his. “I wanted her to have that. If she was going to lose her identity to become part of some immortal being... she deserved a few good days first.”

You nodded quietly, throat tight.

“But then someone put a bounty on her. Out of nowhere, a bunch of curse users started showing up. My curses, two of them, got wiped out without me even noticing until it was too late. That should’ve been the first sign it was bad.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Then Kuroi—her caretaker—got taken. So we went to Okinawa to get her back.”

Your brows furrowed. “You... went to the beach?”

Suguru looked down, ashamed. “Yeah. After we saved Kuroi, we took her swimming. I let Satoru talk us into it. We should’ve gone straight back to Jujutsu High, but... for once, it felt like we were doing something right. Satoru even said it—‘We’re the strongest. What could go wrong?’”

There was venom in his voice now.

He went quiet for a moment, then said, “When we got back to campus... that’s when it happened. He was waiting.”

“Who?” you whispered.

“Toji Fushiguro,” he said. “Sorcerer killer. I’d only heard of him before. Didn’t even sense him coming. He was like... nothing. Empty. No cursed energy. Satoru took him head on.”

Suguru swallowed, hands tightening around yours like he needed the pressure to stay grounded. “I didn’t even know what was happening. One second Satoru was standing. The next... he was down. Blood everywhere.”

You gasped, a hand flying to your mouth.

“I tried to get Riko out. But... Toji caught up. I failed. I let him kill her. I let her die.” His voice broke. “I was too slow. Too weak.”

“No,” you said immediately, squeezing his hand. “Suguru, no—”

He shook his head. “Satoru died, too. He told me later—he really died.”

Your eyes widened, vision blurring with tears as you searched his face. He let go of your hand just long enough to reach for the hem of his shirt. Slowly, he lifted it, revealing the clean white bandages pressed tightly across his stomach and chest. Right at the center was a thick strip covering the place where the blade had gone through.

“He got me too,” he said. “But I’m okay, I promise..”

Your breath caught.

He kept going, voice cracking as he did.

“Satoru came back. Somehow. He... unlocked something. Said it was like enlightenment. He came back stronger than anything I’ve ever seen. He killed Toji. But not before...” He looked down at the bandages again. “Not before nearly dying again.”

Your tears finally spilled over. You leaned forward, wrapping your arms around him, face pressed to his neck. “I can’t lose you,” you sobbed. “I can’t—I won’t.”

His arms came around you, crushing you to his chest as if he felt the same.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” he whispered. “But that’s the world we live in. Every day it’s something. And lately... it feels like it’s only getting worse.”

You pulled back enough to look at him, only to find his own eyes glassy now, rimmed with red.

“I was so scared,” he said, his voice breaking. “When he didn’t wake up—when there was nothing I could do—I thought... that’s it. I’ve lost him. Just like I’ll lose you. Just like I’ll lose everyone.”

“You haven’t lost me,” you said firmly. “I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He broke then, finally letting himself cry—quiet tears slipping down his cheeks as you cupped his face, brushing them away.

“Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you’ll stay safe. Even if it means running. Even if it means leaving me behind.”

“I can’t promise that,” you whispered back. “Because I’d never leave you behind.”

You both sat like that for a long time, wrapped up in grief and love and fear.

You lift the hem of his shirt again, fingers trembling as you glance down at the bandage stretched across his stomach.

“Does it hurt?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks at you, tired and quiet, like he’s measuring how much truth you can handle.

Then he nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I won’t sugarcoat it. He sliced me—” he raises a hand, fingers dragging an invisible X across his torso, “—like that. All the way through.”

You let out a quiet, choked sob and collapse against him, pressing your forehead to his chest like it could somehow stop the ache building in your own. His arms fold around you again, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.

“I’m okay now,” he says, but his voice is raw, and neither of you believe it.

You cry harder.

When your sobs finally start to slow—hiccuping breaths and red eyes and snot-streaked cheeks—you’re both still sitting there, wrapped in each other. Suguru reaches for a tissue from your nightstand, dabbing under your eyes with exaggerated care before giving you a teasing smile.

“Still pretty,” he says.

You huff a laugh, watery and broken. “Liar.”

“Nope,” he says, leaning forward to kiss your temple. “Prettiest crier I’ve ever seen.”

Eventually, he shifts you gently down into bed, murmuring soft reassurances the entire time, like you might break again if the silence stretches too long. He helps you under the covers, climbing in beside you, one arm protectively around your waist, the other tucked beneath your head like a second pillow.

His heartbeat is solid against your cheek. Slower now. Grounding.

“I’m glad you’re home,” you whisper.

“I’m glad I made it back,” he replies, voice so low it’s barely a breath.

You fall asleep like that, curled into him, fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go.

And for the first time in days, your mind is still.

You think maybe everything will settle down again. Maybe in a week or two, life will go back to normal. Suguru will smile the same, joke the same, and Satoru will be loud and impossible again. Missions will rotate, students will train, and this awful ache will ease.

You let yourself believe it.

Fall, 2006

You were wrong, and everything has changed.

If Satoru had been strong before, he’s untouchable now.

He walks like the ground owes him something, and maybe it does — maybe the world finally realized it can’t keep up. He’s faster. Sharper. His technique has evolved into something impossible. Everyone says it: He’s become a god among sorcerers.

But you know better.

You see the way his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore. How even though he jokes and teases, there’s something beneath it now.

And Suguru—

Suguru hasn’t been the same since.

At first, you told yourself he was grieving. That he just missed his best friend — their bond was always deeper than anyone else could understand. They were a unit. The strongest. And now, it’s just Satoru.

He doesn’t say it, but you can feel it radiating off of him: the shift in balance. The way the world looks at Satoru like he’s the answer to everything now, and Suguru’s just… left behind.

You tried to talk to him about it, once. Just weeks after everything with the Star Plasma Vessel. When the wound on his chest was still healing. When the nights were still filled with nightmares, and he’d wake up drenched in sweat, breath catching like he was still there — in that moment. You’d reached out, tried to get him to talk, to let you in.

He didn’t.

Instead, he just pulled you close, like that could shield him from everything else. And maybe it did. For a little while.

But now?

Now he’s slipping.

He disappears between classes. Missions start piling up and he takes fewer and fewer of them. You catch him zoning out at odd hours — at lunch, during training. Sometimes you find him alone in the prayer room, just sitting there with his hands in his lap and eyes on the floor like he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

And Satoru doesn’t even notice.

He’s too busy being unstoppable.

Too busy making up for the life he couldn’t save.

The three of you — the four of you, even with Shoko — haven’t been in the same room in weeks. Not really. Not without something between you: silence, or tension, or a memory no one wants to talk about.

You thought, after everything, you’d find your way back to normal. You thought you could hold onto what was left.

But summer’s come and gone, and everything’s changed, and you don’t know if you’ll ever get any of it back.

Tonight’s no different. Suguru doesn’t sleep in his room anymore.

He slips quietly into the girls’ dorms under the cover of midnight — past curfew, past the threshold of what the school would allow — and into your room like it’s second nature. No one questions it. Not anymore. Not when it’s become a nightly routine.

The sheets are warm and tangled, and so are you, still catching your breath. His skin is flushed, cooling from the heat you’d stirred between you, and his body is relaxed in the kind of way you only ever see after moments like these.

You lie sprawled across his chest, the beat of his heart slow and steady beneath your cheek, your fingers tracing idle shapes over the gauze still wrapped across his torso.

“They’re just habit now,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded as he glances down at your hand. “I don’t need them anymore.”

“I know,” you whisper, but you don’t stop.

Your fingertip follows the edge of the bandage anyway, light and reverent. You both know what lies beneath it — the scar, the X, the phantom memory of a blade meant to kill him.

After a pause, you speak again, voice quiet in the stillness of the night.

“Is something wrong?”

His hand comes up to rest on your bare back, stroking gently along your spine. “No,” he says, but then after a beat: “I’ve just been thinking a lot.”

“About?”

He’s quiet for a moment. “Just… life.”

You lift your head to meet his eyes. “Okay,” you say simply. “I love you forever.”

The corner of his mouth lifts, and he turns to kiss your temple. “I love you forever too.”

You settle your head back on his chest, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing, and then he speaks again.

“One day, when we’re done with all this… I was thinking—maybe we get a beach house.”

You smile into his skin. “In the countryside?”

“Yeah. Big enough for three kids, a couple cats.”

“And a room for Satoru,” you tease.

He chuckles, breath warm in your hair. “Unfortunately.”

You both laugh softly.

“And maybe a garden,” you add, your fingers curling around his. “For you to grow all your weird herbs.”

“I’ll grow you sunflowers,” he says. “Big, yellow ones. The ones that look like the sun.”

You grin. “You’re gonna grow me a whole field.”

“A whole damn field,” he says, kissing the top of your head. “Just wait.”

He watches you lazily as you move across the bed, the sheets falling around your hips like waves, your silhouette soft in the moonlight leaking through the window.

“Twenty-six,” he answers after a pause, voice low and certain. “Old enough to have figured some shit out. Young enough to still be stupid in love.”

You smile, tugging your shirt over your head and crawling back into the sheets beside him. “Twenty-six, huh? That’s so far away, though.”

“Plenty of time to convince you I’m still the one,” he teases, pulling you close again, your bodies fitting together like pieces of a promise.

“You don’t have to convince me of anything,” you mumble into his shoulder. “I already picked you.”

He exhales through his nose and kisses the top of your head again. “Okay then,” he murmurs. “We’ll have a summer wedding. Something outside, near the water.”

“With sunflowers.”

“With sunflowers,” he echoes. “And matching rings.”

“And matching tattoos,” you add, and he snorts.

“You really wanna brand me?”

“Like cattle,” you whisper with a giggle, and he shakes his head.

“I’d let you,” he says, suddenly serious again. “I’d let you do anything.”

You look up at him then, heart thudding in your chest with something so big and warm you don’t know where to put it.

You don’t say anything — just press your lips to his chest, right over that faded scar.

That night, you fall asleep wrapped in his arms, your leg tangled with his, your breath rising and falling in sync. His fingers stay threaded through yours, even as sleep takes him.

And when your eyes finally flutter shut, you dream of sun-drenched summer mornings, a white dress trailing in sand, the salty breeze carrying your laughter down the shore. You dream of a little house with cracked windows and warm floors, of three barefoot children chasing cats through wildflower gardens, of quiet nights with music and wine and his arms always around you.

You dream of forever with him.

Two days later, you find yourself sprawled on the rooftop of Jujutsu High, the city skyline bleeding orange and gold as the sun dips behind the horizon. The stereo next to Shoko crackles to life with the hum of an old rock song, its lazy beat drifting into the warm air.

Shoko and Suguru sit side by side near the rusted railing, a shared cigarette passing between their fingers. Shoko blows a lazy cloud into the sky, hair pinned up and face slack with the kind of ease only a few stolen hours can bring. Suguru’s leaning back on his elbows, dark eyes half-lidded, shoulders sunk low with something that looks like peace—but doesn’t quite feel like it.

You lie flat on your back with your head in Haibara’s lap, the cold metal of a half-finished beer can sweating beside you. Shoko had swiped a six-pack from the faculty fridge, giggling about how “if they’re gonna overwork us, we deserve some goddamn perks.” You didn’t argue.

The mood is easy, but not quite light. 

The air shifts with a sudden crack, like pressure collapsing in on itself, and then Gojo appears right in the middle of the rooftop with a burst of wind and a grin stretched too wide for his own face.

“Ta-da!” he shouts, arms raised like he’s just performed a magic trick.

Everyone jumps, even Shoko drops the cigarette.

“You almost gave me a heart attack,” you mutter, squinting at him through the haze.

Gojo doesn’t seem to care. He’s flushed from effort, his uniform jacket open, white undershirt damp with sweat, and his hair windswept. “Guess who perfected teleportation?”

Suguru doesn’t look up. “You’re late.”

“I’m unstoppable now,” Gojo says, ignoring the jab and sliding down next to you, legs stretched out. “Seriously. Time and space? I’m above both.”

Shoko exhales smoke through her nose. “You’re already unbearable.”

“You love me,” he sings, kicking her lightly in the shin.

No one says it, but something in the air shifts again—less about the technique, more about the fact that he really might be untouchable now.

“Look,” Gojo says, eyes sparkling with a grin as he brushes the sweat from his forehead and walks toward Suguru. “Punch me.”

Suguru raises a brow, unimpressed. “What are you doing, Satoru?”

“Trust me,” Gojo says, standing just a step too close, arms loose at his sides. “Just swing.”

Shoko exhales sharply. “Oh god, here we go.”

You lift your head slightly from Haibara’s lap, watching with tired curiosity as Suguru slowly rises, brushing off his pants and cracking his knuckles. He doesn’t look amused—but he never does, not when it comes to Gojo’s nonsense.

“You’re serious?” Suguru asks.

“Deadly.” Satoru winks.

With a sigh that says he’s going to regret this, Suguru finally throws a lazy right hook—only for his fist to cut through empty air.

Satoru’s gone in a blink, reappearing ten feet away, standing on the edge of the rooftop with his back to the sun.

“Ta-da,” he says, spinning dramatically. “Teleportation, baby.”

Suguru stares at the space where he once stood, lips pressed into a tight line.

“Do it again,” Suguru mutters, already stepping forward.

Gojo laughs, and for a second, it’s like things haven’t changed. Like they’re still kids on a rooftop in a world that hasn’t cracked open beneath their feet. Like Suguru isn’t starting to feel like the only one still tethered to gravity.

Suguru steps forward again, jaw tight but eyes focused. “Once more. I wasn’t ready.”

“You weren’t ready?” Gojo laughs, hopping back onto the ledge and twirling midair before landing lightly in front of him. “That’s not what you said the last time we sparred.”

You hear Shoko exhale smoke through a dry laugh, flicking ash off the rooftop. “Can you guys ever be normal for once?”

“Nope,” Gojo says proudly. “Now come on, Suguru. Hit me like you mean it.”

Suguru narrows his eyes and throws a faster punch this time, just as Gojo disappears again, reappearing behind him with a smirk, finger flicking the back of his head.

“Gotcha.”

Suguru turns slowly, and for a second, you can see the flicker of a grin threatening to break his expression, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Not like it used to.

Haibara whistles from where you’re still curled up against his side. “Dude. That’s insane.”

“Right?” Gojo beams. “No hand signs, no build-up. Just—poof. I still need to work on longer distances, but space and time are mine, baby.”

You sit up fully now, tugging your hoodie around your shoulders, your eyes on Suguru.

He’s silent again. He’s been that way more and more lately. Watching, listening—but distant. And you see it in his posture now, in the way his shoulders don’t relax, in the way his eyes never quite settle.

“Alright,” Shoko sighs, tapping the cigarette out against the ledge and standing. “That’s enough testosterone for today. Some of us have homework.”

The music hums softly behind yo and the sky is turning a deeper shade of violet, and the warmth of the rooftop fades with the breeze.

Satoru walks over to sit beside you, sweaty and still glowing from his adrenaline rush, his breath puffing lightly in the cooling air.

Suguru stays standing.

You glance at him, then at Shoko, who meets your eyes for a second and just nods once.

You tug your sleeves over your hands and say, “You okay?”

Suguru finally looks at you. “Yeah.”

But you know he’s lying.

Some mornings when you wake up, it smells like cigarette smoke, and you hate it.

It’s faint but it’s there. And you know it’s from Suguru.

He doesn’t smoke around you. Not directly. But sometimes, when the nights get too long and the silences between you stretch out too wide, he slips out. Onto the balcony, or the fire escape, or the rooftop.

You roll over, pressing your face into the pillow, but it doesn’t help. It’s in your hair now. On your skin.

The scent reminds you of everything he doesn’t say.

Of how he leaves your bed hours before sunrise, sometimes coming back with ash under his nails and that faraway look in his eyes.

Of how his touch gets softer every day, like he’s trying to memorize you before letting go.

Of how, lately, he holds you like a habit he’s not sure he deserves to keep.

This morning though, you wake up with nothing.

No warmth beside you. No quiet breathing. No rustling of sheets or sleepy kisses or the familiar weight of his arm over your waist.

Suguru didn’t come to your room the night before. And he wasn’t there now.

You wait—fifteen minutes, then thirty—long enough to pretend he just got caught up somewhere. Then you get dressed, brush your teeth, and force yourself to go about your day.

Shoko finds you by the vending machines after lunch. She offers to buy you a snack. You say no.

You spend the afternoon helping Nanami with cursed tool handling. You almost laugh when Haibara tries to swing a staff that’s clearly too tall for him. Almost.

You check the training field, the library, the rooftop, the garden behind the school.

No Suguru.

It’s just before dinner when he finds you. You’re walking out of the dorm building, the sun hanging low and soft over the horizon, and suddenly he’s there. Standing in front of you like a shadow peeled itself off the wall and learned how to cry.

His shoulders are shaking.

His eyes—red, swollen, wet—won’t meet yours.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice cracking. “I couldn’t come last night. I had a mission. First one since…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. You don’t need him to.

You reach for him, but he steps forward first, burying his face in your neck, clutching your back like he’s holding himself together with your spine.

“I hate it,” he breathes. “Swallowing curses. I hate the way they taste. I hate that only I know. I hate that I’m the one who has to—”

You press your hands to his face, gently tilting it toward yours. His lips are chapped and damp with tears and grief.

So you kiss him.

Not because it’s romantic. Not because it’ll make it better.

But because if it tastes that terrible, if it sits on his tongue like rot and rage and everything broken in this world—

You want to taste it too.

You kiss him for hours.

Long past the point your lips begin to ache. Long past the sunset, as the sky fades into navy and the cicadas start their song.

You kiss him even though the taste makes you want to gag — bitter and foul and wrong, like rusted metal and ash left too long in your mouth.

But you keep going.

Because he doesn’t flinch anymore. 

Because the trembling in his hands quiets.

Because every time you pull away, he chases after you like he’s starving for comfort and terrified of losing it all at once.

And when he protests, “You don’t have to do this, it’s gross, I’m disgusting—”

You hush him. Again and again.

“Don’t talk,” you whisper against his lips.

“Let me help.”

“Just… just stay here with me.”

Your fingers comb through his hair. His arms are locked tight around your waist.

You press your forehead to his, swallowing back your own nausea, ignoring the sting in your throat.

“I love you,” you murmur between breaths. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

And each time you say it, he nods.

Each time, a little more brokenly.

He goes back to his room that night, but sleep refuses to come.

The mattress feels foreign beneath him — too big, too quiet, too empty without the warmth of your body curled beside his. He stares at the ceiling, unmoving, as if the cracks in the plaster might offer answers he’s too afraid to say aloud.

His tongue is coated in bitterness still. Not from the curses, but from the thought that maybe, just maybe, you’d come to hate him for the way he really tastes. That one day you’d pull away and never come back.

His mind spins.

He thinks about the jujutsu world, about the laws written in blood and bone, about the absurdity of bearing a responsibility no teenager should ever know.

He thinks about non-sorcerers — the people he’s meant to protect — who live blissfully unaware while his soul curdles with every curse he swallows.

He thinks about knocking on your door and whispering, “Pack a bag. Let’s go. Now.”

You’d laugh, maybe. Or go with him. Or both.

He imagines the two of you disappearing to that beach house you once dreamed of. Young and aimless and stupidly in love. Far away from this city, these halls, these expectations.

Then he wonders — if he wasn’t a sorcerer, would he have ever met you at all?

Would he have had a best friend like Satoru?

Would any of this—you, him, them—exist?

The thoughts eat at him until his tears dry on his cheeks and his jaw aches from clenching too hard and he passes out from the exhaustion of it, slipping into a dreamless sleep.

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[seresinhangmanjake]

Together and More

Daddy!Benny Cross x Momma!Reader

Summary: Daddy!Benny moments from the birth of his baby to a parenting anxiety episode to a few years down the line with a little toddler.

Notes/Warnings: *Spoiler free* Unofficial Part 3 to Come Back Knockin’ and Come Back Together. I say ‘unofficial’ because it’s more like an epilogue-y time-jump thing and I might go back later and add more fics between the last part and this to bulk up the story (if people are interested. If not I’ll probably just move on to new Benny fics unrelated to this story). Fluffy family cuteness. Girl dad!Benny. Angsty-ish at brief points (if you squint, I suppose). Kissing. Mention of pregnancy. Typos.

