#Spring Claw wc

[shallowbreeze]

Spring Claw

Spring Claw is a tabby wildcat tom with a darker pelt and gray streaks in his fur.

[rosemist50]

Part two of the Ivypool's Heart cats: All of the wildcats! Spoilers under the cut.

OKAY SO I thought I would have a harder time trying to make SIXTEEN tabby wildcat designs, having never drawn a design for this type of wildcat ever before, but I actually had fun with it. Had to do a couple practice sketches in my notebook to get the overall shape and feel down, but I think they came out alright. I found that image at the very end on a TikTok of someone talking about the European Wildcat (assumed to be the ones in the books), and I thought I'd put it here since it was a big help to me for designing these guys. If you look you'll notice that some of the wildcats look less like the 'pure' European wildcat; Strike Slash with his white underside, Purr Roll's bouncy fur, and some look more; Bound Hunt and Leap Growl. The thought process here was that over time with Galestar's line and other hybridizations the wildcats would become more hybridized, slowly drifting away from the 'pure' European wildcat. Bound Hunt is, in this respect, an example of what a completely non-hybridized wildcat would look like, and follows much of the image from that TikTok.

ANYWAYS, to start we have Tumble Leap and Stalk Purr, the first two wildcats the traveling cats meet, and their three kits Pounce Whisper, Stretch Blink, and Hunt Leap. Then is Bound Hunt, Galestar's second mate. And after is Strike Slash and Wish Stalk, who are also mates, and Claw Stretch and her daughter Hop Scratch. Then the elders Prowl Sleek, Hunt Growl, and Spring Claw. And finally the spirit guides of Whisper Claw for Pounce Whisper, Leap Growl for Tumble Leap, and Purr Roll for Stalk Purr.

[nanivinsmoke]

❥KNOCK THAT KITTY CAT OUT!

old!manlogan x f!reader

summary ❥ everything and everyone seems to stress the old man out, what happens when he takes it all out on you? title inspired by sir mix a lot

warnings: dom logan, sub reader, fingering, oral (m receiving), multiple orgasms, raw sex, breeding kink, claws come out, spanking, etc.

note: round three! enjoy my hunni buns. m.list here. wc: 1.9k

the loud cling of his belt as it hit the floor, echoing throughout the room, making you gulp as you watched the older man saunter over towards you. following his belt, his button up fell to the floor, leaving him in his beater; showing off his salt and pepper chest hair.

“had a long fucking day, doll. a long fucking day. ‘m gonna need you to be a good girl and take it,” he looked at you, stress etched into his brows, letting you know he exactly how this was going to play out. “okay, daddy~” your voice sweet and sultry, making his cock throb in his black slacks.

logan motioned you over to him, watching you crawl your way over on the bed, kneeling right in front of him as you reached out and palmed his bulge. drool started to trickle out of the corner of your mouth, own arousal building as you anticipated what was to come next.

a low growl left his mouth, tangling his hand into your hair, gripping it and tugging your head back; making you stare into his dark irises. “pull it down,” he ordered and you didn’t hesitate to unzip his slacks and pull them down, revealing his fat bulge that sat behind his grey boxers. you moaned softly, tugging them down as well, his fat cock springing free.

his tip was coated in globs of sticky precum, which you happily licked up. he stiffened from your actions. your warm wet tongue teasing his sensitive head, making more of the translucent fluid pool out, before you finally wrapped your mouth around his tip.

the older man sighed, watching as you took him whole, slowly easing him to the back of your mouth; nearing your throat, before you pulled back. felt like you were teasing him, even though you weren’t. he was huge and it usually took a minute for you to relax and get used to his size, but the old man didn’t have any patience for it—he had an unbelievably hard day.

the grip on your hair became tighter as he pushed your head further down on his fat cock, making your cheeks puff up and your pretty little eyes well up with tears. he began to move his hips, pulling himself out of your warm mouth before pushing back in, repeating the process and causing strings of spit to trickle down.