Words: 3400

Benny Cross Masterlist

When the nurse escorts him into the delivery room, Benny freezes. Wide blue orbs flick between you and the bundle in your arms, and despite the distance, you can see his hard swallow. You can practically feel his heart thumping, reverberating off the walls, and when his lips part, you’re unsure if it’s from awe or anxiety or a mix of the both. 

When it comes to your husband’s emotions over the birth of his child, it has varied by the day. There’s been a steadiness and consistency to his excitement, thankfully, but he has vacillated between trusting in his ability to be a father and questioning what good he can bring to a kid’s life. This last week in particular was the most chaotic for his ups and downs knowing your due date was around the corner.

“Hi Daddy,” you say, hoping your smile will ease any brewing discomfort in his system. Benny doesn’t move, but his gaze has officially decided to glue to the baby. For the moment, you’ll take that as a win. Had you given birth eight months ago, you’re not sure he would have touched his child with a ten-foot pole, let alone looked at them. “Well, are you going to come see her or what?”

Benny snaps out of the shock gripping his body and he blinks. Swallows again. “It’s a girl?” he asks, a mild tremble in his voice.

With your nod, he takes a deep breath, and from the continuation of your encouraging smile, his limbs regain their functioning. It’s a snails-pace twenty steps, but eventually, he makes it to your side. 

There’s a twinge of guilt in your gut from feeling relieved while he’s tightly wound with tension, but you can’t help it. Benny is unpredictable until the last second. As much as he’s been reliable during your final months of pregnancy, nipping at your mind was the possibility of a second disappearance. But he didn’t run. He’s here. He came to you. He came for her. 

Benny’s knuckles whiten around the railing of your bed as you pull your daughter away from your chest and tilt her forward so he can take in her sleeping face. 

“Hold her,” you say, raising your arms toward him. Benny’s eyes widen. He backs up and you sigh, having expected that response. “Benny.”

“I’ll drop her.”

“Yea, because you’re so weak-muscled,” you tease with a playful roll of your eyes. You cradle your baby against your body so you have a free hand to reach out and grab him by the wrist, guiding him back to the edge of the bed. 

“Hold your arm out,” you instruct. A beat passes but he does as you say, allowing you to nestle her into the curl of his strong arm. “Cup her head with your other hand. Like that. Good. See? You’re perfect.”

He’s holding her like she’s some sort of rare, expensive bike part that took a year of his life to track down, but his shoulders slowly untighten as he starts to rock her back and forth like the natural you suspected he would be. When she opens her doe eyes to stare up at him, Benny’s brow pinches and tears start falling down your cheeks because his eyes have turned glassy and you’ve never before witnessed the sight. It’s unlikely anyone has.

“So?” you ask. “What do you think?”

Benny nods. “You did so good, baby,” he says, glancing up at you with a grin. He’s quick to return his gaze to his daughter. “You made us a beauty.”

You sniffle. “You contributed to that as well.”

“Yea, but she looks like you.”

It’s possible as she ages that she’ll develop a feature of yours here and there, but when you look at your daughter now, all you see is him. His nose, his eyes, his lips. She’s him, and you’d tell him so, but you’re not sure your words would break through the trance the baby has him in. 

—

When you wake, he’s not beside you. The sun is long from rising, and yet there’s no warmth, no lingering scent of his cologne, and when you flip over, the comforter remains smoothly spread out on his side. 

You kick the covering off your legs and stand, snatching your silk robe off the closet's doorknob to slip over its matching nightie. You know where he is. It’s where he’s spent many of his nights in the past three weeks. 

In the corner of the nursery, perched in the quilted chair, Benny is hunched forward with his elbows resting on his knees, his fingers woven and clenched as he stares at the crib where your daughter lies fast asleep under the low glow of her nightlight.

“Benny…” you start, making your way to him. His stare doesn’t break from the baby as he leans back against the cushion and spreads his legs so you can take your place on his lap. An arm slides across your lower back, a palm plants on your bare thigh, and you cuddle into his chest.

“You didn’t come to bed,” you say.

Benny hums in acknowledgment.

“You’ve got to be at the shop in four hours.” To that, he doesn’t even utter a sound. 

It’s not until you say, “Are you ready to tell me what's been going on in that head of yours?” that you get a response. 

He exhales heavily, then says, “What if I’m not good enough for her?” 

The question doesn’t surprise you. You assumed it was something along those lines, simply from observing his behaviors since you came home from the hospital. 

Benny’s smile rivals the sun whenever he takes his daughter in his arms, but the longer he looks at her, the more he thinks, and the more he thinks, the further that smile falls. He cradles his baby and his mind runs away with him. He peers too far into the future, digging up every possible problem and road bump ahead. Problems and road bumps—some of which you have no doubt are outlandish—that may never come to fruition. 

Your fingers weave into the blond tips at the nape of his neck and you delicately scrape the base of his skull with your nails. 

“That’s crazy. You’re amazing with her,” you tell him.

“She’s only three weeks old,” Benny argues. “There’s plenty of time to fuck it up.” 

“Ben–”

You’re cut off by the intensity with which his eyes drill into yours. A raw realness of concern swirls in blue irises. “What if she needs things that I can't afford to get her?”

Your brow raises. “Like what?”

“Anything,” he tells you. “What if she resents me for not havin’ better to offer? Her friends’ pops will have better jobs than me—more money in their pockets. We don’t even have a car to take her places; we’ve been borrowin’ Betty’s, for fuck’s sake. And this neighborhood? Baby, this street isn’t as safe as it used to be.”

You sigh. He’s right. You hate to admit it because you hoped he was worried over sillier matters, but every bit of what he said is fair. Your daughter will have friends whose fathers have established careers and the salaries to match. There will be lawyers and doctors and financiers living in areas that, while vastly nicer, still feed into the same schools your child will attend. You will need a car, ideally within the next few months because Benny can’t be riding to daycare with the baby clipped into the side satchel on the seat of his bike. And yes, the neighborhood has undeniably taken a turn in the past year. You should start planning your lives on a budget so you can get a small place outside the city. 

But the difference between you and Benny is that you know all of this is attainable. You know the two of you can do this. You know you’re both good enough and smart enough and resourceful enough to raise your baby. 

Benny removes his palm from your thigh and rubs his fingers across his forehead. You put your hands on his cheeks to turn his face back to yours. 

“Benny Cross, you are not going to fuck up. Our daughter is not going to resent you,” you say with absolute certainty, adding extra force to your tone. “She needs you and she needs me, and that's it. Everything else we will figure out in time.”

—

Three Years Later

You love to watch them. You love to watch how they exist together. You love how Benny tucks her into bed at night; how he wakes her extra early on Saturdays to make pancakes—one of the few meals he managed to master; how she stares up at him with a trembling bottom lip until he reluctantly agrees to play dollies with her; and how eager she is to take interest in anything and everything he has to show her. 

In the beginning, it wiggled your nerves to see her so curious about bikes—what mother wants to imagine her daughter on the back of a motorcycle—but she is her father’s daughter. Trying to shield her from her interests would only make her want to pursue them more, whether you agreed to it or not, so you took a step back and let it happen, knowing Benny would approach it appropriately. 

Now, it’s another one of those moments between them that you love to watch—this time watching without their knowledge as you peek through the sliver of space in the barely open door that connects the kitchen to the garage. 

The garage door is up to permit some natural lighting, and Benny, ratchet in hand, sits on a section of concrete that is shaded from the prying heat of Summer’s sun. He���s messing with the body of his bike as Lucy stands to his side; close, but not so close that she could be harmed should he accidentally lose his grip on a tool. 

“Ok,” he says, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He offers Lucy the ratchet and says, “Wrench please.”

Lucy carefully takes the tool by the handle—just as Benny taught her—before looking into the open box at her feet. Her head tilts as she examines its contents, and then she leans down, places the ratchet back where it belongs, and wraps her little fingers around the wrench. Pulling it out, she waves it back and forth with great enthusiasm before presenting it to her father. 

Benny smiles and she places the tool in his open palm. “Good job, nugget,” he praises as he softly pinches her round cheek. She giggles. 

Lucy takes in Benny’s every movement, observing like a tiny apprentice would a master. She’s attentive and nods along with everything he says even though she has no idea what a lick of it means. She does so until Benny finishes the job and closes up the toolbox. 

The second both of his hands are free, Lucy vaults herself into her father’s arms with such vigor that she nearly knocks him onto his back.

“Fixed it?” she asks, placing her hands on his shoulders and hoisting herself up so she’s at his eye level. 

“Fixed it,” Benny confirms with a nod, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

When you push the door open, their heads whip in your direction. Benny’s face splits to reveal a row of white teeth, and Lucy’s eyes—the same shade as Benny’s—light up, sparkling so stunningly that you almost don’t want to let the next words out of your mouth. 

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” you say, “but it’s nap time Lady Lu.”

Lucy gasps and looks at Benny to verify that he’s just as shocked. To her great enjoyment, he plays the part. 

“Momma’s got us on a schedule,” he tells her.

Her face scrunches in distaste. “Yucky!”

“Yucky?” Your eyebrows shoot up your forehead in mock offense. “Sounds like Daddy is teaching you to rebel against authority,” you say, crossing your arms as you give your husband a pointed look, “which I would really prefer he hold off on for a few years.”

Benny’s faux shock fades to a chuckle. “Alright,” he concedes, setting Lucy on her feet so he can stand. “Momma’s right, nugget.”

He winks at you and you grin as you reach toward him, grabbing his face to draw him in for a quick, thankful kiss. Just as he’s about to go in for a second peck, Lucy tugs on his hand to redirect his attention where she wants it: on her distress. 

“But–But you guys don’t have nap time!”

“Oh sure we do,” Benny says as he lifts her into his arms and settles her on his hip. “We nap when you nap.”

She glances at you, and when you nod she mutters an unconfident “Oh.” 

Not wanting to insult her feelings, you suck in your laugh. Your daughter despises the thought of missing out on any fun and has decided that it must be when she naps that her parents go wild. Little does she know that you take any opportunity to rest, and if Benny is home, so does he. 

It’s been a hardworking three years. Exhausting. Taxing to a degree that your bodies still haven’t fully recovered. Benny spent the majority of his waking hours at the shop while Kathy and Betty offered to watch Lucy so you could get a job as an office assistant; painfully dull work, but not an opportunity you took for granted considering you had no training in the area before you were hired. You both worked as often as you could for as many hours as your employers would allow, so much so that Benny would hold you through the tears you shed worrying if it was subconsciously affecting Lucy. You didn’t want her to know her parents for their absence, but at the end of the day, it was all for her, so you pressed on. 

You and Benny found peace and relaxation in the simple things—late-night rides; bonfires with the club; Saturday morning cartoons with Lu—but the rest of the time you were wearing yourselves out, and not always in the pleasurable way. 

But it was worth it. Every headache from lack of sleep, every aching joint from your constant desk sitting and Benny’s physical labor, every emotional outburst that the two of you would coax one another out of—worth it. 

Six months in, you got that car you needed. By a year, Benny had bought into the shop for fifty percent. And at the end of two years, you found a house just outside the city—a modest three-bedroom with a yard and a garage.

“Are you sleepy now?” Lucy asks, her voice already beginning to lose the oomph of its energy.

You softly snicker. Your daughter always hits her marks. Like clockwork, about two minutes post-nap-time announcement, regardless of whether or not she fights you on it, her eyelids struggle to open after each blink and her words leave her mouth at a more sluggish pace. 

“Very,” you nod again. “But we certainly won't nap if you won't. We wouldn’t want to miss out on any fun with you.” The tip of your index finger taps her tiny nose. 

“N-No, I'll do it,” she says, “if you guys are tired too.”

“We are, nugget,” Benny tells her. “So let's get you to bed, sound good?”

She’s fading fast but she uses some of that remaining energy to give a little grin before laying her head on her father’s shoulder and releasing a yawn. “Yea, Daddy.”

—

“Well, that took all of fifteen seconds,” you say as Benny gently closes Lucy’s bedroom door behind him. 

You start heading for your room with your husband trailing after you, but then there’s a tight grip on your waist and you’re spun to face in the opposite direction. Fumbling your steps, your chest bumps against Benny’s before he bends down, wraps a thick arm around your thighs, and tosses you over his shoulder. 

When you yelp, you’re punished with a swat on the ass. “Hush, baby. You wake Lu and we don’t get our nap, and after workin’ on the bike all mornin’, I could really use one.”

He carries you to your bedroom, sets you on the edge of the bed, and throws himself onto his back atop the mattress. Then, arms spread wide, smirk across his face, he says, “C’mere,” and you crawl into your usual space against his body. After a synced sigh, Benny crooks his knuckle under your chin and tips your head back so he can seal his lips to yours. 

You’ll never tire of this. Of him. The feel of him around you. The taste of him. The scent of cologne and motor oil. The way he nips at your bottom lip to pull a muffled squeak from your throat and how he smiles into the kiss at his achievement. It’s too damn good and nothing could match it. 

Knowing how your future would have evolved if Benny hadn’t returned after learning of your pregnancy is impossible. Maybe you would have found happiness if you had moved on and met another man, but you wholeheartedly believe that that man, whoever he might have been, wouldn’t have had the capacity to be what you need. When Benny stepped into your world, he took the mold—your ideal image of the love of your life—and stretched it out to fit him perfectly, and then he immediately broke it so no man could so much as attempt to take his place. And it worked. There was never going to be anyone else for you. At least, not anyone who could give you what you have now. 

As Benny’s fingertips graze over your cheek and bury into your hair, he shifts his weight, rolling you onto your back. Lips press harder into yours and then they disappear. Your eyes snap open, a pout rapidly forming that he quickly kisses away. 

“Wanna talk to you about somethin’,” Benny says lowly, whisper-like as his nose nudges yours. You do your best to straighten out your thoughts and pay attention, but it’s made difficult by the comforting weight of his body bleeding into yours and his thumb brushing back and forth along your cheekbone. “You know, Johnny and Betty said they’d watch Lu tonight if we want.”

With narrowing eyes, you reply “Yes,” drawing out the word, wondering where he’s going with this and why it has to interrupt the kissing.

“If you wanna take ‘em up on that, I was thinkin’ we could go for a ride, and then—” he shrugs the shoulder not supporting his weight above you, “I don’t know, maybe we come home and make another kid.”

Your eyes shift from mildly irritated slits to round saucers. “What?”

“Yea,” he says. “Thought it might be nice.” 

“Seriously?” 

“I mean, if you’re willin’ to birth another one, I’d be happy to put one in you.”

A laugh bubbles from your chest. “Would you now?”

Benny nods, planting a kiss on your mouth. That kiss moves to your cheek, then his lips ghost along your jawline before landing on the sensitive spot just under your ear. “You just gotta say yes, baby,” he says, warm breath heating your skin, “and nine months from tonight, we could have our second one.”

Your fingers glide through his hair, fisting the strands as you angle your head to give him better access to your neck. He licks and sucks until you moan, and then you say, “You’re that confident you can get me pregnant on the first shot?”

Benny pulls his head back to look at you. “Course I am. When I did it last time, I wasn’t even tryin’,” he says, cocky grin in place. But then his features soften. “So? What do you think?”

Your lips quirk to the side and you hum. “Alright, Benny Cross,” you say. “Let’s make another baby.”

---

A/N: I keep writing scenes with mothers eavesdropping on father/child bonding moments 🫣

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[zayneternal]

☾ Midnight Ties ☽

summary ↠  When Deepspace Hunter, Mina Osaki, finds herself unable to sleep in the cold and quiet of the N109 Zone Safehouse, she instead runs headfirst into the one person who puts her most on edge--and this time, he's injured. [Main Story Spoilers | References to "Midnight Stealth" Memory]

genre ↠  angst (mild moments of fluff) with him↠  Sylus warnings ↠  Long Awaited Reverly Spoilers word count ↠ 13.4k

~

I’m unsure what jolts me from sleep. Then again, it’s far from the first time I’ve woken in the midnight hours over the last few weeks. I can’t really say I’ve ever been sure of why sleep eludes me here.

Sitting up in the too-big bed made up of too-soft sheets, I rub my knuckles against my eyes, willing them to adjust to the darkness of the cold and quiet bedroom. I’ve lost track of how many days it’s been since I arrived back to this place, but this part of the routine is one of the few reliable parts of my day, for better or worse. 

I huff out a breath, debating on if I should fall backwards onto the mussed sheets of the massive mattress and try to close my eyes once again, but the idea of staring at the back of my eyelids in this deafening silence sounds like the worst form of torture. Instead, I kick my legs over the edge, flinching at the feeling of the ice cold marble floor against my bare feet. 

Would it kill someone to turn the heat up in this place? Even as the thought enters my mind, I scoff to myself, knowing the head of this household probably would kill someone for even attempting it.

Hesitating by the bed for a moment, I glance down at my sparse attire of cotton shorts and a mismatched tank top, wondering if I should find an extra layer to don. Then I recall how unnervingly empty this place becomes at night and decide against it. It’s not like there’s ever anyone to pass by in the lengthy hallways this late…or is it early? I never know. 

Wrapping my arms around myself, I set towards the large mahogany door of the bedroom, snapping the lock open before pulling the heavy wood backwards. I’m not sure why I bother to lock the door–it’s not as if it would truly keep him out if his mind was set on entering. Maybe it’s because some stubborn part of me doesn’t want to make it too easy on him…or maybe I’m a little too reliant on the extra measures of boundary between the two of us.

Shaking my head of the thought, I pull the door closed behind me and step into the long hallway lined with many other doors identical to my own. I’ve not been inside most of them, but I imagine they’re more spare rooms, though as to who they’re for, I don’t know. The occupants of this residence have a tendency to make themselves quite scarce. And who could blame them?

The light in the hall is dim, giving me just enough illumination to help avoid bumping into the various vases and vanities that line the corridor. I hate how quiet it gets here, especially on the nights I’m unable to fall back to sleep and end up wandering to find something to occupy my mind. It’s like I can almost hear the air whispering next to my ears. It’s drives me crazy. 

Luckily, I make it to the end of the hall just before the raging silence threatens to overwhelm me, and turn right into the open floor plan of the main living space. There are windows here that line one of the walls, overlooking the vast expanse that is the N109 Zone.

My first night here, I remember the view being somewhat deterring, what with the abandoned buildings littering the skyline and the ever-present darkness shrouding the seedy city life bustling far below. But as the nights progressed and sleep came few and far between, I found myself coming to these windows more and more often, surprisingly intrigued by how the view had morphed.

I silently shuffle towards the large length of cushioned sofa that curls around the living space, it’s end jutting up to the window, and curl myself against it. Allowing my head to fall sideways against the back of the couch, knees drawn to my chest to preserve what little warmth there is in the air, I gaze across the N109 Zone, languidly taking in the sights. It’s fascinating how differently I see the world below me now.

Where I once saw what were shady business dealings in the back alleys beneath, I now see citizens of the zone coming home to family at the end of a long day. Where I once saw destitute and rundown infrastructure, I now see life budding out of something once broken–I see people. A community. If I train my ears just right, I can even hear the jubilation of music and laughter spilling out of what I assume is a local pub on the street below. 

The N109 Zone is still a treacherous place for the wrong people–it certainly was for me before he offered me respite in his own twisted way–but the longer I stay, the more I see what was once black and white as more gray and muddled. There is also good to be found here. 

I begin to slip into a comfortable lethargy as I continue to watch the city breathe when I suddenly hear a loud shuffling at the door behind me. 

Swiftly whipping my gaze from the window to the door across the room, I hug my knees tighter as it swings open, revealing a very familiar silhouette in the darkened doorway.

“Shit–” he hisses in a way that sounds like he’s struggling to keep quiet. His towering frame falters as he steps forward, tilting to the side before he catches himself messily on the open door. 

I hold my breath, squinting in the low light to see his right hand stretched against the left side of his abdomen, pressing something against it. He regains his composure once more, lifting off the door long enough to turn and slowly close it behind him. 

I don’t speak as he starts to move again. I can’t tell if he knows I’m there, and for some reason, I don’t bring myself to reveal my presence just yet. Instead, I watch as he attempts to make for the kitchen that sits against the opposite wall of the open room. He manages to get to the edge of the island counter before his weight gives way again and he slumps against the smooth surface.

“Damn it,” he curses through gritted teeth, trying to keep quiet again. My eyes widen as I suddenly realize he must be injured. The hand clutching his ribs, the slight limp to his walk, the way he can’t seem to hold himself upright. What happened to him?

I’m aware that the midnight hours in the N109 Zone are when the the work day is just beginning for groups like Onychinus. Dealings within the illegal crime organizations here are much livlier at night. And that’s doubly true for the household of Onychinus’ leader. As frustrating as it’s been knowing what goes on here at night as someone sworn to protect innocents from threats just like Onychinus, the circumstances of recent months have seemed to trump that mission for now.

A low grunt of pain sweeps me back into the present as the hunched figure in the kitchen pulls himself around to a cabinet pressed against the fridge. He moves to lift his hand to open the dark wood door but winces before he’s even raised it halfway up, yanking his arm back to his side. The faint moonlight filtering in through the windows illuminates the pained look of his sharp profile. 

The sound of him trying to stifle his groans of discomfort spurs me from my hidden spot in the dark. 

“Sylus.”

My soft voice feels swallowed by the darkness and size of the space, but Sylus reacts to the sound instantly, his frame straightening to its full height and his gaze whipping to find me at the edge of the island. He appears confused, then annoyed, nostrils flaring slightly in the moonlight that casts soft shadows along his cheeks. 

It seems like I’ve managed to catch him off guard for the first time since we’ve met. His reaction surprises me in return, and I pause a few feet away from him, my weight shifting a bit nervously. He always has a way of making me a bit nervous. 

Just as quickly as the confusion and annoyance pass over his defined features, they are gone again, replaced now with that air of cool arrogance he’s managed to perfect. His arched brow twitches, the corner of his mouth twisting into the shadow of a smirk I’ve come to know so well. 

“It’s a little late to be wandering the halls, don’t you think, kitten?” The sultry lilt to his deep voice rumbles across the space between us, but I can hear the slight tension lying just beneath the surface of his words, as if he’s struggling to appear put together when, really, he’s in pain.

“You’re hurt,” I state, ignoring his attempt to divert the situation. And ignoring the gooseflesh that threatens to bubble under my skin as his piercing red gaze locks me in place. I have to admit it’s still a bit of a struggle to keep my half of the control in these interactions with him, as much as I’ve tried to grow accustomed to his unique persona. 

Sylus’ mouth twists again as he breathes out a huff of laughter. “You do realize who you’re talking to, don’t you, sweetie?” A flash of his perfectly lined teeth cuts across the darkness. “Or do you not recall the events of the first time we met?”

I do recall. It seems an impossible moment to forget. The sound of the trigger going off against where Sylus had held it against his chest echoes in my mind and I wince. Glancing down to where the corner of his pectoral peeks out between the opened buttons of his black top, I remind myself that there’s no injury to be seen anymore. Only perfectly smooth, pale skin that sits atop the rippling muscle. 

Shaking my head of yet another attempt at distraction, I press myself forward, daring to take a few steps towards him. “I saw you come in,” I admit. “You can barely hold yourself up.”

“I can assure you, I am perfectly fine, Miss Hunter,” he says, low and slow, his eyes remaining fixed intently on my person. 

“Then you won’t mind if I just confirm that for myself, will you?” I feign an innocent look, scrunching my brows in a slightly dramatic show of concern. I hope by keeping the interaction light, he won’t notice how real my concern is. 

The cocked grin on his lips falters ever so slightly, but it doesn’t go without me noticing. He’s certainly confirming something, and it’s not that he’s “perfectly fine”.

I watch as his hand falls away from his side and his arms open in front of him, gesturing down his body. That infuriating smirk is firmly fixed in place. “Help yourself, sweetie.” 

I chew the inside of my cheek, throwing my usual reservations about getting close to him to the wind. My worry for what has him stumbling around in the dead of night trumps my boundaries right now. Steeling my nerves, I close the remaining few feet between the two of us, bare feet padding towards his large figure. 

I can feel his electric gaze burning holes into me as I approach, but I keep my eyes fixed on his torso, irises flitting from his broad shoulders, down the length of his pale forearms, over the expanse of his open palms, and across the plane of his narrow waist. At first look, nothing seems amiss, his composure remaining intact. Squinting slightly in the dark, however, I notice how the rise and fall of his breaths is uneven and labored, and he’s favoring his weight on his right leg.

I reach my hands forward. “What do you think you’re doing?” Sylus questions, his voice betraying him with a hint of worry. 

“Helping myself,” I counter cooly, willing my nerves to remain strong as my fingertips find purchase on the top button of his slightly askew dress shirt. To my surprise, Sylus allows me to continue without even the slightest step backwards, his arms hanging at his sides. 

I move slowly, hoping my fingers aren’t shaking as much as I feel like they are as I deftly undo button after button. I try not to stare too long at the line of muscled skin that begins to reveal itself down his torso. 

Swallowing dryly, I finally push the two halves of his black button down to the sides, eyes widening with a soft gasp as I take in what I see. The shirt had been covering exactly what I’d feared.

The left side of his ribs are in a sorry state, a semi-deep gash curling around the length of his waist, mottled with a mix of dried and fresh blood, as if the pressure he’d been providing couldn’t staunch the flow. The usually perfectly pale skin surrounding the wound is blossoming with fresh bruises of deep plum. Whatever caused this injury had to have been packing quite the punch. 

What worried me most, though, was the fact that these wounds didn’t seem to be healing. If Sylus could survive a gunshot to the chest by my own hand, then what was the holdup with the self-healing this time? 

“Sylus!” I manage to exclaim in a strained whisper. My hands move to hover over the wound as I rack my brain for any useful piece of the medical training I received in the Hunter’s Academy. I know I at least needed to clean the gash first.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I hear Sylus breathe from above me. I can tell he’s trying to quell my worries, but I don’t imagine a wound like this feels any better than it looks. 

Slight annoyance from somewhere unknown suddenly pricks my chest. I shoot my eyes up to find his face already bent to watch me. Looking up at him from this close, I can feel each of his exhales fall against my mouth, but I push that realization aside and scrunch my brows at him.

“What happened? Where were you? Who did this?” I begin to rattle. My eyes flit back and forth between his, searching his face for any answers he might provide. At the other end of my questioning, Sylus’ expression slowly morphs into a rare sight. The usual facade of arrogance and control slips away to reveal something unusual. Sylus almost appears…sincere.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were worried about me, kitten,” he says softly, his hand raising to reach towards my face before stopping halfway and slowly dropping, as if he second-guessed whatever he was about to do. 

“I am!” I assert, hands gripping the two halves of his open shirt so tightly I realize my knuckles are going white. Sylus’ expressions stutters, the seriousness in my tone giving him pause. I sigh. “Can we please cut the big bad mafia boss act for a second? You need bandaging before this gets worse.” I shake my head, staring at the injury again. “Why hasn’t it started healing on it’s own already?”

Sylus studies my face a moment longer, his usually intense gaze softening as it passes across my features. 

“Would you believe me if I told you this is already better than it started?” His voice has a hint of humor to it, as if he’s still trying to ease my concern. Instead I find myself flinching against the idea that this isn’t even the worst of it. How badly had he been hurt tonight? How much effort had it taken him to get home? 

I want to swat at his chest, but for fear of causing him any more pain, I restrain myself. 

“Mina…” Sylus starts, and the way he utters my name instead of one of his many rotating pet names sends a shiver down my spine. But I refuse to waste anymore time. 

“Lean against the counter,” I instruct, sounding more like a Hunter than the helpless girl I’ve been these past few minutes. Sylus breathes and slowly moves to the side, leaning against the marble countertop obediently. “I’m taking this off.”

I move my hands to the base of his neck, slipping my fingertips under the collar of his dress shirt and attempting to ignore the warmth of his skin in this freezing kitchen as I begin to push the fabric down his toned arms. To my surprise and great relief, Sylus remains silent for once allowing me to work without much distraction. 

The pads of my fingers brush down the length of his muscled arms, following the trail of his shirt until it’s bunched at his wrists. “Your hands, please,” I request, carefully avoiding eye contact as I hold my own hands up. 

As requested, Sylus gently places hands twice the size of my own in my palms, allowing me to undo the cuffs keeping his top from sliding off completely. After pulling the sleeves away from his body, I move to yank the remainder of the shirt from where it’s tucked messily into the waistline of his trousers. Without me asking this time, Sylus raises his arms to assist in the task, wincing again when his left arm agitates the injury.

Nodding in silent appreciation, I wrap my arms around the shape of his hips, giving him a wide birth, and being careful not to get as close as his cologne is causing me to want. Gripping the last of the black fabric and pulling, I’m relieved when it comes lose easily and falls away to the floor.

“Where will I find a first-aid kit?” I finally ask once his torso is bare. I realize I’m looking around the room to avoid looking at him. 

“There.” His slender finger comes into my peripheral vision, poiting towards the cabinet he had originally been trying to open. I nod and turn to open it, feeling his eyes on me the entire time. As I begin to sift through the rows of various medicine bottles, syringes, and vials full of strange liquid, I’m suddenly strikingly aware that I never changed out of my sleepwear and are still donned in nothing but cotton shorts and a tank top. 

I bite your lip, silently cursing to myself as my search continues through the cabinet. There’s not much I can do about it now, I suppose, but knowing I’m under the scrutinizing gaze of Sylus every second of this venture, I feel a mite over exposed. 

Finally, I discover a box of antiseptic, gauze, and painkillers and pull it from the cabinet. When I turn back around, Sylus remains leant against the counter, looking sinfully good in the low light of the darkened kitchen. My breath hitches, knowing I’ve made the mistake of taking in his full figure so present before me, but it becomes harder to avert my gaze every time I see him.

It’s been one of the biggest frustrations of coming back to the N109 Zone. But once I discovered the intrigue of Sylus and my Evol linkage and the strange connection of our Aether Cores, it was an unavoidable trip. The last few weeks, Sylus and I have been seeing a lot more of each other, researching everything we can about what our linkage could be and how to control it. It seemed a little too late when I finally realized my growing nerves and the tension between us might not be from fear anymore. A realization I’ve been more than happy to continue shoving to the depths of my mind. I’ve had more important fish to fry lately. 

I find it hard to swallow as Sylus and I stare at each other, time frozen for a moment. He leans his hips leisurely against the island, legs crossed at the ankles, his palms holding him upright as they rest against the counter behind him. The position he’s in presses his shoulders apart, making them appear even broader than normal, his forearms pusling with the veins that ripple under his skin. 

His face is ethereal, bathed halfway in moonlight and halfway in shadow, the silver locks of his mussed hair falling in silk ribbons across his forehead. And his eyes. Oh, those eyes. Red and depthless and intense and all trained directly on me. I forget to breath as I take in his half-hooded gaze, irises looking lazy and dazed under the fan of his lashes. He looks god-like.

“Something wrong?” Sylus breaks the silence, his words rumbling across the miniscule distance between us. He tilts his head, lips parting slightly. 

“No!” I answer a bit too fast. I see the ghost of a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth. “N-No. I found the kit…” 

My steps stutter back towards him, nerves hitching higher the closer we become, but one glance at the wound cutting across his ribs and I’m brought back to reality. He’s hurt and I need to focus. 

Gritting my teeth, I set the open first-aid kit on the counter next to him and remove the antiseptic and clean cloth, blotting the fabric with the medicinal liquid. “This might sting,” I say gently. 

I carefully press the cloth against the edge of the bloody gash, beginning to clean away the majority of the clotted and fresh blood still seeping onto Sylus’ skin. Despite Sylus’ claims that there was no need to worry, he flinches away from the ensuing sting of the cloth with a stifled moan. The noise is enough to make my stomach tighten. 

“Careful, kitten,” he tuts through grit teeth, hands gripping the edge of the counter. 

“I told you it might sting.” I start to smile, finding it a little ironic that the big bad leader of the most well-known crime orginazation in the N109 Zone is brought low by the sting of antiseptic. 

“There’s nothing funny about this situation,” he retorts, sounding almost childlike in his annoyance. 

“There might be a little something funny about it.” I shrug and try to stifle the growth of my grin, but it’s harder than I thought. “It’s just medicine, you big baby.”

Sylus groans again as I make another pass, the muscles in his own stomach tensing and untensing. “Usually the use of medicine is unnecessary.” The last word comes out like a strained hiss when the cloth rubs against the edge of the gash. 

My smile grows further, the corners of my mouth stretching to their limit. I cough to stop the urge to laugh at him. 

“Now that’s a rare sight,” Sylus whispers, the surprised tone of his voice pulling my eyes away from where they were focused on cleaning away more blood.

“What?” I can’t help but ask, tilting my head at his entranced expression. His eyes drop to my lips and linger there a moment longer than they probably should have. 

“That smile,” he admits, the hand opposite his injury lifting as if he’s unconscious of it. The back of his lithe fingers slowly brush against the length of my cheek, and my eyes widen at the feeling. He’s so warm. His own lips part and the tips of his fingers turn to glide along the underside of my mouth, his touch almost phantasmal. 

In his eyes, I see realization dawn and his hand pauses, hesitantly moving back down to his side, as much as I secretly wish it wouldn’t have. He gazes at me and in his expression is a sort of emotion I can’t quite place. He quickly covers whatever it was with a resigned smile, gentler than his usual controlled smirk. 

“I’d like it if you smiled like that more around me,” he confesses. My heart beat turns erratic for a moment. 

“I didn’t realize I hadn’t been,” I offer back, clearing my throat and moving back to my earlier task of cleaning the wound. As the blood clears away with each stroke of the cloth, I begin to get a clearer picture of just how deep this wound must have been for this to be the semi-healed version of it. “Sylus, what happened to you tonight?”

The diversion in topic is a slightly welcome respite from the growing tension. I sneak a quick glance at his face and find his gaze trained on the floor, eyebrows knit with thought. He waits a moment as if deciding whether to stop this line of conversation with one of his carefully crafted deflections or reveal the truth. I’m not sure if its the vulnerable air about tonight or whatever trust I’ve built up with him over these past few weeks, but he eventually sighs and speaks.

“It was a new kind of protocore weapon,” Sylus admits, gesturing to his almost-clean wound.

“A new protocore weapon?” I repeat, shocked and intrugied. “What kind of weapon?”

“I’m not sure.” Sylus shakes his head. “One of the business dealings with a former partner that was planned for tonight didn’t quite meet expectations.” He huffs a laugh to himself, as if recalling the events that lead to his injury. I find them anything but humorous but decide not to press the matter.

“Before I could take control of the situation, one of his men blindsided me,” he continues. I feel anxiety well up in my chest as I listen, but I keep quiet, letting him explain as I continue to clear away the last of the dried blood splattering his ribs. 

“Normally, a wound like this would be nothing but a trivial moment of pain, but once the dust settled, I realized it wasn’t healing over like usual. The blood just kept flowing. I came back here to find a way to mend it before it got much worse.”

“Sylus,” I breathe out once he finishes. I can feel his eyes return to me though I can’t bring myself to look at him again quite yet. “I know there was no way of you knowing what tonight would bring, but…” I swallow, trying to find the right words. “Please be careful.”

“You should see the other guys,” Sylus attempts to joke. “Well, there wasn’t really much of them to see in the end…”

I want to laugh, but find myself unable. The news he’s just shared worries me more than I’d like to admit to him in this moment. A new weapon that seems to temporarily halt Sylus’ self-healing abilities? That was a big, big revelation, and one that has my mind spinning.

“I know that these dealings are part of your job, and that danger comes with the territory, but I…” I trail off, not sure of what I’m wanting to tell him. Or if I’m wanting to tell him. 

“You what?” Sylus presses in a voice almost inaudible. Though I still haven’t looked at his face, I can tell how close he is to me by the sound of his voice. I can feel the tickle of his breath against my ear. When I don’t immediately respond, I jolt at the feeling of Sylus’ fingers snaking their way under my chin and tenderly tugging my gaze away from his wound and back to his awaiting eyes. 

The intensity of his stare almost knocks me to the floor. I might’ve fallen had it not been for the securing grip of his fingers around my chin. His thumb traces long lines against my skin, and I hope he can’t feel the timbre of my heartbeat rocketing against my chest. “You what?” he asks again.

Oh, what dangerous territory I’ve wandered into.

“I-I…” I stammer, the words incoherent in my head. “I need to finish bandaging your wound.”

I raise the ball of gauze between our too-close faces, relief exploding in my stomach at the flimsy boundary it creates. I hear Sylus sigh and chuckle on the other side as his hand slides from my face once more. He leans back a few inches, and I feel like I can breathe again. 

“Very well,” he resigns, returning his arm to his side and allowing me to continue. Sighing in relief, I move to begin wrapping the gauze around his waist when his left hand suddenly moves in tandem with my right. 

“Sylus, cut it out, I need to finish before it starts bleeding again!” I complain, giving him an annoyed look only to be met with his confused expression. 

“I didn’t do that,” he responds, looking down to my hands. “Not voluntarily at least.”

“This isn’t the time for games, just let me–” I move to attempt the gauze wrap a second time when the same thing happens–his hand moves in tandem with mine, blocking the way. Realization dawns on me as I lift our entwined hands into the air. 

“Damn it,” I curse as we both gaze upon the faint misty glow of our Evol linkage at work. Appearing almost as shrouded handcuffs, our mysterious and unexplainable resonance linkage had a nasty habit of forming at the most inopportune times, and this had to have been the worst of those times for it to happen. 

“Your Evol certainly knows how to pick a moment,” Sylus drawls sarcastically, smirking at our joined wrists. I cut him an annoyed glance, groaning to myself. 

“The last time we linked, it lasted. All. Day.” I recall last week when our resonance linkage decided to make an appearance over breakfast when Sylus leaned a little too close to me to grab the butter across the table. We spent the rest of that rainy day uncomfortably packed behind Sylus’ office desk researching ways to disengage the link at will. Obviously, we had no luck. 

“Well we can’t blame that on the Evol, now can we?” Sylus gives me a knowing smirk, and I fight not to roll my eyes as a blush creeps over my cheeks. One thing we both learned early on is that whatever this linkage was, it grew stronger the stronger my emotional, mental…phsyical relationship with the other person grew. 

Sylus has made to tease me about it on numerous occasions, and while I always tried to play it off as an annoyance, the truth was it scared me how long the links had been lasting. I knew it was only a matter of time before the truth was out in the open and he realized how deep the change in my feelings towards him went. Who knows how long this link would last? And in the middle of the night, no less. 

I’d have to learn how to control this resonance business sooner rather than later. Before long, the link might form and never break, and that was a thought that made me want to crawl into a hole and never come out. 

“Well…” I start, frustration and embarrassment mixing together in my throat. “You’re just going to have to work with me to get these bandages on. Then we can worry about the link.” 

Sylus chuckles at the sour expression I wear but nods in agreement, holding out his hand. It takes a few attempts, but we both manage to figure out a pattern of pass and pull that works well enough at getting the gauze wrapped around his waist without too much contortion. The silence we both work in allows me to calm down and throw myself into my task. It’s all too much to think through at the moment. 

A few more moments of blissful silence pass, the gauze almost completely in place, when Sylus speaks again. “Mina…”

“Yes?” I stay focused on the wrapping.

“Why were you awake at this hour?” 

The sincerity in his voice almost makes my hands stutter in their rotation. It seems for the moment, whatever form of his true self that lies beneath the cocky exterior was paying a visit. 

“I’ve been having trouble sleeping,” I shrug, confiding in him.

Another pause. “Is the bed not comfortable?” 

“It’s perfectly comfortable,” I smile softly to myself.

“Is is it too hot? Too cold?” 

“It’s freezing in this house all the time,” I laugh. “But that’s not why.”

“Are Kieran and Luke making too much noise when they come back? Is Mephisto bothering you?”

I continue laughing as the gauze goes around once more.

“Why are you laughing?” Sylus inquires. Even without looking at him, I can see the puzzled expression he wears. “I don’t see what’s funny.”

“You’re what’s funny,” I grin wider. “You’re usually not so full of questions.”

“I’m simply trying to fix whatever is keeping you awake. A Hunter needs to sleep through the night.”