“just like….that, doll. nice and sloppy.” he praised, making your cunt gush. they he was using your mouth like his own personal pocket pussy was so arousing, this was exactly what you needed. you were glad his job stressed him out, so he could fuck you like the slut that laid deep inside of you.

he wiggled his hips into your face, looking down into your eyes as you took him so well. you looked so pretty like this too. eyes big and watering with tears as he stuffed your mouth full of cock, fucking your throat just the way he liked it. the old man was losing himself. in some sadistic way, he got off at the thought of destroying you—using you to fulfill he desires. and you knew it too, that’s why you moved a free hand down to your clothed cunt and began to rub your little bundle of nerves.

the more he fucked your mouth to his liking, the closer he got to his orgasm and soon he was coating your mouth with thick ropes of cum. the growl he let out had you cumming along with him. you struggled to swallow his seed, overtaken by the slight intensity of your orgasm—earning a harsh tug on your hair. “swallow,” he commanded and you did as you were told, earning a ‘good girl’ from him.

logan then told you to get in his favorite position, ass up—face down. your peach shaped ass sat up high in the air, allowing him to see how much slick that started to see through your red laced panties. he sucked his teeth and shook his head, pulling the thin fabric to the side; your drooling cunt glistening just for him.

a sigh escaped your mouth when your walls stretched to make room for his cock. despite him fucking you almost everyday, you remained tight as ever and he loved that. when he was finally inside of you, he gripped your hips and pushed his own forward, practically pressing into your cervix; which made you back up.

“told me you were gonna take it,” he scolded and brought you back onto his dick. you whimpered and clenched the silk sheets beneath you, bracing yourself for what’s to come. yet, nothing could prepare you for his ruthless attack on your cunt.

the way he showed you no mercy as he drilled your cunt, had your mind spinning and your eyes fluttering to the back of your head. it was mind boggling to see this older man have this much stamina, yet everything about it felt so good. his balls meeting your clit, smacking it each time to the lewd squelching of your cunt—which made both of your sexes throb.

logan’s pace quickened and he was pounding into you even harder before, making you bite down into the sheets—walls squeezing him as he moved. you could feel your stomach get tighter, wach time his cock rubbed against your spot; earning a series of muffled moans leaving your lips. you were gonna cum so hard and he knew it too.

a harsh smack met your plump ass, the stinging sensation only aroused you and had you wanting more. “harder! please..~”

he grunted in response and repeated his actions, this time harder than the last; making you yelp out, coming undone on his dick. specks of white blurred your vision as you were overtaken by the intensity of your own orgasm, the sheets drenched from your arousal.

but, he didn’t stop there. still fucking you through the mattress—your mind clouded by the second with nothing but thoughts of his delicious dick. “daddy….—‘s too much, please~” your pleas went on deaf ears because he kept stuffing you with his cock, the fat of your ass echoed loudly throughout the room.

your boyfriend let out a loud grunt, before he painted your gummy walls a shade of white. your third orgasm for the night followed right after, your body shook and trembled; this orgasm just as intense as the last. and when he pulled out of you, the warmth of his seed made you feel all tingly and satisfied, which made you glad that he was finished.

until he wasn’t.

—

you should’ve know he wasn’t going to let up on you, especially after the kind of day he had. logan needed to destress and there was no better way to than have your plushy walls wrap around him as he fucked everything away.

you were currently on your back, with him behind you, his thick digits plunging in and out of your wetness; bringing you closer to your orgasm only for him to remove his fingers each time—edging the hell out of you.

whines left your mouth and your eyes brimmed with tears, you needed to let go badly. you tried grinding against his palm, hoping that he would finally let you cum, only to earn a smack towards your cunt—which made you cry out. you were frustrated and he knew that. he was getting off watching you squirm, trying to ease some of the tension he caused you; only for him to pull away each time.