My hands pause on the last rotation of the gauze, eyes zoning out on where it crosses over Sylus’ ribs. “I don’t know why I can’t sleep. I just find it hard here.”

I glance up to see Sylus gazing intently at you. He always seems to be doing that. This time there is a hint of worry laced in his scrunched features. 

“I’m fine, though,” I reassure him quickly, my mouth twitching into a soft smile as I remember his earlier request. “I like coming here to watch the city. It’s relaxing.” My head tilts to gesture to the spot on the couch I’ve claimed for myself each night, the city scape stretching far beyond it. 

Sylus follows my gesture and stares out the far window himself for a moment before coming back to rest on me. His face contorts as if he’s thinking hard about something before he quietly clears his throat.

“You’re not…are you…” It was so unlike Sylus to be lost for words. “Are you not used to sleeping alone?”

There’s a question within his question. One I’m caught off guard to answer. 

“What? I–no,” I’m quick to respond. “I’m used to it. Very used to it.”

There’s a strange wash of relief over Sylus’ face at my response that has my insides knotting up.

“I’m not sure what it is,” I decide to continue, finally finishing the last wrap of the gauze and managing to secure it in place with my un-linked hand. With Sylus fully clean and bandaged, I drop my hands, unsure of what to do now. 

After a beat of silence, Sylus glances back to the spot I gestured to on the couch and then to me. He tilts his head towards the window. “Care to show me the view of my city you’ve been enjoying?”

I look at him a little surprised by his request. My city. The more I get to know Sylus, the more I find myself forgetting how much influence and power he has here. To think that a few months ago I was hearing the name “Onychinus” for the first time, and now here I was, linked to it’s very leader, the most dangerous and powerful figure in the N109 Zone. 

This man standing before me has become familiar in a way I wasn't expecting. He doesn’t scare me like he used to, and I find it hard to believe that he’s the one I spent so long hating before everything changed. 

“Yes,” I finally whisper in response, smiling shyly in an almost childlike excitement to share this thing I’ve come to find comfort in. 

“Then shall we?” Sylus gestures for me to lead the way back to the couch, and I oblige, turning to leave behind the bloodied shirt and messy first-aid kit in the kitchen and return to the view that originally pulled me out of my room. 

When I reach the sofa, however, I realize quickly that sitting sideways to face the window with our hands linked the way they are is going to be an uncomfortable task. “Maybe if we…” I try sitting in a few different ways, but every position has either me or Sylus craning our shoulder in an odd way. 

Sylus watches as I try to puzzle my way into the right positioning, but it’s to no avail. “Maybe we should just stand?” I laugh to myself, trying to hide my slight embarrassment. 

Sylus smirks softly at me. “Come here,” he coos in that sultry way of his, the in-control and confident leader making a reappearance as he descends sideways against the cushions of the couch and pulls me with him. I can’t do anything but fall the short distance straight into his lap, his legs parted to make the perfect place for me to land. 

My heart rachets into mythroat as he presses me gently back against his broad chest, my head tucked just beneath his chin. I pray vehemently that he can’t feel my heartbeat against him and thank the powers that be that he can’t see how heated my face is in this position. 

I realize quickly that his idea was a sound one, though, as he wraps his long arms around my waist, bringing his linked wrist to rest just under where mine hovers awkwardly. He leans back agains the couch, sighing contendently, and I can feel the remnants of his deep voice vibrating against my back. 

“Is this okay?” he whispers against your ear. I struggle not to fling myself away from him from the sheer shock of it. 

Steeling myself, I breathe to calm down. “Ye-Yes. It’s fine.”

Sylus’ responding chuckle sends shivers across my arms and legs. “You can rest your hands, sweetie. No need to keep them hovering in the air like that.”

I blush violently again, and try to find where to rest them but everywhere seems too intimate, too close. 

As if sensing my hesitancy, Sylus reaches his fingers towards mine and slides each digit between my own, dragging your now-encased hands into my lap. He’s always been far too confident for his own good. 

“Comfortable?” he questions once our hands are settled. I want to laugh at him because this is the most on edge I’ve felt in my whole life. My heart is hammering against my ribs, my stomach is tensed in knots and I can almost promise my hands are quickly becoming clammy against the smooth, warm skin of his own .

“Yes,” I manage to lie, but he only laughs again, deep and slow and far too close to my ear. 

“Too cute,” he says so quietly, I’m not sure I was meant to hear. 

“Won’t I hurt you in this position?” I concernedly ask, turing my head slightly to make sure I’m not pressed against his injury. 

“I’m the farthest from in pain I could be,” Sylus responds, the tip of his nose brushing along my turned cheek. Before I can even manage a yelp of surprise, Sylus continues. “Show me this city you’ve been watching,”

Grateful for the change in focus, I turn back to the window, calming slightly as I gaze back across the city, still unchanged in the last hour. Inside, however, I’m now not alone and it doesn’t feel so eerily quiet. Instead, Sylus is pressed so close that I can feel the rise and fall of his steady breathing, each exhale cascading against my shoulder. I can feel the pulsing of his heart all the way in this fingertips as they remain wrapped around mine, his thumb brushing abscently back and forth across the back of my palm. 

I begin to point out the little scenes in the city below that calm me the most–the life of the pub below, the rooftop garden a few highrises away, the flocks of birds that fly overhead. With each scene I reveal to Sylus, the more relaxed I begin to feel. He doesn’t say much in response to my narration, only offering the occasional hums of acknowledgement or squeeze of my hand.

After a few minutes of my rambling, I turn my face slightly to make sure he hasn’t drifted off to sleep, but am instead met with his face mere centimeters from mine, his eyes already locked on my face. I wonder if he’s been watching me the whole time I’ve been talking…

“Yes, I have,” Sylus responds lowly, and I jump, eyes widening as he grins at me. 

“Did I say that outloud?” My free hand goes to cover my mouth in embarrassment. 

There is a brand new kind of mirth in Sylus’ eyes, one I’ve not been witness too this close. It sucks the breath from my lungs. 

“I’ve seen this city from every angle, at every time of day, in every circumstance,” Sylus goes on, never looking away from me. “But you, little bird…”

I struggle to keep my composure in check.

“I’ve waited a long time to discover you.” 

I think I might die. 

“You’ll be fine, I’ve got you.”

Damn it, am I letting every thought slip into the open tonight?

Sylus’ expression goes from bright and humored to inquisitive, as if he’s considering whether or not he should voice his thoughts. He might as well, I’ve let every damn question in my head escape already. It’s only right he joins in. 

“Mina,” he starts, looking almost nervous and very un-Sylus-like. 

“Sylus,” I whisper back, feeling like I’m floating outside of my body. 

His chest hitches slightly, lips parting as he breathes into the silence for a beat. “Earlier…when you told me I should be careful…what were you about to say?”

He sounds breathless, his question hanging in the air between us, our mouths far too close for me to be thinking straight. In the back of my mind, I recall the moment, hesitant even now to utter what I was considering an hour ago. How much would it change things between us? Whatever is left of our boundaries, what little there might be, would surely be gone. I don’t know if that’s for better or for worse. 

“Please tell me.” Sylus leans in closer, his nose brushing against mine, our breaths intermingled. “Please.”

My resolve falters. “I-I…” 

“You what?” Sylus seems almost desperate, his hands tightening around my own. I’ve never seen or heard him like this. It’s a new kind of vulnerable. So I decide to repay it with my own.

“I care about you.” 

And now it’s out in the open between us, hanging there like a bob in the water. The only question is will he bite or reject the offering? 

“I care about you, Sylus,” I whisper again, my free hand raising of it’s own volition to brush down the skin of his face, from the edge of his eyebrow to the corner of his full lips.

Sylus’ breathing becomes heavy, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly as something shifts in the air around us. “I hate seeing you hurt, and after tonight, I’m more worried than I wanted to admit about you being out in the city.” I find myself rambling into the growing tension. Anything to ease whatever is building. 

“With this new weapon, I detest the idea of you out there alone…what if you don’t make it home next time?”

“Home…” Is all that Sylus repeats, as if he isn’t fully hearing every word.

I fully cup his face in my hand. As the moments have ticked by, I realize I’ve shifted in his embrace and am somehow almost fully facing him, body halfway turned in his lap as I lean into his strong arms. 

Sylus exhales and leans his face into my touch, brows scrunching up in another emotion I can’t quite read. 

“Is this why…” he begins, eyes dropping to my lips and then back again, “Is this why the links have been lasting so long?”

“...Yes.” My cheeks heat up once more. 

“Fuck,” Sylus hisses to mostly himself, eyes drinking in my expression. 

I curve my brow. “Is that good or bad?”

Sylus manages a breathy chuckle, his arm tightening around my waist now. “Good…very good. You don’t realize how much so.”

Afraid I’ll implode if I read too far into that statement, I continue, “Can I go out into the city with you? To help keep you safe? Please?”

Sylus looks slightly tormented by the question. “I’d be far too worried for your safety to consider my own, kitten.”

“I can take care of myself,” I rebut. “I’m a specially trained Deepspace Hunter, or have you forgotten?”

“I’d never forget something that could put my life in mortal danger,” Sylus responds sarcastically, chuckling softly at my responding annoyance. He strokes my face again and I melt. 

“Let me take care of you,” I try again, leaning further into him, hoping to convey the sincerity of my request. Having said these thoughts out loud after all this time, I feel like a waterfall that can’t help but spill everything I’ve kept dammed up. “I want to take care of you.”

Once again, Sylus appears internally knotted up, his face contorting in an odd mix of confusion and desire. “Do you not know how much you do for me already?” he asks. “How much you’re doing for me in this very moment?” 

“It doesn’t feel like enough, whatever it is,” I admit. “I can do more for you. I can fight.”

“Mina–” he strains out, conflicted. “I know you’re capable, I do, but that’s not–you don’t–”

“I don’t what?”

“Linkon City is not the N109 Zone. You’ve barely scratched the surface of how bad this place can get.”

I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, not in this moment after everything that’s been put out in the open, but his statement pricks my pride and I pull back from him. I can see that I’ve hurt him in his confused expression as I put more distance between us. I’d get up from my spot on his lap if I knew I’d make it more than half a foot without dragging him along with me.

“So you get to go out risking life and limb for your responsibilities, and I just have to sit here on my hands waiting for you to come back every night? IF you come back?”

“No, Mina, that’s not what I’m saying…fuck, I don’t even know…how are we–do we need to talk about this right now?” Sylus runs a hand through his silver locks and I watch as they fall in a messy cascade across his forehead. 

I know this is not the way he probably saw this conversation going. I’m sure he would rather have me close to him and telling him more about how much I care about his wellbeing, and if I was being totally honest with myself, that’s what I wish too, but my pride is stumped against the wall of his double standards. 

Why does he get to call the shots for my well-being but I get no say in his? 

He looks like he’s about to reason with me again, but I shake my head. “I want to go to bed now.” 

Sylus looks at a loss for words, starting at me with his jaw half open. He lifts our still-linked hands and waves them between us, as if to remind me that exiting this conversation isn’t going to be that easy.

I curse quietly to myself, looking away from him and out the window. 

“Mina, please, can we–”

“No, we can’t,” I interrupt. With each passing moment, I feel more and more tense and I don’t know how to calm down. I feel like I’m on the verge of tears, the threat of the waterworks stinging at the back of my eyes, and it’s the most frustrating feeling. 

Sylus, to the credit of his good judgement, is remaining quiet. I can feel him staring at the side of my face, probably wondering where this conversation turned sideways. 

“Let’s go then,” he finally speaks into the growing silence.

I whip my head in this direction. “Go where?”

“To bed. If you’re so keen to sleep right now, then I will oblige.”

I look at him, confused, gesturing to our linked hands. “And how exactly do you suggest we do that?”

Without another word, Sylus scoops his free arm beneath my legs that hang over his lap and pulls. As if I’m the weight of a plushie, I’m hoisted into the air, sitting halfway over Sylus’ bare shoulder and halfway in one arm. I’m immediately annoyed by how strong he is. 

“What are you–where are–”

“To bed,” he interrupts, and I can hear the tension in his own voice. I’m caught between my own frustration and the guilt of causing it, so I keep quiet, huffing in resignation as he turns and begins to trapse easily down the length of the dark hallway. 

I have no idea what his plan is as he walks, wondering if he thinks the Evol link will just dissapear when he gets to my room, but instead he passes right by it. My eyes widen as I watch my heavy mahogany door grow smaller and smaller, Sylus still charging towards the end of the hall. I turn, taking in the ornate, black, double-doors at the head of the hallway…Sylus’ room.

“Where do you think you’re taking me?” I ask, incredulous. 

“To b–”

“If you say “bed” one more damn time, I’ll throttle you here and now.”

Against his stoic resolve, Sylus chuckles, and I have to admit, I struggle to remain annoyed, overjoyed that he can’t see my face hanging over his shoulder.

I’ve only been in Sylus’ room twice, both during a bet to see if I could steal a brooch he’d hidden in return for his help on a mission to find the other half of my Aether Core. That seems so long ago now, though thinking back, that second visit to Sylus’ room was where our relationship started to shift from professional to…whatever is was now. 

I shudder as I think about what it felt like to have him towering over me on that bed for the first time.

And now I was going back in under very different, albeit less enticing, circumstances. 

I take in the familiar surroundings as Sylus pushes through the heavy doors like they’re nothing, making straight for the bed that he deftly plops me down on top of. I look up at him as he stands before me, but I can’t read his expression if my life depended on it. 

“Care to explain how you saw this working?” I try, attempting to break the silence. As the moments pass and he remains like the former version of himself, walled up and unreadable, I feel my frustration beginning to be replaced by nerves and uncertainty. Is all that progress we just made for nothing? Are we back to square one now?

“First, you’ll help me out of these.”

I choke on my breath as Sylus gestures to his belt and slacks, still hugging snuggly to his narrow hips. The moisture in my mouth dries up as my eyes follow the prominent V at the bottom of his torso, the deep rivets leading straight below the button of the very pants he’s requested I help remove.

“I’ll what?”

“If we can bandage a wound while linked like this, I’m certain a simple belt and zipper won’t put up too much of a fight.”

“Sylus, I can’t–”

“If you think I’m sleeping in these in my own bed, you’re sorely mistaken,” he states, matter-of-factly. My jaw drops open. He can’t be serious. “Don’t look too disturbed, sweetie, I’ll do all the heavy lifting.” Sylus smirks as he yanks my linked hand forward. 

At this angle, I have to pull against the momentum to stop my hand from making an…unfortunate collision, and cut my look of shock and annoyance up to to see Sylus looking mighty pleased with himself. 

“Just keep your hand close enough to allow me to work,” he explains. I fight to not roll my eyes. I also fight to keep my cheeks from heating up. I’m beginning to remember how I used to feel in the presence of Sylus before I got through a few more of his layers. This arrogance and smugness always did make me irate. 

I look across the room, finding anything and everything to analyze while I feel my hand being jostled around. I hear the metallic sound of the belt being undone and discarded to the ground. Then the unmistakable sounds of his zipper falling loose and his slacks slipping to the floor. 

“Don’t be too coy, kitten. It’s not like this is isn’t anything you haven’t seen,” Sylus purrs from next to me, and my stomach does a flip against my protestation. 

“Can we just get to the sleeping part?” I try my best to sound as bored as possible. How we went from mere centimeters apart, sharing breaths and encased in each others arms to putting on our best show of “Who Can Care Less?” I'll never know. 

Instead of the smug response I’m expecting back, I hear a low and resigned sigh from next to me and brave a look in Sylus’ direction. His eyes are cast away towards the floor, but mine hungrily graze up his newly bare skin. It’s true it’s nothing I haven’t seen before, but that doesn’t make it any less delicious.

His lengthy frame is cut with rippling muscles that sit prettily beneath his luminescent skin. His bandaged and broad torso swims to the narrow line of his black briefs that hug the curve of his meaty thighs like something perfectly tailored. Knowing him, the briefs probably were perfectly tailored. 

I am distracted from my shameless gazing, however, as I return my eyes to his face. He’s still not looking at me…he looks almost sad? I don’t recall ever seeing Sylus downcast, but if that’s not the expression sneaking onto this perfect face, then I don’t know what is. My heart lurches at the sight. 

I watch as he reaches past me to pull the pristinely made sheets away from the headboard, revealing a deepset grey silk. “After you,” he offers, his previous expression masked for the moment. 

My emotions are all over the place, but I keep any thoughts I have to myself as I nod and scoot back on the bed. Sylus is pulled after me by our linked wrists, and if the circumstances were any different right now, I think I might explode from the sight of his lithe frame bending to crawl onto the bed towards me. 

I have to avert my gaze and swiftly burry myself beneath the cool sheets before I heat up anymore. As I settle against the pillow, I feel the bed dip next to me as Sylus does the same. Soon, I feel the silk sheets rise to encase us both, and with a swift flick of Sylus’ fingers, the lights in room go out and we’re plunged into darkness and silence. 

I blink a few times, forcing my eyes to adjust to the lighting. Soon enough, the moonlight bathes everything in the bedroom in a soft glow and I can see the faint outline of the objects around me. I turn my head to the right and gaze out of the large bay window fixed into the far wall. The view of the night sky from here is breathtaking. I can’t help but feel a sense of yearning for the scene only minutes earlier, staring out the window with Sylus so close. 

He’s so close to me now, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore. How did things change so quickly? I forget why I was even frustrated with him…Well, I still remember why, but I don’t know why it was so important. The downfall of pride, I suppose. And now I’m lying in Sylus’ bed more awake than ever before, wallowing in my regret and desperate for some sort of salve to the situation. 

I risk a glance to my left and can make out the sharp outline of Sylus’ profile resting on the pillow next to mine. How many times have I dreamed of this? Of lying next to him in the quiet of the evening? Only there wasn’t this glaring tension resting between us in those dreams. I mentally kick myself for letting my annoyance get the better of me. And just after I’d made so much progress with him. 

I can feel the heat of his hand under the blankets so close to mine, the Evol linking our wrists making it harder to move any farther apart. As I subtly test the pull of the link, I can’t help but feel it’s even shorter than when it first connected. My fingers must be mere centemeters from Sylus’. 

There’s no sound in the room aside from our breathing. If I train my ears just right, I can find the rhythm of Sylus’ inhales and exhales–the only comforting thing in the vicinity. I chew the inside of my cheek as the temptation to move closer to him grows. He’s so close, so warm. And with that warmth so nearby, it intensifies the freezing air of the bedroom, chilling me right to my bones.

My free hand grips the silk sheets, pulling them up to rest just below my chin. I curl my body beneath the covers as tightly as I can, trying to retain any heat I still have from when Sylus’ was holding me against him. It’s no use. I continue to fight against the chill of the air, wondering how Sylus exists in this kind of cold all the time. 

“You’re shaking the whole bed.”

The sound of his voice in the dead silence makes me jump.

“Oh…I’m s-sorry,” I chatter, my chin stuttering from the chill. “It just got so cold…You don’t have an extra blanket in here, do you?”

Instead of responding, I hear him sigh deeply before the bed dips closer to me and I’m suddenly sliding sideways directly into the bare and blazing skin of Sylus himself. He situates our linked wrists in such a way that they are comfortably resting between our bodies. I instinctively curl myself against him, drinking in his heat like water. 

“Better?’ he asks, his voice close by in the darkness. 

I sigh out the last of my chill, nuzzling into the crook of his shoulder, not stopping to care that the tension between our unresolved conversation is still sitting stagnant above us. 

“Yes,” I say honestly. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t say anything, so I attempt to close my eyes and find rest. If silence is all that awaits me tonight, I’d rather find solace in slumber and pray that when I wake up, the link will be dissolved. 

My eyes are closed all of a minute before I realize falling back asleep won’t be as easy as I hoped. My insides are too restless, my regret and guilt too heavy. I should say something, I know I should, but I’m not sure how to broach the topic again…

“I care about you, too.”

Once again the low rumble of Sylus’ rough timbre echoes into the silence before I get my chance. I jolt at the unexpected comment and feel him shift his position beside me. In the glow of the moonlight, I lift my head to see his face turned towards me, lids hooded as he finds my eyes. 

Suddenly my heart is pounding again. How does he manage to do that?

“What?” is all I can think to say. 

“I care about you. I realize I never returned the sentiment…earlier.”

“Oh!” I breathe out, caught off guard. “I–That’s…thank you?”

“Thank you?” 

I can hear the start of a chuckle behind his words, and I can’t help but giggle in response at the absurdity of my own. 

“No, not ‘thank you’--well, I mean yes, thank you, but that’s–what I meant to say was…”

“It’s ok, Mina,” he lulls my from my spiral with his calm tone. He turns even more in the darkness until we are both lying facing each other. He looks some kind of otherworldly in this light. “I wanted to you know that I’m not hesitant to bring you with me into the city because I don’t think you’re capable or don’t want you to worry for my well-being.”

I purse my lips, studying his face. His expression is still sadder than I’d like it to be, as if he’s been mulling these words over and over, unsure of how I’d respond. 

“I know,” I agree, earnestly. “But then why–”

“I care about you, too,” he repeats just as emphatically as me. Under the blankets, I feel the ghost of his fingers trail against mine, testing the waters of what’s ok. I instantly fold and move my fingers to be eagerly enveloped by his own. He inches closer to me. 

“You care about me,” I echo, testing each word on my lips. 

He slowly grins, that hooded gaze eating me alive. His other hand reaches towards me and tucks a stray hair behind my ear, so gentle I question if this is the same man I met all those months ago. 

“Yes,” he assures in a breath of a whisper. “Very much so.” 

“You care about me,” I say again, sounding like a broken record.

Sylus laughs a low rumble of a laugh that shoots right through me. “I care about you so much that I worry about your safety the same way you say you worry about mine.”

I stare up at him, melting against his palm as it traces soothing lines up and down the curve of my neck. It’s like every new place he’s allowed to touch me is a place he must explore every inch of, memorizing every fold and caressing every curve. 

“I have responsibilities to attend to out in the city,” he continues on, explaining in a sort of gentle voice that has me hanging onto every syllable. “If I don’t attend to those responsibilities, all that follows is chaos, the kind that would eventually rope you up inside, and I can’t have that.” His fingers tighten on my hand, as if reassuring himself I’m really here in front of him. 

“Keeping you here means that I can attend to responsibilities knowing you’re safe and unharmed,” Sylus reveals. “I’m without the distraction of worrying about someone I care for.” 

“You care about me.”

Sylus laughs louder this time. “Is that all you can say, kitten?” 

I feel my grin growing in response to the sound of his laughter. I wonder how many other people have had the privilege to hear his laugh, his real laugh, hearty and deep and comforting. 

“I’m sorry, “ I shake my head. “I’m just processing.”

Sylus inches forward almost imperceptibly, eyebrows knit together. “Surely you knew I returned the feeling?”

I suddenly become sheepish. 

Sylus’ eyebrows raise in astonishment, his grin going lopsided. “Surely, you knew!”

My cheeks heat and I retreat with a squeak beneath the barrier of silk sheets, burying my face against his shoulder. I hear another well of laughter tumble over me as Sylus moves to remove the sheets from overtop of me. 

“I promise I didn’t know!” I finally admit, grinning stupidly against the warmth of his skin. As the natural cadence of my giggling dies down, I continue, slightly embarrassed, “I guessed…I hoped…but you’ve been so shamelessly flirtatious since the moment we met, I could never be sure…”

Sylus feigns shock. “Shamelessly flirtatious? Tsk, tsk, sweetie, you couldn’t be talking about me.”

I laugh again and Sylus lights up at the sound, his eyes glowing. 

He stares at me for a long moment, his hands reclaiming their purchases against my skin, stroking and caressing the exposed parts with such care. “Sorry if it should’ve been more obvious,” I add after a minute, gazing lazily at his face. “Wanderers and fluctuation zones I can detect all day long, but this has never been my strong suit…” I gesture between the two of us.

Sylus huffs a gentle laugh, shaking his head. “Maybe it wasn’t obvious to you, that’s ok. We’re here now.”

I bite my lip in thought and Sylus’ eyes zero in on the action, pupils dialiting before he pulls his gaze away. My stomach twists again. 

“...How long?” I eventually ask, nerves lighting up inside me. I can’t bare to keep eye contact with him as I wait for an answer. 

“How long?”

“How long have you…cared for me?” I feel so silly asking it out loud. As a blush creeps up my neck, I fight the urge to dive beneath the covers again. 

Sylus’ fingers still their soothing ministrations against my skin, and I suddenly worry. Did I ask something I shouldn’t have? Was it too far? Too soon? 

But when I anxiously meet Sylus’ eyes once again, he’s already looking at me like something I’ve never seen. His piercing red irises have a slight glow to them, his brows knit slightly in a look of sincerity that takes my breath away. He pauses a moment longer, making sure I’m keeping my eyes on him as he speaks, low and slow.

“A long time,” he utters, breathless. “A very, very long time.” 

I’m slightly confused while at the same time utterly captivated. I don’t know how long these few months could’ve felt. I suppose it has seemed like forever already, but I have a feeling that’s not what he means. Something about the moment has me reeling back my questions, however. This doesn’t seem like the right time or place to broach that topic.

“And you?” He returns my question, his face earnest as he awaits my response. “When did you start to…care?”

I find his phrasing funny and giggle before I answer. “When I was looking for that brooch, I suppose.”

He looks somewhat surprised at this. Maybe it wasn’t what he was expecting. “The one from the bet we made?”

I nod.

“What about that little hunt had you see me as something less monstrous?” 

I open my mouth to protest that I ever found him monstrous, but truth be told, those first few days in the N109 Zone were not my favorite to recount with him. 

Instead I answer honestly. “I tried so many times so many ways to find that stupid brooch, and you were so…patient with me. Even when I eventually had you handcuffed to this very bed and you could’ve escaped at any moment, you didn’t, and you let me think I had the upper hand for a few moments.”

Sylus listens intently, his eyes trained on my lips.

“I don’t know,” I continue. “In the end when you finally handed over the brooch, at first I was annoyed that you’d let me win without really winning, but as I kept replaying the memory of it, I thought it was so uncharacteristic of you to give in…and then I started thinking, ‘What if that isn’t uncharacteristic of him, and the demeanor he usually has is the farce?’”

I watch Sylus’ eyebrow raise in question. 

“The interactions we had after that…I started looking at you through that lens to test my theory, and sure enough, you aren’t the big bad meanie everyone paints you to be. At least not all the time.” I smile to myself. 

Looking back to Sylus, I see his expression has become one of subdued shock.

“What?” I ask through my smile. 

“I just didn’t think you were paying that close attention to me.” 

“I’m quite perceptive where it counts,” I defend myself. 

He smiles slowly. “Except when it comes to matters of returned affection.” 

I roll my eyes. “Okay, well I’m one for one on the perception front. I’m gonna take that as a win.” 

Sylus’ grin grows and he inches forward yet again. As I notice how truly close he’s gotten, my nerves begin to edge upward. My throat dry, I avert my eyes. “So, what now?” 

“You could touch me.”

“W-What?” I choke out, blindsided by his request. 

“If you want to, that is,” he amends, carefully looking me over. “You seem rather…timid when it comes to physical affection, do you not?”

“I’m not timid!” I say defiantly, immediately proving myself wrong when Sylus dips his hand from my face to my shoulder then under the edge of blanket to my waist. I instantly flinch away from the sudden change in proximity. “Ok, well that was an unfair play!”

Sylus is laughing in earnest now, and it’s enough to distract me from my fumble. 

“You were a little tense on the couch earlier, as well,” he notes, moving his hand back to the safe zone of my face. “Do you not enjoy physical contact?”

“I do!” I am quick to assure him. “I do enjoy it, it’s just…”

“Just…?”

“You make me nervous.”

“Nervous good or nervous bad?”

“Good! Nervous good.”

“So what does nervous good mean? Would you rather I not touch you just yet?” Sylus begins to remove his hands from me and I immediately feel their absence. 

I shake my head, swiftly reaching back for his hands and pulling them back to where they were previously stationed. Sylus tries to hide his satisfaction. 

“I don’t mind the physical contact, really!” I do my best to reassure that I am very much enthusiastic about the physical element going on here. “It just might take me a bit to get used to it without jumping is all. It’s something new.”

Sylus nods, his eyes darting away before returning with a question. “And me? How do you feel about touching me?”

My throat dries again. He truly is shameless. 

“Have I given the impression that I don’t want to?” I ask sincerely, concerned I’ve come across averse to the idea.

“You haven’t exactly returned the physical sentiment the whole time we’ve been lying here.” He says it like it’s obvious. 

“Oh, I haven’t?” I was genuinely unaware, much more focused on his hands on me than where mine were. Now that he’s mentioned it, I realize aside from the hand I’m holding beneath the sheets, my other hand remains curled against my own chest. “Do you…enjoy physical contact?” 

“Yes,” he responds without a beat of pause. “Especially yours.”

My stomach is doing flips. “Where should I–?”

“Anywhere,” he whispers. “Everywhere.” 

I hesitate a moment, overthinking every minute movement. I did touch him earlier when I bandaging his wounds, but I suppose that was with a different purpose in mind. And on the couch, I remember touching his face, didn’t I? Maybe it wasn’t enough for him. I know some people are more drawn to touch than others. I didn’t even really know I liked it until Sylus started doing it. If it feels as comforting to him as this does to me, then I decide to make an effort to return the gestures he’s already offered. 

Slowly, I unfurl my hand from against my own chest and reach out towards the exposed planes of Sylus’. I place my palm flat against his collarbone, fingers running a line across the protruding feature and up along the curve of his own neck. His skin is soft and warm and I eat up every inch of it as I trace a path along the sharp jut of his jawline and then back down, down, down, across his collarbone once again and then onto the solid muscles of his chest.

I run my nails along his pale skin, and Sylus shudders beneath my touch, moving even closer to me. 

“Is this ok?” I ask gently, keeping my eyes focused on what my hand is doing. 

“Yes,” comes the heady whisper of approval above me. It sounds almost gutteral and it has my mind spinning. Did this really affect him that much? “More. Touch me more.” 

My mind careens into an abyss at the sound of his voice. When I look up, he’s looking down with eyes half closed, irises glazed over and needy, and staring right at me. 

I continue to run the pressure of my palm and the scratch of my nails along his chest, venturing across to his other pectoral and then down his sternum towards the chiseled field of his abdominals. I stop just above the gauze wrapping, avoiding placing any pressure on his healing wound. As I travel back up towards his face, I test a graze along his exposed nipple and melt inside as a low moan of approval erupts from his throat. 

“Careful, kitten,” he admonishes in a dulcet tone. “Don’t start what you can’t finish.” 

“Can’t fini–” I start to question before he captures my roaming hand in his own. 

“Maybe that’s enough practice for now,” he decides, thumbing the back of my palm. 

I look up at Sylus from beneath hooded lashes, breathing harder than I realized. I watch as Sylus’ adam’s apple bobs against the skin of his throat, his chest starting to heave like a bellows. 

“Fuck…” he hisses, squeezing my hand as if trying to stop his own from moving any farther.

“What?” I question, searching that dazed expression for what he might be thinking about. Did I do something I shouldn’t have? “What’s wrong?”

Sylus leans closer to me, our mouths a breath apart. “I’m trying so hard to stop myself from kissing you right now.”

His brazen confession has my breath stuck in my throat. There’s a silence that seems like it stretches on forever between us. I force myself to swallow and say, “What if I don’t want you to stop yourself?” 

His right eye glows an intense shade of red as he reigns in the flare of his Evol energy. Those irises lock their sights on my parted lips. He licks his own in a way that has me becoming a puddle against him. I didn’t realize I want to kiss him so badly until he spoke it outloud. Now it’s all I can think of. What his lips taste like, what noises he makes, how well he uses that vipers tongue of his…

“If you keep looking at me like that, I won’t be able to stop myself,” he whispers against the skin of cheek, so close that he almost feels like part of me.

“Don’t,” I plead breathlessly. “Don’t stop yourself.” 

I let my eyes drift back to his enticing mouth, licking my own lips in response. 

“I have to–” is all he gets out before his lips are on mine. 

My head and my stomach implode in tandem, nerves and butterflies and explosions swimming all throughout my body at the feeling of him kissing me. I am in heaven, pure heaven. 

I always knew Sylus was a sensual kind of person, but having his lips pressed against mine was almost sinful with how perfect it felt. The kiss is gentle but desperate, the pressure of his mouth on mine conveying how he can’t seem to get close enough, to feel enough of me. 

His free hand moves from my face to my neck and up to my hair, his long digits fisting in my locks, tugging me futher into him. I suck against his bottom lip which draws out the most beautiful moan from his throat. 

His Evol energy suddenly erupts in a swarm of red and black mist that swims around us both, carressing my arms, my legs, my waist, every part of me his hands can’t get to. 

I feel his wrist tugging against the link beneath the sheets, trying without success to free itself and move elsewhere on my person. 

“Fuck, I want to touch you, all of you,” he grinds out through breathless kisses, tugging again against the Evol link. If I wasn’t so far gone against his body, I’d find it in me to laugh that the very thing that brought us this close was now his hindrance. And with the link growing stronger the more our connection grows, I didn’t see it coming loose anytime soon.  

“Sylus,” I moan against his mouth, his Evol energy shuddering around me in response. 

“Say it again, Mina,” he pleads, pressing me to his chest. “Say my name.”

“Sylus, Sylus, Sylus,” I repeat in between each capture of my lips in his. We continue for a moment longer, his tongue beginning to tease the line of my mouth before he suddenly pulls away, leaving me breathless and blown out, hazy in the remnants of his touch.

I open my eyes to see his chest rising and falling in erratic patterns, his hand still fisted in my hair. His own eyes are closed, his Evol energy slowly dissipating around us. He’s trying to regain himself. 

“Sylus?” I venture, my voice not sounding quite my own. “Are you ok?”

“Yes,” he breathes slowly, his voice like gravel. “Yes, I’m fine. I just need…a moment.”

“Ok,” I concede, lying back and watching him as he reigns in his explosion of energy. He’s so powerful, it’s a marvel to watch his Evol in action, and it makes me want to reach back for him even more. I lift my free hand to do just that before he intercepts my fingers in his own and holds it against his chest.

Sylus falls against the sheets and curls me against him, kissing the top of my head. “I’m sorry, I think we should stop for now…”

“Oh, ok,” I whisper, my cheeks heating in embarrassment. I make to turn myself over before he sees the blush covering my neck and face when he tightens his grip on me.

“Where are you going?” he sounds concerned.

“I thought…you said you wanted to stop.”

Sylus exhales a relieved breath. “No, kitten, please don’t misunderstand.” I meet his eyes and he massages my hand with his own in a comforting way. “I need to stop for my own sake…if we’d kept going…I don’t think I would’ve been able to control my Evol.” 

My eyes light with realization. “Oh…”

“I’ve never…” His eyes go somewhere far away for a moment as he becomes lost in a thought. “That’s never happened before. My Evol going haywire…did I hurt you?” Suddenly all his worry is trained on me, his eyes looking me up and down to ensure no lingering injury was left behind.

“What? No, of course not,” I reassure him. “It felt…good.”

“Good?” Sylus repeats. 

“Like there was more of you around me.” 

He exhales again. “Good.”

“Was it…okay for you?” If I had a dollar for everytime I’ve blushed uncontrollably tonight, I’d be a damn millionare. 

Sylus looks at me for a moment before leaning in and chuckling, his eyes closing in mirth. Was I that bad?

He opens his eyes and looks so deeply in mine that I balk under his gaze. “You have…no idea how long I’ve waited for that.” The tone of his voice sets my heart aflame. Sylus glances back to my now-swollen lips before he tears away. “I would do it again if I thought I could control myself.”

The way he looks at me so hungrily, like he could devour the whole of me in one bite makes me want to hide myself away. He is too much and not enough all at once.  

“We’ll have to work on that,” I manage to finally say. 

Sylus laughs and he runs the back of his hand down my face, coming to rest against my neck. “I look forward to it. Now, sleep, little bird. You’ve been up far past your bedtime.” 

I blink at him and suddenly feel more tired than I have in weeks. As Sylus curls me against his side and readjusts the sheets overtop of us, I fight to stay awake and take one last look at his perfect face, suddenly terrified this has all been some elaborate fever dream and I’m about to wake up in my bed down the hall with nothing but the lingering memory of tonight to hold on to. 

“Sleep, darling,” Sylus whispers again, his lips pressing to the crown of my head, his hand still linked to mine beneath the silk sheets massaging gentle patterns into my palm that have my drifting even farther off. “I’ll be here when you wake.” 

And that was all I needed to hear before my eyes finally closed and sleep washed over me for the first time since I arrived. This time, I sleep all the way through to morning. ~ A/N: This is the first thing I've written since i went on a tumblr hiatus back in 2020. Love and Deepspace has drawn me out of the trenches and I am once again a fandom girlie. For now at least! I lowkey wanted to make this into a mini-series, which i might still do if I get enough of an idea for it, but for now, I hope you enjoy this moment with Sylus! Requests are open for drabbles and fics for LnDS <3 ~zayneternal <3

[gingernut1314]

I just want to say I love your blog!! Not sure if you do requests but I loved the one about the hammock and Zoro. Can you do a part 2 where the crew wakes up and teases Zoro about it (and obvi sanji gets jealous)

Demons and Claws Pt. 2

Warnings: gender-neutral reader, Fluff, mild anime spoilers (Chopper)

Word Count: 1.3K

A/N: Thank you!! I really appreciate your kind words!! 🩷 I do take requests!!! And yessssss!! I love it when the crew interacts! I hope you all enjoy! (Updated style to match like fics on Feb. 4th, 2025. No words have been changed)

↞ to One Piece Masterlist | Request Rules | Blog Navigation ↠

You dreamed of small coffee shops. Coffee shops whose ambiance was interrupted by your crew, who had followed you into its cozy walls.

You dreamed of cool, sea breezes and polishing weapons as Zoro laid his head on your shoulder, snoring up a storm. 

You dreamed of--something hard and sharp kicked your face. Something hard and sharp that kicked your face repeatedly in a near frantic manner. 

It had your eyes snapping open and held a hand up to protect your face from getting kicked again by the cloven hooves swinging your way. Chopper hung from the edge of his hammock grunting and whining as his hooved feet continued to try and find something to stand on.

“Chopper.” You said, blocking another kick. “Chopper stop.” You grumbled, making the doctor freeze. He turned his pink, top hat-wearing head down to look at you, giving you an anxious little smile. 

“Sorry--wait, what are you doing in here?” He asked, his body getting swung slightly by the sea rocking the ship. 

“I was trying to sleep.” You huffed, reaching over Zoro’s still snoozing form to grab Chopper. He let go of his hammock and patted your hand with a nervous laugh. 

“Heh, heh…silly me. Sorry, Y/N. I’ll let you get back--” 

“I am going to murder you both.” Zoro's rough voice said, cutting off Chopper and rumbling through your arms. Chopper gave a squeaking little noise, squirming in your grip and giving apology after apology that was broken by a loud scream when Sanji's head popped up next to him. 

“If you two idiots don’t--” When Sanji’s blue eyes found you lying there, the murder, which had once been shimmering in his eyes vanished. “Beautiful.” He greeted, leaning in closer with that charming smile of his. “I thought I heard your melodic voice. What are you doing all the way down here with that dirty oaf?” 

“I’d watch your mouth, waiter.” Sanji’s eyes snapped to stare daggers Zoro’s way, who had yet to open his eyes.

“Good morning, Sanji.” You sighed, grabbing hold of Chopper's hooved hands to lower him down onto the nice fabric of the couch below. He bounced a few times before hopping off onto the floor. “I just needed a snuggle buddy is all.” Zoro’s hand reattached itself around your waist and pulled you away from the cook smiling at you.

“If a snuggle buddy is want you needed, you could have come to me. A radiant beauty such as yourself shouldn’t have to stoop so low as to ask such a brutish creature for such things. I’ll do it without a single complaint.” Zoro’s eyes snapped open then with a growl, zeroing in on the chef.

“I’ll give you something to complain about, curly brow. Two things.” He hissed, clenching his fists. Sanji scoffed.