“baby please! please let me cum. please,” oh that nearly made him cum right in his spot. hearing you sob and your voice cracking while you begged for it, broke him, and he couldn’t hold himself back anymore.

his fingers were drenched with your sappy essence, coating them each time he fingered your aching hole. sweet sultry mewls left your mouth and meshed beautifully with the sounds of your pussy; which made the older man pump his fingers faster. you gripped his wrist and bucked your hips upwards as you released the tension that was thick in your stomach.

streams of clear liquid splashed out from your cunt, hitting his palm and your bed—staining it some more. “that’s it. that’s my pretty girl, make a mess for me.”

he continued to pump his fingers faster inside of you, making you squirt even more. and when he finally pulled away, slurping up the remenants of your juices, before leaning down to finally kiss you. the taste of you against his tongue made your eyes flutter and your gushy cunt throbbed. you were so dizzy from the kiss and when he pulled away it was like you were brought back to reality.

logan moved from his spot and laid on the opposite side of you, his hands behind his head while his dick stood tall; shocking you.

did this man take a fucking viagra or something?

he pulled you on top of him, his unbelievably hard cock laid smack on your lower belly; twitching with desire. you gulped and looked down at him; those hazel eyes unbelievably darkened with lust.

“baby….i don’t—I can’t cum anymore, please.”

“just one more. just need one more from my pretty girl. ‘m gonna do all the work, just need you to take it.”

and he kept his word, jackhammering the hell out of you; your nails digging into his skin from the brute force. he groaned in pain and pleasure, his wounds slowly healing while he continued to fuck you stupid. it seems that he was gonna break your cunt while pulling another orgasm from you.

logan could feel you clenching and unclenching around him and he pushed your back down, connecting your mouth with his. “go ahead and cum for me, doll. need to see you cum for me.” he pulled away and you whined, your vision hazy as your climax took over you. your ass clapping with each powerful thrust as he continued to give you dick.

the tighter you clung to his cock, the quicker his own orgasm came down on him and soon he was losing it. he let out the loudest growl ever, his claws unsheathing and sinking deep into the mattress; while he pumped your cunt full of his cum.

and with a few more sloppy thrusts, he pulled out and his claws retracted back into his skin, before you slid off of his sweaty body. your body shook and writhed as you still felt how intense your orgasm was—ropes of his cum starting to pool out of your, until he stopped it with his palm.

“need you to keep it inside. want you all round and plump with my kid inside,” he leaned over and kissed your tear stained cheek—eyes fluttering with sleepiness.

“don’t….don’t go to work tomorrow. can’t take it, ‘m gonna be sore for days.” he chuckled at your remark before pulling the covers over the both of you, cuddling up against your weak body.

it would be a while before you could take him again like this, but it was all worth it.

[sleep-0-deprived]

In eve’s garden (Yandere dragon hybrid! x human! male reader~!) ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆

WC:. 1.2K

content warnings : smut, porn no plot, Amab reader, bottom reader x top oc, dark content, dub con, belly bulges, monster fucking, no protection, yandere content, obsessive themes, mentioned kidnapping at the end, virginity loss, anal crampies (reader receiving), marking <33

Taglist: @miyaisastar @asher-is-hotxp @silvern1006 @unstab1eperson2 @yyuinaa @dewday1 @blond3ang3l @creepy141dollie @m4r13ll @ihavezeropancreas @sooobiinn @just-ignore-them @fuckingmxonlight @nightwinglover101 @chasingknives @littlelilithsposts @gayaristocrat @whatupbishs

A/N: from th’a poll th’a most requested was yandere Oc works, it’s very short thoo~ ૮₍´˶• . • ⑅ ₎ა

Life is a funny trickle isn’t it? One moment you’re laying around in your garden with your tunic all undone at the top messing with your flowers and the next a dragon like man is on top of you, taking your opened tunic as a chance to ravage you.

you had heard other villagers talking of a dragon being spotted near by but you had never expected to be the creatures target.

Your back was planted firm to the ground whining and hissing when the man bites at your nipples through your thin tunic with his saliva as hot as water from the fresh springs on your skin leaving you in a state of bliss under him.

“Mine- could smell you from so far away”

he would breath out and let his hands roam you, gripping you like a piece of treasure to behold.

His claws pierce the fabric of your pants making them loose around your hips with your cock pressing to the torn cloth, your hands pull at the grass and your eyes tread down lazily onto the creature.

“Sto—ah~”

Your words hang unheard in the air with your thighs quivering on either side of his hot body, you feel a massive bulge pressing up against you rubbing against your tummy.

the scales on his neck brush against the tender flesh of your pecks. He finally slips his hands up your tunic under the fabric and onto your bare skin.