“Oh yeah? Well--” A knock on the wall between the two hammock rows had you pulling your attention away from the still arguing Sanji and Zoro to find Usopp had woken up and was watching all of this unfold with an amused smirk on his lips. The emergency exit that separated the two rooms snapped open and Nami poked her orange-haired head in, a look of slight annoyance on her face. 

“Pay up.” He chuckled, looking overly proud of himself as he held his hand, palm up and fingers wiggling, down towards the navigator. She opened her mouth to argue but Usopp silenced her with a simple head nod towards you and Zoro. When her blue eyes scanned you both over, she shut it with a huff.

“What are you two up to?” You asked, sitting up to watch them better. 

“Oh, nothing to worry your radiant head about,” Usopp said, teasing you with the compliment Sanji had just given you. Nami ducked her head back into your shared room, grumbling away only to come back out two seconds later with a few green berries which she slapped into his hand. 

“Don’t forget the specifics, Usopp,” Nami said, resting her elbows on the ledge and extending a hand toward Usopp with a smug look. “Pay up.” 

“But--”

“Pay. Up. Or I’ll add interest.” Usopp groaned and handed her half of the money he had just earned back. 

“Usopp.” You hissed, making the man jump around startled, to face you again. “What the hell?” He seemed to grow overly nervous then. 

“Oh, you know. Me and Nami are just--” He looked back to Nami for help but the navigator gave him a little salute.

“Hope you two love birds slept well.” Nami teased your way, making your heart nearly freeze.

“Love birds--Nami--” Zoro snapped away from his argument just as she slammed and locked the emergency exit shut.

The swordsman looked over Usopp's nervous grin as he sunk deeper into his blankets before his attention drifted down to you. He took in your tensed-up demeanor. Took you in slowly and in a way that was long enough for him to try and gauge what you might possibly be thinking in that moment.

“Alright.” He hissed, having made his assessment of you. Zoro sat up a bit in his newfound annoyance, making the hammock sway dangerously. You grabbed onto his strong chest for dear life, feeling gravity pull you towards the ground.

New sturdy and not literal burlap sack hammocks were definitely in order.  

“I’ve still got another hour left and I’ve had it up to--”

“Did someone say snuggles?” The groggy voice of your captain sounded, cutting the grumpy swordsmen off. You watched with a chuckle as he looked over the edge of his own hammock to spy Zoro and you. “Y/N!” He greeted cheerfully, rapidly ripping his sheets off and rushing up. 

“Luffy, no--” Zoro’s warning was cut off with a pained Oomph that spilled from your own lips as well when your captain's body landed on top of both of yours. Dull pain shot through your bones, but the warm, stretchy arms of your captain extending around both your bodies was quick to ease the small hurt. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you were going to have a sleepover? We could have had Sanji cook us snacks and everything!” Luffy ecstatically said, his voice slightly muffled from where he had buried it between you and Zoro’s necks. A laugh spilled from your lips as you unwedged your arm out from under Luffy’s body to hug him back. 

“I’m sorry, captain. I’ll let you know next time.” You chuckle, patting his back.

“You sure as hell won’t tell him.” Zoro gruffed, grabbing Luffy by the scruff of his red vest and pulling him away.  

“Aww--why Zoro?” Luffy asked, a near-heartbroken look on his face that only continued to irritate Zoro.

“Yeah, Zoro?” Sanji teased, a smug grin on his face. “Let’s all snuggle up together next time. I call dibs on the spot next to Y/N--” Sanji had hardly gotten your name out of his mouth before Zoro was flinging Luffy’s body into him. Chopper gave a scream as the two went crumbling to the ground with a sharp grunt, the poor doctor caught in the crossfire and crushed under their bodies. 

“I’ll beat you all into a bloody mess if you don’t leave me the hell alone. No one is snuggling with anyone.” He barked down at the pile of bodies on the floor, which slowly started to rise. Luffy gave a forlorn little moan before Sanji threw him off himself.

You chuckled, starting to raise to get ready for the day when Zoro’s strong hand latched around your waist. He gave it a sharp tug to pull you back into his side. 

“No.” He said simply, closing his dark brown eyes once more.

“I thought you said no one was snuggling with anyone?” Zoro huffed.

“You’re not no one.” He said simply before going silent once more. You felt your chest warm at his words. A warmth that only spread as you watched his face begin to soften, sleep come to take him once more.

With a satisfied smile, you snuggled right back up into Zoro’s strong hold.

<- Previous

More like this: Couldn't Sleep? {Robin x GN!reader} ⋆ Just Trying To Sleep {Luffy x gn!reader}⋆ How Can I Be Of Service? {Sanji x gn!reader} ⋆ Feeling Generous {Nami x gn!reader} ⋆ Nightmares {Usopp x gn!reader}

[dystopicjumpsuit]

The Plant Prowler of Pabu

A/N: I’m scared that Pabu is going to be toast after this week, so I wrote a little fluff to make myself feel better. Also, this is the first time I’ve been able to finish a fic in six weeks, so… yay me!

Pairing: Crosshair x Reader (GN)

Rating: T (but MDNI as always)

Wordcount: 2.1K

Warnings and tags: mild language; fluff; a kiss; spoilers for The Bad Batch season 3

Summary: Exploring the island during his first morning on Pabu, Crosshair encounters a mastermind of botanical crime: you.

Suggested Listening: 

Masterlist | Sign up for my tag list

Whoever said, “It’s darkest just before dawn” had clearly never woken up to go for a walk before sunrise. Even if Crosshair hadn’t had enhanced vision, it would have been easy for him to navigate his way down to the beach of Pabu in the dim half-light. Hunter had wordlessly watched him exit the Marauder, pretending to still be asleep, but Crosshair knew that his brother would have drawn his vibroblade in a flash if he’d even glanced sideways at Omega.

Crosshair didn’t exactly blame Hunter for his caution, but it didn’t make it any easier to swallow. The squad had arrived on the idyllic island the previous day, and Crosshair was immediately swarmed by a horde of curious locals. With Hunter determined to keep Crosshair in sight at all times, there had been no escape from their onslaught of hospitality, and by the time the celebrations had died down, Crosshair had been clinging to the tattered threads of his patience and sanity.

It was a hell of a thing to go from barely speaking to anyone for months on end to suddenly being plunged into the midst of a vibrant and chaotic crowd of nosy spectators. He’d escaped to the Marauder at last and pretended to sleep, keenly aware of Hunter’s eyes on him. He’d spent enough time under the microscope in the past several months, though, and he was ready for some privacy.

And so it was that he found himself wandering down the empty terraced walkways of Pabu, making his way to the shoreline in the pale gloaming. He didn’t encounter a single soul as he walked—barring the ubiquitous moonyos that seemed to frolic across the island at all hours. Pabu was the sort of place that seemed too flawless to be real. Too flawless to last.

Not quite as flawless as it seems on the surface, he acknowledged as he turned down a path that snaked through one of the sections of the island that had yet to be rebuilt after the catastrophic sea surge he’d heard about countless times at the welcoming party the previous night. The buildings had been reduced to rubble, and judging by the weeds sprouting in the cracks of the walkway, the locals tended to avoid this particular part of the island.

Perfect.

The gentle breeze off the ocean was chilly, and he told himself it was the reason his hand trembled more than usual that morning. He shoved both hands deep into his pockets as he navigated the last few levels before he reached the beach. As he stepped onto the sand, a gust of wind buffeted against him. It was bracingly cold, and it smelled like salt and aquatic vegetation and wet earth, and he closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and focusing on the sensation.

When he opened his eyes, a flicker of movement in his peripheral vision had him snapping his head to the side. He froze. A figure meandered slowly down the beach, sticking close to the bottom of the hill where the lush foliage grew thickly right up to the edge of the sand. He was certain you had spotted him, but you didn’t immediately acknowledge his presence.

He watched for a moment as you paused and stooped down to examine one of the plants, then carefully plucked a few bunches and laid them in the basket you carried. Bizarre. What the kriff was this person doing out here so early? Nothing innocent, that was for damned sure. Why would anyone sneak down to such an isolated stretch of the beach at this obscene hour if they didn’t have nefarious intent?

Aside from me, obviously.

He squinted slightly. Even with his enhanced eyesight, it was dark enough, and you were far enough away, that it was difficult to make out your features, but he was reasonably sure you hadn’t been at the party the night before. 

Hmph.

He turned and walked the opposite direction, away from the person who’d had the audacity to interrupt his solitude by getting to the beach first. Better not to get involved.

Crosshair took a different route the next morning, arriving at the beach just as the sun rose. As bad kriffing luck would have it, you were exiting the beach just as he arrived, and your paths inevitably intersected. He braced himself for a conversation, but you simply met his eyes and nodded quietly as you passed him.

He suppressed a sigh of relief. Stepping aside to make room for you to pass on the narrow trail, he couldn’t help noticing that your basket was filled with a variety of neat bundles of leaves and twigs. Odd, but your hobbies were none of his concern. Even if they did involve herb rustling and grand theft shrubbery.

He continued his path down to the shoreline and wandered along the water’s edge, staring out at the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see your solitary figure making its way up the steep slope and into Lower Pabu. He was now completely sure that you’d not been at the welcoming party, nor had he encountered you in the village. It wasn’t that surprising; after all, hundreds of people lived on the island, and he wasn’t in any particular hurry to meet them all—or any of them, if he were honest.

Of course, he didn’t have much of a choice in the matter. Wrecker had flatly refused to allow Crosshair to isolate himself, while the gregarious mayor Shep Hazard seemed equally dedicated to the twin causes of thrusting Crosshair into the community and plying him with as much fruit as he could eat in a lifetime. He was starting to feel a tiny surge of violence every time he saw a jogan fruit.

On the third day, Batcher woke up with Crosshair and scrambled out of the Marauder, bounding ahead of him down the ramp and then turning to wiggle her entire body in anticipation as he followed. He let the lurca hound pick the path that morning, not bothering to hide his thin smile at Batcher’s endless curiosity and enthusiasm. She crisscrossed the walkways incessantly, sniffing and exploring, chasing the moonyos playfully down the hill, investigating every nook and cranny of the village, and easily running five times the distance that Crosshair traveled on their way down to the water.

The beach was empty this morning, to Crosshair’s relief. At last, some peace and quiet. Or at least as quiet and peaceful as it could be with Batcher rocketing back and forth across the wet sand, grunting and huffing as she charged into the surf and back up to Crosshair, crouching into a bow as she tried to entice him to play with her. When he didn’t immediately comply, she took off chasing a flock of seabirds, scattering them into the air in a cacophony of indignant squawking.

She chased the birds down the beach, barking joyously as she splashed through the surf. When the hound disappeared around a bend in the shoreline, Crosshair sped up slightly, not wanting to risk Omega’s wrath if anything happened to her pet on his watch. As he rounded the bend, he was greeted with a most unexpected sight: Batcher was lying on her back on the sand, writhing with delight as you rubbed her belly.

Your basket was overturned, and all the neat little bundles of herbs were strewn across the sand. It wasn’t hard to deduce the instigator of such carnage. Batcher spotted Crosshair and immediately jumped up and shook the sand off herself before rushing to greet him.

“Down,” he said sternly as she jumped up and swiped at him with her massive paws.

She dropped obediently, and trotted along next to him as he approached you. You’d already begun picking up your fallen bundles of leaves, and he quickly bent to assist you.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled.

“No harm done,” you replied, shaking a bit of loose sand out of the bundles before you dropped them into your basket. “They all get washed before I hang them up to dry anyway.”

“So you’re not just engaging in botanical heists for the adrenaline rush?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, it really gets the blood pumping,” you replied, deadpan. “My day just doesn’t feel complete without a little horticultural larceny.”

“I can see you like to live on the edge,” he said with a tiny smile. “The Plant Prowler of Pabu.”

“And I would have gotten away with it, if it weren’t for a mysterious stranger and his meddling dog.”

He liked you. Damn it.

Crosshair didn’t see you for the next several days. He assumed you’d moved your criminal enterprise elsewhere on the island, and after the team returned from Barton IV, he didn’t feel the same need to escape the Marauder as he had previously. Still, he wasn’t sleeping particularly well, and after an excruciatingly restless night, he slipped out of the ship not long before dawn and wandered aimlessly down the streets of Pabu until he found himself in the unstable section he’d discovered on the first day.

As he picked his way through the ruins, he spotted movement two terraces below, and he grinned. Forcing himself to walk casually so you didn’t suspect how pleased he was to see you, he sauntered down to your level, only to find you ripping weeds up from between the fragments of pavement with uncharacteristic abandon.

“What did those plants ever do to you?” he asked.

You must have spotted him before he arrived, because you didn’t even flinch at the sound of his voice.

“Invasive species,” you replied. “I try not to over-forage, but in this case, I’ll make an exception.”

“And I thought your crimes only extended to vegetational theft,” he drawled. “I had no idea you’d escalated to floral murder and agricultural vigilantism.”

“The hero Pabu needs,” you said with a smile that had no business being as charming as it was, considering you were currently covered in a fine layer of dirt and assorted bits of leaves and twigs. “If this plant gets established on the island, we might never be able to eradicate it. It will outcompete the native plants and could cause significant disruptions to the ecosystem.”

“How altruistic of you,” he remarked drily.

“Not at all,” you laughed. “It also happens to be delicious.”

Crosshair stooped down and pulled one of the plants up by the roots, examining it closely. “It’s on sight, then.”

“Exactly. No mercy.”

As the first rays of the sun appeared on the distant horizon, you packed the large bundles of weeds into your basket, then stood and dusted your hands off on your trousers. You stretched a bit, clearly a little stiff from your labor. Impulsively, Crosshair spoke.

“Want to watch the sunrise with me?” You looked surprised at his offer, and he cleared his throat, looking awkwardly away. “Or do you turn into a meiloorun if you stay out past dawn?”

“Yes,” you said. “I mean, no. I mean, yes, I’d like to stay. No, I don’t turn into a meiloorun.”

You bit your lip and stared down at the bundle of weeds in your basket, poking at it ineffectually as you muttered something unintelligible under your breath. Stifling a laugh, Crosshair climbed up onto the crumbling half-wall of a destroyed structure and extended his hand to help you up after him. You scrambled up and sat down next to him, gazing out at the tranquil ocean as the sun began to paint the high clouds in brilliant shades of gold and pastel.

“Not a bad view, is it?” you asked quietly. 

“Definitely worth waking up early,” he replied, watching your face as the light caught on your cheekbones and reflected in your eyes.

Without making a conscious decision, he lifted his hand and brushed a little loose dirt off your cheek. His damned hand trembled, and he mentally cursed. You didn’t seem to notice the slight tremor, though—or if you did, you didn’t say anything about it. Instead, you turned your head slowly, grazing your lips across his fingertips as you met his eyes. It seemed the most natural thing in the galaxy to continue to trace the line of your jaw until his hand curled around the back of your head.

Your lips were soft and warm in the cool breeze, and you tasted like sea salt and dew and something he didn’t quite recognize. Something new. He liked it. You leaned into his kiss, and when at last it came to its natural conclusion, he drew in a shaky breath.

“Hi,” he whispered. “I’m Crosshair.”

---

Want more Crosshair? I have another Crosshair x Reader ficlet here!

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[inquisimer]

Hi, happy Friday and thank you for the welcome! Arlow de Riva/Lucanis with “I’m sorry, I’m just—I’m just really tired.” - Anonymous-Inquisitor

ty for the prompt!! Mostly fluff with some hurt/comfort (?) and subtle pining for flavor :3 for @dadrunkwriting - mild da4 spoilers, just Arlow and Lucanis being somft workaholics.

-

“Rook?”

Arlow started, blotting the parchment with the bead of ink that had been waiting too long for her to keep writing. Cursing under her breath, she set the unfinished letter aside and laid down her quill.

“Yes?” she asked, without looking up, or even really registering who had called her name. “What’s happening?”

“Arlow.” The same voice, but quieter, firmer. Finally, her brain caught up to her ears and she sighed, pinching at the bridge of her nose.

“Lucanis. What do you need? Must be serious, to get you out of the pantry.”

“If it were truly serious, I wouldn’t have waited as long as I did for you to respond to your name.” Lucanis perched on the edge of her desk and folded his arms. His brow knit together, concerned. “You need to rest.”

“Hypocrite.”

“My reasons are a little more tangible than yours.”

“Are they?” Arlow challenged. “Tell that to D’Meta’s crossing. Or—“

She broke off, glancing over to where Varric was sleeping. The steady rise and fall of his chest did nothing to ease the guilty ache in her heart.

“You cannot help anyone if you are exhausted beyond reason,” Lucanis said gently. “And what would Viago say, if he saw you so unaware of your surroundings?”

“Viago would clock me upside the head and knock me out to teach me a lesson.”

“Is that a request?”

“You can certainly try.” Her words were snippy, but they lacked their usual bite. She didn’t remember the last time she’d properly slept. Before the Crows kicked her out of Antiva, probably. With a sigh, she picked up her quill and took a fresh sheet of parchment.

“Arlow—“

“Someone has to answer Strife and Irelin,” she snapped. “Unless you have someone else that’s interested in the job, let me handle it.”

Her quill was halfway into the inkpot when Lucanis laid his hand over hers, trapping it there. She clenched her fist, irritated.

“Take a break,” he said firmly, in the voice of the First Talon’s grandson, the one that was used to deference. It made Arlow want to buck on instinct. But there was a weariness in her bones, an exhaustion in her soul that wanted to agree.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I blink, and the world falls apart, Lucanis. I look away, and every crisis redoubles.”

She closed her eyes and steadied herself with a breath. He was close enough that she smelled coffee and cinnamon, and the odd tangle of herbs that were always drying over his cot. “This is my contract,” she said. “Could you rest until it was completed?”

He pulled the quill up between her fingers and set it aside, cupping her now empty hand in his and gently massaging the cramps she hadn’t even felt forming. “Of course not. But I would at least break for coffee.”

“Is that an offer?”

“It always was,” he said softly. His fingers stilled against hers and it took all of Arlow’s willpower to keep her hand from twitching, lacing their fingers together. She wanted that comfort. But it wasn’t something she could take so easily anymore.

“Are you brewing from your supply, or ours?” she asked, teasing. Lucanis raised a brow.

“Would you even know the difference?”

“I would,” Arlow said, affronted. “Or do you think Viago didn’t drill us in palate sensitivity?”

“There is a difference in tasting for poisons and knowing a quality brew.”

“The two have a surprising amount of overlap. Just because I’m not a snob—“

“The word you’re looking for is connoisseur.”

“Sure it is.” Arlow rolled her eyes. She capped the inkpot and stood, regretting the chill that took her hand when it slipped from Lucanis’ grasp. “Well, if you’re taking me from work, it better be from your stash.”

“It will be,” Lucanis assured her, holding the infirmary door open. “Someone has to save you and Neve from yourselves.”

“I might be at the point of saving. Neve, on the other hand—“

Lucanis laughed, a low, quiet chuckle that warmed Arlow better than any cup of coffee he promised. He slipped past her to lead the way to the kitchen, the silky samite of his vest brushing against her knuckles. She clenched her fist to keep from chasing after it.

“Let’s get something in you before you’re beyond hope, then,” he murmured, eyes twinkling. The corner of Arlow’s mouth quirked. As long as he looked at her like that, she thought, she wouldn’t be beyond anything. But she didn’t say that.

She gestured across the courtyard with her chin. “Lead the way.”

[throneofsapphics]

have your little girlfriend, part eight

Summary: Catching Aelin's eye, you quickly end up entangled between her and Rowan, forced to navigate their darker sides in your new relationship.

Warnings: dark!rowaelin, others included on series masterlist to avoid spoilers!

Word Count: 4264

A/N: here's the final chapter! I did cry a little when I finished this. this is one of the first fanfictions I wrote for this fandom, and to see everything coming to an end after over a year is so bittersweet <3

series masterlist

Rowan scribbled on and discarded what felt like hundreds of sheets of paper. Thought, spoken, or written, none of his words felt right, and he knew now, above all, that she deserved right. She deserved the best, and she was stuck with him. The worst part was he couldn’t let her find what she deserved. For now, he would accept the distance, but in the end he belonged to her as much as she belonged to him. As much as Aelin belonged to both of them and vice versa.

He glanced down at the salutation written, the parchment crinkled at the edges. The downward slash of the 'y' nearly ripped through the paper. He wondered if she’d study it like he did, searching for every little detail and clue that may be conveyed.

My mate,

A starting point, but it didn’t nearly encompass everything she meant to him.

“I can feel the self-pity coming from you,” Aelin’s voice, mild, floated across the room. He knew how she’d be standing, the wind sung to him, with their newborn babe in her arms, her head cradled in her elbow, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Someone else should be here too, and it wasn’t fair that he was and she wasn’t.

It took more courage than he cared to admit for him to turn around and face his newborn daughter and wife.

Rowan realized he was failing in every aspect. Failing the people he loved. Had already failed her.

“Rowan,” his name on Aelin's lips, was a plea. He answered, roughly tossing the quill back into the ink pot, in a messy manner he knew she'd probably hate. It didn't matter if she wasn't here to hate it, he reminded himself.

Pushing his chair back, wood scraping lightly against carpet, he rose to face the two females who should be three.

“Are you writing to her?” Aelin asked quietly, shifting so Rowan could wrap his arms around her waist, his head rested atop of hers.

“Yes,” he said just above a whisper. Their babe would sleep through almost anything, he knew that, but seeing the peaceful and angelic face always made him feel like he needed to hold his breath, lest he disturb her.

“I have something for Fenrys to bring her,” Aelin admitted, and Rowan knew that was an invitation for him to offer up his own letter, perhaps even a request.

“I'll have mine finished by the end of the night,” he promised. His wife leaned back into him, tilting her head to press a kiss to the underside of his jaw.

”Good,” she murmured, leaning her cheek against his chest this time.

Nothing, except this, felt as good as it should right now. Someone was missing. “I miss her,” he said without thinking, wincing internally after.

“Of course you do. I miss her too.”

“I should be angry.”

“Who says you can't miss her and be royally pissed off?” Aelin huffed, tilting to meet his eyes, saying  'I am,' silently. He wondered why it had to be silent, as if missing her was such a weakness. He supposed the fewer people who knew she wasn’t currently in the castle the better, but it would be difficult to hide that for long. Word would get out.

Regardless, it had only been a week, and gods they felt like a mess. He hadn't realized just how much her presence soothed them. When they got her back, something would have to change. Whatever it took. Once, he'd figured out how to help Aelin keep her, this time the two of them could figure it out together.

-

Fenrys paced. He should’ve noticed something was off with her. He hadn’t lied to Aelin or Rowan when they pestered him, when Rowan pinned him against the wall with a knife to his throat.

How could she do that? To Aelin who’d saved -

Well, he saw Aelin as his savior, his Queen, but he realized she might see her in a different light. It didn’t change the way he saw his Queen but maybe added more perspective to her actions.

It didn’t change the fact that he was pissed at her.

As soon as Aedion returned, having left on Aelin’s orders days prior to the birth, he’d take on his newest mission. Finding her, remaining unseen, and reporting back. It would take massive amounts of self control to keep him from dragging her ass back immediately.

He was reluctant to approach Aelin and ask her to do it, but he needed to have that guarantee of control. Four days after she’d given birth, he built up enough courage to approach her, making sure Rowan was present as well. He was extra testy, given the circumstances.

“I need a favor from you, if I’m to do…if I'm to find her.”

“Anything,” Aelin said.

Just as Rowan asked, “what is it?”

“Use the blood oath.” Aelin blanched, he kept talking. “I don’t trust myself not to bring her back. Immediately.” He didn’t know what they thought his reasons might be, he didn’t care, they were his own. She was a sister to him, regardless of this, and only four days without her and he missed her more than he thought was possible. He’d only ever missed Connall like this.

“Are you certain?” She asked, just once.

He nodded, “yes.”

Her mouth tightened, but she gave the order. The tug wasn’t uncomfortable like Maeve’s, it felt like what it was -a favor, a sweet and comforting hold, it felt like trust and reassurance. He didn’t know he needed it.

-

She perched on the edge of the bar, head on a swivel in the tavern. This was … unusual for her. Before them, perhaps it would've been a comfortable scene but after them nothing was the same.

“Loosen up,” her cousin jammed her shoulder into hers. She glared, and took a deep drink from her pint.

Was this really where she wanted to be? No, absolutely not, but she was stuck here because some busy bodies were convinced she needed to loosen up and have a 'good time.'

“Maybe you could fine someone to take your mind off things?” Ella waggled her brows. Her fists clenched at her sides. Another person being where her mates had been? Taking her to those heights? Impossible. Even she knew nobody could ever hope to compare to them, and she wouldn't dare try. One, she didn't want to. Two, the things they would do if they ever found out? Plus, their scent was so thoroughly entwined in hers, claiming her feasibly for the rest of her existence.

She watched as her cousins smile faltered, but she couldn't find a pleasant word to bring to the table.

”I was kidding,” Ella forced a smile back on her face. “But you're going out with us, so wipe that sour expression off your face and get dressed. I'm tired of you moping. Bring back my fun cousin.”

'Bring back my fun cousin,' still echoed in her head. Was she really that miserable to be around? That much of a drag?

-

Fenrys was grateful the tavern was crowded enough to hide his scent, and so well used to travelers that they didn't question a male with a cloak pulled far over his head.

He wondered how she'd gotten around the bargain they'd made all that time ago. She, his sister, wasn't supposed to be here without him. Perhaps she'd traveled to the outskirts and gotten one of her family members to bring her the rest of the way.

They'd do it without too many questions, at first. He knew that. If Rowan and Aelin were persona non grata to her family right now, what did that make him?

A sense of grief and loss hit him harder than he expected.

A tug pulled him across the room, to an opposite corner. He followed, watching as she pivoted and stared directly at the spot he'd just been standing in. Perhaps Aelins bargain was working even better than intended. He shouldn't need it. This is something he was more than capable of but right now he was being uncharacteristically careless.

That wouldn't do.

Fenrys slipped out the door as soon as she turned back around. He had a few messages to deliver. Really, he should've cleared off as soon as he scented her - could tell she was alive, but he had to see she was…he had to see.

-

She knew they'd be aware of where She went, at least eventually, but she hadn't expected letters to arrive quite so soon. Or for them to move her so fucking much. That's how she knew it was about time for her to move on, to find somewhere new to haunt. Although she knew they'd never dare harm her family, being here when she knew her mates were so volatile felt a lot like tempting fate and not in a good way. Was there any good way to tempt fate?

In the beginning, when they found each other, she thought she was stumbling on a good thing, but with most good things in her life it slowly poisoned itself til it reached a breaking point. Til she reached her breaking point, and realized that if she didn't choose herself then, she never would. So she did the only reasonable thing, and the most wicked thing she'd done in her life. She ran, just as her mate was at one of the most vulnerable moments of her life, giving birth. It's possible she'd poisoned the memory of that day, but part of her also wondered if everything was better now that she was gone. She'd been a burden, a drag on the two of them and their perfection.

“Letters for you,” her cousin announced as she returned from her walk. She frowned.

Ella waggled the papers in front of her, and she snatched them from the air. A nuisance, her cousin was a downright nuisance sometimes but at least she knew better than to read someone's mail.

The letters. Three distinct scents still attached to them. Her heart stopped, time froze.

Not yet. 

She wasn't ready, it couldn't be time.

Ella noticed the change in her demeanor, and said, “I'll give you some privacy,” before she could argue that privacy was the last thing she needed, the other female had disappeared, leaving her with shaky hand and three slips of parchment, adorned on the outside with just her name, that could change everything.

My mate,

I know you are not likely to return soon, but I dream of it each night, along with what I would do differently if I could go back. Would it please you if I were to write everything out in a letter? There's little I wouldn't do for you, my love. Nothing is the same without you here.

Tell me what to do, anything, and I will make it happen for you.

R.W.G

Petal,

We're a wreck without you.

A.

My sister,

Picking yourself is admirable, but it doesn't change the fact that I miss you dearly.

Your chosen brother.

Tears slid down her face as she finished reading them. Paper she should burn, but instead it was tucked away to an inside pocket. To keep, to re-read in the late hours of the night, when her candle should already be extinguished, to hold close until the scent of them disappeared, and then to let her imagination fool her into believing they might still be there, that if she tried hard enough she may still be able to scent them.

-

She packed her things early in the morning, just Ella there to see her off. She'd figured out what she was planning and volunteered to tell the rest of her family for her. She was braver than she was, that's for sure. Still, Ella seemed to understand why she wouldn't tell her cousin her next plans or where she was headed after. She wondered who gave her that kind of understanding, and who exactly she'd have to hunt down and eliminate one day. Or it could be ten years spent on the run from Adarlan that did it. Either way, Ella would shut down if she started digging for information, she knew her cousin well enough to know that.

“You'll be back to visit, of course,” she said hesitantly. It broke another part of her already shattered soul. 

“If it's safe,” she said quietly.

Her frown brought a tang of guilt she couldn't control. “I think you forget how much we survived together sometimes.” Guilt crept in for another reason. Her cousins were more than capable. They'd all, herself included, survived ten years in their animal forms under Adarlan's occupation.

If anyone could weather the storm of her mates, it was them, but that didn't mean she felt any better about leaving them in their path of destruction.

She broke a little more with each step and bound as she traveled, and as she approached the meeting spot she was little more than a collection of shards and smashed pieces. As delicate as glass. She’d rebuild, put herself back together.

Sticking to her animal form, she made good progress. Better than she expected, really, but considering she was avoiding people at all costs it made sense. She needed to go somewhere they wouldn't expect. They probably thought she'd flee the continent, perhaps to Antica or even to Wendlyn, but…her soul wouldn't let her go quite that far and she hated herself for it. More than she usually did.

Why did the one act of self love she'd engaged in, as far back as she could remember, have to feel so much like hate? Why couldn't her mates have loved her like she deserved? If they'd just done that one thing, they wouldn't be in this situation.

The truth was, she was bitter, and resentful, and likely would be for some time. She thought she had good reason to be. 

It wasn’t long before she arrived at her destination, her home even if it was temporary. Melisande. 

-

Work wasn’t all that difficult to find. Summoning courage she didn’t know she had, she found the nearest tinkering shop, walked in, and asked for a job. 

“Sit with me for a few hours,” the man, smiling, said, and motioned towards the extra stool behind the counter. Carefully, she picked her way over there, mouth curving up at the corners. “I have a story that I'd like to tell you, and it starts with one of my finest creations, and ends with spider silk.” 

She listened, in fascination as the man explained every last detail of his creation, from top to bottom. She got the impression he didn’t have many people willing to listen to this kind of detail, let alone be able to understand it but she found herself naturally oohing and awing in all of the correct places. He put her at ease, and it felt like a long while since anyone was able to do that. 

The suit sounded familiar somehow, although she couldn’t quite place it or put a name to how. 

The man patted her on the shoulder when he’d finished, and she fought the urge to flinch backwards, keeping her back ramrod straight instead. 

“Very well, let’s see what you can do now. Is there a material you prefer?” 

“Not glass. It’s been a bit temperamental for me recently.” 

“Wood it is,” he handed her a rough piece of cedarwood, and sat her down at a workstation in the back. 

“I’ll come back in an hour,” he called over his shoulder and returned to mind the shop. 

What was the most impressive thing she could make in an hour? 

Magic flowing through her, she warped the material, letting it curve and bend in ways wood didn’t grow. Maybe she should’ve explained before that she used magic. She let the magic do its work, turning herself into a vessel for it to extend its wishes, its wants. 

At the end of the hour, she was left with a near perfect replica of a hawk in flight. She blinked back the tears, wiping them away with the back of her hand as the man re-entered the room. 

“Oh how wonderful,” he exclaimed. “You didn’t explain you have magic,” he said with a tone of awe, not fear, thankfully. 

“Sorry,” she said quietly. 

He waved off the apology, “people like us are hard to come by, let alone those who have your gift. Very well, you’re hired.” 

She wondered if her magic had an extra role to play in how she got the position, but she kept that thought locked inside and instead thanked him profusely. 

“Do you have somewhere to sleep? I know a lady renting out the rooms above her shop. As long as you don’t have any great debts you could afford it with what I’ll pay you. Plus you’ll be earning commissions on any works you put out.” 

Considering the harm she’d done, she didn’t feel like she deserved this kindness from a stranger. Maybe it made her a wretch, but she took it anyway. 

-

Years passed, and nobody came for her. Despite never feeling this free, she mourned the life that could have been. The life she should have had. 

-

“Did you hear the news?” He passed the paper to her with a flourish. “Right from your home. The Queen of Terrasen is abdicating her throne, passing rule off to her eldest and only child.” 

Her eldest child, now approaching mid thirties. The man in front of her, the son of the one who’d originally hired her, beamed expectantly. She’d always thought he had a bit of a crush on her, but she’d reinforced the boundary of friends firmly, and he’d never pushed. 

Somehow, she’d still retained those same lodgings and her salary and work both had afforded her the chances to travel to neighboring territories and explore, bringing back different raw materials for them to work with. 

“I didn’t,” she murmured, sipping her tea. “Thank you for telling me.” 

She pretended to read the newspaper, really her eyes were glazing over, not processing any of the information in front of her. Abdicated. Would they come for her now? How old was this news? 

She’d laid down roots here, deep and generations long roots. She couldn’t exactly get up and run again. Were they aware that she was cornered now? Did they care?  

But part of her ached for them, still did decades later. Still wanted them back. But another part, perhaps equally as strong, relished her freedom. 

What would they do now?

She tapped her fingers against the wooden bench. She’d been ‘hidden’ here for so long, there was no reason to expect they’d come looking for her now. 

-

Rowan would miss the castle, but he and Aelin had both acknowledged it was time to move on, to let their eldest and only child take up reign now that she was ready. And they had unfinished business further south. 

They came in the middle of the night, and centuries should have been enough to ebb his anger, but some of it still bled through. 

Rowan had already crafted the letter explaining she had urgent business back home, still able to copy his mates handwriting perfectly. 

“Ready?” He murmured to Aelin, voice just carrying enough for her to hear. They stood in the alley outside of her apartment, each with a hood pulled low over their faces to obscure their features. They were recognizable everywhere, but they needed to do this task for themselves. 

She’d stolen from them, stolen the chance at a life with her, and in turn they’d steal her back. 

“Add kidnapping to our list of crimes,” Aelin huffed. 

“Haven’t we done that already?” 

“Probably.” 

He could tell his mate was nervous, and he was too - to a certain extent. 

“Lets go,” he finally said, leading the way up the stairs.

A few quick movements from Aelin and the lock was picked, the door swinging open. Not even a deadbolt. He added it to his list of reasons to be angry.

Silent feet moved them up the stairs, and they found her door already unlocked, and voices. 

There hadn’t been a soul here when they scouted it earlier. Or the days prior. 

He glanced at Aelin, but before he could convey a question he heard a moan. Her moan. 

“That feels good,” her breathy voice reached his Fae ears. 

Red hot fury filled every inch of his being, and Aelin pushed through the doors, Rowan hot on her heels. 

Fenrys hadn’t reported her having a lover. 

Her bedroom door was wide open, she laid flat on her stomach, a male above her. 

Metal flew, and his and Aelin’s knives lodged simultaneously, one in the back, one in the back of the neck. He fell flat on top of her, muffling her scream, his blood splattered on her sheets, the bits of her skin he could see. 

Aelin stalked across the room first, more pissed than he’d seen her in decades. She shoved the man off the top of her, fist winding through her hair, yanking her up to sit at the edge of the bed. “Are you fucking him?” She snarled. 

She hadn’t been, at least not in that moment, but that didn’t say anything about the past. 

“He’s a friend,” she whispered. “He was giving me a massage.” 

Another male was putting hands on his mate, in an intimate way. 

Rowan seethed, and moved next to Aelin. “I think you’ve forgotten who you belong to.” 

“I’d never cheat on you,” she said, nearly desperate. A gag of fire wrapped around her mouth. Rowan could tell it was hot, but not enough to burn. A warning. 

“You let another person put hands on you,” Aelin’s fist, still wrapped in your hair, squeezed. “You moaned for him.” She winced. He rolled his eyes. There would be worse now, before the night was out. 

Decades apart hadn’t taken the sting out of the mating bond, and he doubted anything would, but somehow his petal had figured it out. 

No matter how long they spent apart, she was his and Aelin’s, and apparently needed a reminder of that. 

He flipped her on her stomach, shoving the dress up above her ass. A piece of silk barely covered her. He crouched down and ran his hands over her ass, letting one smack against the skin, enjoying the way she wiggled in front of him, trying to get away. Aelin had shoved the man’s body and it toppled to the floor on the other side, his blood still staining her sheets. Good. He’d fuck her in it so she never forgot exactly who she belonged to. 

Wind bound her hands behind her back.  

Carelessly, he tossed her on the bed, Aelin already stripped from the waist, leaning against her headboard. 

-

This wasn’t supposed to be about her pleasure, she knew that, but by the gods she was turned on. It was a claiming, pure and simple. They could probably already scent her arousal, and Aelin grabbed her shoulders pulling her up the bed towards her. 

“If you come, I'll turn that ass black and blue for two weeks,” she warned her. 

Rowan pulled her hips up, already at her entrance. “I’ll help her,” he added. 

You whimpered as he shoved in, not giving you anytime to adjust. He had no idea nobody had been there since he last had, and she had no way of telling him. It hurt, burn, stung, lit her entire body on fire. 

Aelin released the gag, just to shove her right towards her already glistening cunt. “Make it good,” she ordered. She would, part of her feared the consequences if she didn’t, but another part of her, growing stronger, wanted it despite how wrong it was. The blood hadn’t even dried fully on the sheets. 

The pain behind her slowly ebbed into something else, into pleasure she hadn’t felt in decades. Rowan moved relentlessly, making her use all of her focus on pleasuring Aelin. The moans ahead of and behind her only fueled her further. She squeezed around him, used her tongue to flick Aelin’s clit rapidly, and brought them both closer and closer to release. 

She was always giving to them, why would anything change now? 

-

The estate was in the middle of nowhere, seemingly, the closest town an hour's ride away. A small skeleton staff of servants, all trusted to keep their affairs private.

She laid on the table, face turned to the side as Rowan prepared his materials. Ink. Needles. Sketched design. A design of their names, to go permanently on her body. Not as deep as the twin sets of scars on either side of her neck, but something else permanent.

When he'd asked, it hadn't felt like a question but she'd wanted it regardless. Wanted them sketched onto her. She didn't have the courage to ask if they'd be getting a tattoo for her in turn, but it turns out she didn't need to. Aelin had shown her that night, on her back weaved in with Aelin's other tattoos was her name, and Rowan had hers done similarly, on the inside of his forearm.

Their names would be written, in ink and blood, on her upper right back. Large font, too, based on Rowan's design.

“Breathe for me,” he said, sitting and dipping the needle into the pot. She would, as every bit of her belonged to them. 

-

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[urban-hermitism]

cw: mentions of blood and death below the cut, very mild 3.2 spoilers

i can't imagine the way dan heng's heart must have dropped after mem told him about the trial.

it was bad enough, having to drag the trailblazer's body from the crushed train car, them bleeding profusely, barely breathing. they stopped breathing at some point even. and then he's pushing through the black that's probably curling at the edges of his vision, desperately trying to staunch the flow of blood. its been mere minutes since they started out on this new journey and everything has gone to shit. they have no way of contacting the express and here they are with the trailblazer possibly... he grits his teeth and presses on until he can't anymore. he blacks out.

and then he wakes up and there the trailblazer is standing over him, still covered in blood, but it's... dry. their eyes widen and they stumble back, but then they're helping him up, and their skin feels nothing like the clammy chill that he learnt accompanied their bloodloss. and maybe, he thinks, things are okay, even if the blood that soaks them says otherwise.

and things really do seem okay. they meet the chrysos heirs and the trailblazer forges ahead with their characteristic irreverence, and everything is right in the world. or at least as right as it can get when you're exploring an unexplored world, and employing anthropological methods while also trying to save said world. nothing is ever boring when the trailblazer is involved.

so things go swimmingly, though dan heng has to get used to the fact that there's no cold water around. (one day the bath in their room does turn cold and dan heng sinks into it in relief. he doesn't see how the trailblazer looks at him fondly, infinitely pleased that their scheming worked.) he fights and asks questions and records and fights some more. he hates the amount of time the trailblazer spend out of his sight, going to places he doesn't know anything about, sighing in relief each time they come back intact.

though when agalea suggests that the trailblazer should become the vessel for oronyx's coreflame, he worries.

it's one thing for people of the world to do dangerous, esoteric things. it's another to get an outlander to do things specific to the world. it's a disruption of the ecosystem, an unknown in many aspects. it cannot go well.

but it's the best option, and none of the heirs seem particularly worried. the trailblazer is as determined as ever, though the way they pace their room before sleeping, and later the anxiety in their eyes as they enter the vortex of genesis betrays the worry they feel about the ordeal.

when the trailblazer turns back, dan heng's brow furrows as they tell them to wait for their return. they open their mouth to say something else, but close it, seemingly thinking better of their words. dan heng wonders, wanting to hear it.

time passes and dan heng worries, and then...

and then a flash of light and the trailblazer appears, collapsing on the floor (is it a floor? can you call a swirling void of water the floor?) unconscious, mem hovering above worriedly. mem scrabbles something out so hastily that dan heng isn't sure he's hearing right, but all the same he scoops the trailblazer up in his arms and rushes back to their room so that they can rest safely.

and dan heng waits. waits for mem to finish explaining what the hell went down in the trial. waits for the trailblazer to wake again and stop looking so dead.

dead...

fuck.

[softlypaintedseafoam]

for no man does it ever wait

synopsis. usopp asks zoro to put the weights down; physically and metaphorically.

pairing. roronoa zoro x god usopp

word count. 1.7k | masterlist

content warning. feel free to read on ao3, post-egghead (pre-elbaf), hurt/comfort, mild angst, major egghead spoilers for anime onlys

reblogs & interactions appreciated.

a mix of op rarepair week's hurt/comfort prompt and zosopp week's weight prompt, with a more metaphorical interpretation of the meaning. title comes from savior by rise against, the one song of theirs i've actually listened to lol. now off to the showers i go

Is that the sun?

Usopp wakes with a start and a jump.

It is the sun.

Frantically, Usopp swings his legs over the wooden frame of his bed taking in his surroundings.

Chopper is snoozing away like soft and fuzzy log in the bed to Usopp's left. To Usopp's right, Luffy's bed is empty yet his characteristic snores still mixes into the air with Brook, Jinbei and Franky's. The unsurprising answer to Luffy's whereabouts come when Usopp's feet hit the ground and he sees gold and black hair mixing together in Sanji's bed, Luffy's arms wrapped koala-tight around his partner's waist. They'd taken to sleeping together ever since they revealed the change in their relationship a week or so before they reached the futuristic island where everything went wrong.

No, what's more surprising is that Sanji is still asleep in their quarters instead of the galley. The cook always was up a few hours before the sun was set to rise, prepping their meals for the day and cooking a hearty breakfast. Considering the events of yesterday, Usopp can't be too taken aback by what is likely an unintentional change of plans. If Sanji's dead tired, he should sleep.

They're pirates, a late breakfast isn't going to kill them. And Sanji could stand to rest a little more anyways.

The answer Usopp actually seeks is the empty bed beside the couple's bunk.

Zoro's bed.

It doesn't even look like it had been touched. Usopp's throat pinches painfully in his frustration. Usopp is tired, of course he is. When is he not after a gruesome battle? That doesn't mean he won't allow himself to be woken out of his sleep to take his scheduled night watch in the crow's nest.

Last night's schedule was simple.

Zoro first, Usopp second and then so on and so forth. There shouldn't have been any sunlight peeking into the windows of their quarters because it should have been evening when Zoro shook Usopp awake by the shoulder. Grabbing his shoes and jacket from his locker, Usopp storms out of the room as quietly as possible.

Sure enough, the sun is looming well over the sea's edge, not that Usopp needed further confirmation as he glares pointedly in the direction of the training room. That green-haired muscle maniac, he stomps in its direction. He barely even acknowledges Broggy and Dory's ship sailing ahead of their own.

It's always strange to see the deck so bare in the early morning and late night. When it's like this, it's almost like he's the last person in the universe. The thought leaves his mind as quickly as it came when Usopp sees Bartholomew Kuma sitting in a nearing corner.

Usopp approaches Kuma's hulking figure with an air of hesitance. It's fine, Usopp, he reminds himself, flashes of the rising sun and resin bubbles flashing through his mind. He pictures Franky instead, recounting how the mindless cyborg protected Sunny for two years in the crew's absence. He's not an enemy. He never was, the words are barely able to qualm the anxiety in his heart until Usopp notices the spot of pink and white nestled in Kuma's hands.

Bonney? Usopp's pace picks up in his surprise, reaching the former Warlord in one, two, three paces. Sure enough, the youngest member of the Supernovas is curled up into a little ball in her father's hands. When did she sneak out? He could have sworn that Nami had taken the young girl to the women's quarters last night, a tangled pink mass of exhaustion after the previous day's events. She'd fell asleep in Kuma's arms, not wanting to be away from her father for even a moment. Apparently, not even sleep is a reasonable excuse.

The smile on Kuma's lips is faint and Usopp wonders, not for the first time, how much of the man ー the father ー remains in the metal body he was forced to receive.

Despite his initial anxieties, the sniper smiles. I'm glad you have your old man back, Bonney. Usopp makes quick work of taking off his jacket, shivering lightly at the cool touching his skin, before draping it over the Sunny's youngest resident.

That's the last bit of peace Usopp has before approaches the training room.

The distinctive scent of sweat is what Usopp notices first after entering the the crows nest. Zoro himself is noticed a beat after, muscular body drenched in sweat and muscles tensing and releasing as he moved his comically large weight.

Up.

Down.

Repeat.

Up.

Down.

The motion continues a beat longer before finally ー

"Hey," Zoro grunts, as he moves his gargantuan weight as precisely as one of his blades. Up. Down. Over and over again, like a ritual. "Did you sleep well?"

Usopp refuses to avoid the matter at hand, "have you been up all night?"

Zoro's one eye finally spares him a glance from the shade his durag casts across his face, but his movements don't halt. "You were tired," comes his simple answer. It's simple but it tells Usopp so much.

"We're all tired," Usopp scowls, brow furrowing. "You should have woke me up."

"Like you woke up the cook?" It isn't much of a question in spite of the rising tone at the end of sentence. Usopp's thumb, index and middle fingers pinch the skin between his eyebrows. "He's pretty quiet down there. I thought he'd be more frantic about sleeping in and not having breakfast halfway done by now."

"Don't turn this around on me; you took everyone's watch," Usopp snaps, throwing his hands up in frustration. "And you trained the entire time through it?!"

If he were able to, Zoro likely would have shrugged. Instead he continues the near mindless motion of his weight lifting. Up, down. Up, down. Like a mantra. "It gave me something else to do. We're completely fine anyways. The Navy is going to be busy fixing up the mess at Egghead, I doubt they even spared a single ship to chase after us."

Usopp's seen this sight before, he realizes. Tired and weathered like a herculean tempest lashing out, waves slapping against his hull.

The Merry, fresh and as bright-eyed as a new pirate ship could be without a dent to be found in her. Kuro has been defeated and it was just ordinary day in Syrup Village, just as it would be tomorrow and the day after next. Still Zoro christened the Merry's floors with his training long into in the late hours of the afternoon.

A Cocoyashi doctor, red with fury and annoyance and scoldings falling from his lips like honey. Mihawk, Arlong and Hachi hadn't been enough of a deterrent to keep Zoro from his katas and practicing his swings.

Loguetown.

Little Garden.

Drum Island.

Alabasta.

Thriller Bark.

Time and time again, this is a sight Usopp's seen since he boarded the ship of a crazy straw hat-wearing pirate and his band of lunatics.

Fists clenched at his side, Usopp takes a step forward. The air between them is too cold, too chilling for two crewmates that challenged threats a younger boy in a quiet village in the East Blue could ever dream to imagine. "Put the weights down."

Up.

Down.

Up and down the weights continue to move almost akin to a windup toy that hasn't reached its final motion.

"Zoro." A brown hand touches the space between Zoro's shoulder blades. "Zoro," he feels the swordsman ー his friend ー go stiff underneath his touch, jilting to a stop and Usopp feels the sweat shift under his palms. "Put them down." His words are soft and Usopp almost can't recognize his own voice, unsure if what he said was a request or command. "Please."

It's slow, hesitant, but the weights come down centimeter by centimeter until it rests on the ground with a silent thud. "This isn't a victory," Zoro murmurs, voice as low as a whisper. "We didn't win."

"We saved Lilith," Usopp reminds him and he watches as Zoro's grip tightens on the weight's handle. "We saved Bonney and her dad. Atlas even made sure the World Government couldn't get their hands on that record building. We sure as hell didn't lose."

"One Vegapunk-"

"Is a hell of a lot better than zero." It wasn't perfect. The end result of what occurred on Egghead was far from perfect. "It wasn't the perfect ending but we still did something. We're closer than ever to finding the One Piece, we're gonna see Luffy become King of the Pirates. You're gonna become the world's greatest swordsman and I'm becoming a brave warrior of the sea. But before we get there, not everything is going to be perfect," Usopp releases a breath, trembling. "So please stop punishing yourself. You can't be in control all the time, you're human."

"I hate it."

"I hate it too."

There's a pause, a sigh, before Zoro finally relents and the weight leaves his grip entirely. "Guess it's your turn to take watch then," Usopp moves his hand from Zoro's back with his own hint of reluctance as the taller man shifts to face him fully, eye almost silver in the lighting.

It feels like yesterday there used to be two, and for a moment, it's like they're on the outskirts of Syrup Village again and Usopp can barely move let alone stand. His eyes are blurry and his nose is filled with snot as he's laughed at by the pirates that wanted to invade his home.

Zoro heaved Usopp over his shoulder telling him to guide him through the forest.

Zoro's eyes had pierced through him then and they pierce through Usopp now.

Usopp dry swallows the feeling of his heart skipping a beat down, down, down to the depths of willful, blissful ignorance. "You should get some sleep," he stammers, resting his hands on his hips with a hearty guffaw. "The Great Captain Usopp has the first morning watch covered!"

"Yeah," Zoro's lips quirk into a small but tired smile and his shoulders seem a fraction less tense. He pulls off his durag and lets his mossy green hair free, drenched with sweat it seems even more grass-like than usual. It's a sight Usopp surprisingly doesn't mind. "See you whenever I wake up."

Usopp practically shoos Zoro to the exit, "yeah go, go! Get some rest!"

"I'm going, I'm going," the swordsman yawns in equal parts exasperation and amusement.

Usopp plops down on the couch with an audible sigh, eyes closed for the briefest of moment when he hears it. "Thanks, Usopp."

[asheepinthenight]

Remedy (Talon's End Extra April 2024)

Some short fluff for this month's extra! MC comes down with a bad cold, and Hawk doesn't know what to do about it. Contains mild spoilers for post-game Hawk/MC relationship. Mostly written for the romantic version of their relationship but could also be queerplatonic (maybe even platonic, depending on how you feel about cuddling and forehead kisses) if you ignore a couple lines near the end.

You sneeze for what feels like the hundredth time in the last hour, and Hawk's head immediately snaps up to look at you. They put their book aside and lean over to put their hand to your forehead. The difference in temperature between their cold skin and your feverish body makes you shiver. They tuck the covers around you more tightly and look down at you as if, should they blink, you will come untethered from this mortal coil.

"It's just a bad cold, Hawk."

They narrow their eyes at you. "Many animals feign wellbeing in their final days. Self-preservation instinct to avoid predators' attention."

"I don't think I'm feigning 'wellbeing' very well."

Hawk gives you a rueful smile. "No. You're not."

You reach over to pat Hawk's hand where they're unthinkingly pulling a loose thread from the edge of the blanket. "I'll be well in a few days."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"And it's still true—it's only been one day so far."

Hawk scowls at the accuracy of your statement, and your laugh initiates another round of coughing. Once it passes, you look up to see the same look of deep alarm that you've seen in Hawk's golden eyes too many times since yous tarted falling ill. "You're sure this is normal?" they ask

"Very sure."

Hawk manages to sustain a few seconds of anxious silence before resuming their questioning. "And you don't need a healer...?"

You shake your head. "Just rest. You don't have to stay if you don't want to."

"I want to. If you want me to."

You nod, and they reach out to take your hand in theirs. Though Hawk's body isn't warm, it's not unlike a blanket: once it takes on enough of your own body heat, it holds it there, insulating you from the cold outside the bed. As you close your eyes and try to relax, you can feel the anxious static of Hawk's energy fade toward their usual calm.

You drift in and out of sleep, the fever and cough keeping you from resting deeply. After some time, you wake up sweating and kick all the blankets off, only to later wake again shivering. You sit up to hazily claw the blankets back over yourself, but you feel yourself being pulled into Hawk's arms as they lie down next to you, sweeping the blankets up over you both.

"Ridiculous," Hawk says as you bury your face against their chest. "Just rest."

"I'm trying," you say through chattering teeth.

Hawk sighs. "I don't know anything about... any of this. I don't think I'm helping."

"You are." You hold onto Hawk tightly as they rub your back, the warmth slowly returning to you.

"There are times I've wished I were born mortal, but I don't want this part."

You laugh—carefully, so you don't start coughing again—and pull away just enough to look at Hawk. "You'll have to leave the bed when I get too warm again."

"The human body makes no sense."

"Did you just realize that?"

Hawk scoffs and kisses your forehead. "Hardly, but I'll endure the whims of your fever and leave when you ask."

"You'll stay nearby, though?"

"Of course. As long as you want me to."

"Forever, then?"

Hawk chuckles. "You don't need to waste energy courting me; I'm already yours. So yes." They press their lips to the top of your head. "Forever."

[mileygoneblogger]

ghosts don't knock ✉️

A/N: hey everybody <3 i know i've been kinda slow with putting out new things for domestic disturbances, and i just wanna say: thank you so much to everybody who's been supporting me and my silly lil writing hobby and i promise i haven't forgotten about you guys. so, here's a gift! a lil angsty snack from me to you while you all wait for the next chapter ^_^ (it's wartime flavoured)

p.s: this is lowkey the beginning of me experimenting with the idea of 20th century WW1 jack (and maybe meg... heheheh) rather than modern au. let me know if you guys would be interested in seeing more of this <3

warnings: mild language use, alcoholism, grief, emotional trauma, hallucinations, canon-compliant angst + my own headcanons, RDR1 SPOILERS MENTIONED AHEAD. TREAD CAREFULLY.

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beecher’s hope, 1917.

the morning is quiet. not peaceful—just the kind of quiet that settles over a place that hasn’t seen joy in a long time. the wind moves through dry grass like a ghost. a storm’s gathering somewhere, but it hasn’t broken yet. just hangs there, heavy in the sky, waiting to break.

jack’s out by the chopping block, sleeves rolled up, sweat clinging to the back of his neck despite the chill. the wood splits clean under the weight of the axe, over and over. he likes the rhythm of it. the simplicity. it’s one of the only things left that makes sense.

crack.

crack.

in the distance, wheels crunch gravel. he doesn’t look up.

crack.

"jack marston?"

his name lands like a stone in his gut.

he wipes a hand over his face, turns toward the mail wagon. the young courier doesn’t meet his eye as he hands over the envelope—plain, cream-colored, with a thick red seal and his full name typed neat across the front.

mr. john 'jack' marston. beecher’s hope, blackwater.

he stares at it for a long time.

something about seeing the name he inherited in ink makes his stomach churn.

the woodsmoke from the chimney makes his eyes sting, but he doesn’t blink. doesn’t speak.

the wagon rattles off towards the main road.

he opens the envelope with a slow tear, like he’s hoping the world might stop before he finishes. it doesn’t.

the letter reads:

"greetings: you have been selected for induction into the armed forces of the united states…"

his breath leaves him in one sharp exhale, like he’s just taken a hit to the ribs.

he doesn’t finish reading.

he doesn’t need to.

-----------------------------------------------

inside the house, the floorboards groan under his boots. everything’s too still. the table hasn’t moved since his mother last set it for dinner. the fireplace is cold. his father’s rifle still hangs on the wall above it, dusty, untouched. like some kind of shrine.

jack drops the letter on the table without looking at it. his hands hang at his sides. limp. lost.

he stands there for a long time.

then, like something in him finally breaks, he kicks the nearest chair—hard. it crashes to the floor. a plate tips off the counter and shatters. their family portrait swings softly on the wall. he doesn’t flinch. doesn't dare make eye contact with their photo.

he grips the edge of the table with both hands, shoulders shaking.

"guess i really ain’t meant to have nothin', huh?" he mutters, half-laughing. the sound is cracked down the middle. bitter.

his voice echoes in the emptiness.

the ghosts of this place don’t answer.

-----------------------------------------------

armadillo. upstairs in the saloon, later that evening.

the bottle’s half-empty. or half-full, depending on how bitter you feel that night.

jack doesn’t even bother with a glass anymore. the whiskey burns the whole way down, but he likes it that way. it means he can still feel something. that he's still real.

he sits slouched on the edge of the bed, the same one his father used to sleep in whenever he wasn't home. same dusty room above the saloon, same oil lamp flickering against cracked wallpaper. the window’s open just enough to let in the desert wind and the sound of some poor, drunken bastard getting thrown out onto the street below.

jack barely notices.

the draft letter lies crumpled on the nightstand, stained with spilled liquor and maybe something else.

"you'd be real proud, pa," jack mutters, voice thick, wet with drink and something darker. his smile curls up the wrong way. it doesn't reach his eyes. "yeah. look at me now. all grown up."

he raises the bottle in a mock toast, letting the whiskey slosh. "bein' forced to go god knows where to die for the damn military of all things. 'serve my country,' my ass. country didn’t do shit when you got gunned down like a dog. didn’t do shit when ma was coughin' her lungs out, slowly witherin' away like she was nothin', all while i'm holdin' her hand the whole damn time."

he laughs, but there’s no humor in it. just emptiness, scraped raw.

"and what, now they want me to play the good little soldier for 'em?" he spits the words out as if they tasted like rot on his tongue. "to carry a gun and march off to die for a place that’s done nothin’ but take from me? fuck that."

" 'you’re a man now, jack,' " he mutters, mocking. " 'take care of the ranch, jack. be strong.' "

he takes another drink. the bottle’s already lighter in his hand.

"i did all that. i did everything i was s’posed to. and for what? no one left to see it. no one left to care."

his voice trails off.

silence, except for the storm beginning to build outside.

and then–

"that how you see it?"

the voice comes soft. gravelly. familiar.

jack’s eyes snap to the corner of the room.

and there he is.

john marston.

leaning against the wall, arms crossed, hat low over his brow. dressed in the clothes he was buried in—just like jack remembers. just like the last time.

jack blinks. shakes his head once, hard. but the figure stays.

"i ain’t drunk enough for this," jack whispers.

john tilts his head. "ain’t about the drink, boy. never was."

jack scoffs and rubs at his eyes. "you’re not real."

"maybe not. but i’m here, ain’t i?"

a long silence stretches between them.

jack downs another mouthful of cheap, rotgut whiskey, hoping that maybe the figure would dissolve in the amber. he doesn’t dare meet his father’s eyes.

"why didn’t you tell me it’d be like this?" he mumbles. "you made it look so easy. like it meant somethin'. like dyin' for somethin' made it all worth it."

john’s voice softens. "it wasn’t easy, jack. and it sure as hell wasn’t worth it."

jack looks up. and for a second—just a second—he’s a boy again. lost, scared, aching for a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"i don’t wanna go," he says, voice barely there. "i don’t wanna be like you."

john walks over. sits on the edge of the bed beside him. his presence doesn’t creak or dip the mattress. he doesn’t smell like sweat or whiskey or blood—just dust. just memory.

"then don’t be," john says gently. "you got the chance to be more than i ever was. you still got time. use it wisely, son."

jack laughs again. bitter, hoarse.

"what time?"

john doesn’t answer. he just looks at him—really looks at him—and says:

"you’re allowed to want more than survival, jack."

a beat.

and then—quiet, almost tender:

"and you know you’d make your mother real proud."

jack shuts his eyes.

when he opens them again, he’s alone.

the bottle is empty.

and it's still raining.