The contact sends shivers up your spine the sound of tearing fills your head when his claws rip off your tunic exposing your bare torso to the blue sky’s above with the cool spring air pressing against your hardened peaks caressing the now warmed flesh.

The dragon hybrids tail sways behind him curling in an eager manner when his slit black pupils look up at you they dilate, his mouth finds its way onto your Adam’s apple and gives it a nibble pressing his shark lime tear to your skin hard enough to leave an little red indent showing he was there.

the feeling of hands gripping your love handles starts again. He gropes you feeling your body up while his face stays buried in your neck sniffing in your scent like a feral animal in rut.

His horns prick at your neck like a bull nudging its mate, in most senses that’s what the creature was taking you for, it’s mate.

“Needa mate you- need to give you my seed”

“Wait- don’t”

The hybrids claws tear away your pants leaving you naked in the garden with your thighs on either side of his hips.

the massive bulge smushes against your half hard cock dry humping you while precum seeps through his pants making a slick mess between your shared bodies, god how you hoped none of the other villagers would see you.

His face stays in your neck never leaving while his sticky palms undo his pants letting a meaty cock press to his stomach.

he looks down at you with his red scaled wings flapping harshly on his back, his tip was all flushed with a shiny pearl running down the underside of his base— oh there was no way you were going to be able to take this all.

Your thigh gets lifted up pressed to your chest with him holding your cheek pinched open spitting and licking at your hole in attempt to loosen it, midway through the creature growls annoyed at the lack of opening for his cock.

He presses the tip forwards pushing it inside you half way, your hymen tearing wide open feeling like a sharp pain shooting through your whole body making your eyes all glossy and wide.

“Ow-ow fuck~!”

Your knee bumped your chest sobbing underneath him, a bulge presses out of your stomach once he fully sinks himself inside you, your rim puckers up tight and you can feel ever pulse, throb, vein, everything his cock does inside of you.

Your stomach caves in when you breathe slipping your hands further up and gripping the ground for dear life getting dirt all under your nails.

As soon as he starts rocking his hips your insides feel bruised, already worn around him and as if your neck was a safe haven for the creature its face gets shoved back into it pressing you down harsh into the soil leaving no room for your to escape it.

The pudgy hot tip starts pressing your prostate harshly making your cock fully stiffen against your stomach.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders gripping at his smooth black hair while the dragon grunts and huffs on top of you, one of your legs rested up on his hip and the other bend to your chest making his angle hit inside you deep.

Your tears drying up but you pout beneath him when he bites a little to hard on your nape nearly bring blood piercing only the top layer of flesh.

“Gonna give you all my pups- wanna make you a mama”

Your hole flutters around him at that statement, your eyes half lidded rolling into the back of your skull almost trying to see your own brain with how deep he was fucking you. His cock was trying to look for a womb to plant itself into wanting to make eggs inside you.

The sound of skin on skin slapping around in your garden got louder with your ass cheeks all tender from his hips constantly slapping against you.

you had given up on fighting the creature instead just accepting your fate, you can hear the deep mewls that left his lips and you could feel how close he was, you weren’t far behind with your cock ready to explode.

A clawed hand reaches down palming your cock between thrusts making sure to move in rhythm with the constant fucking. Another hand pressing down on the bulge in your stomach making you feel how deep you were taking it.

The mix of your blood and his spit lubed you up enough to make a squelch when he rolled his hips nailing your prostate head on over and over.

“Mh right theree!”

Your orgasm his you first heaving and arching under him with your thigh wrapping around his hip taking its cock deliciously when he hits your sweet spot one last time. Your gummy walls milking the orgasm from him.

Your sperm spews from your eager tip getting everywhere in his palm making a mess, his hand works you through your orgasm while you lay with your nose scrunched up.

The dragons rough tail wraps around your waist lifting you closer to him letting the smell of flowers and the intense coupling fill the air leaving the creature pleased when his hips jerk one last time.

It felt like molten lava started pouring inside you making you feel stuffed to the brim with a swollen tummy, your nails dig harder against his scales while his wings lay down relaxing as a wave of calm washes over him.

You can feel his tip pulsing into your prostate. Right when you thought it was all over he lifts you up still on his cock with you fully naked for any and all to see— he was taking you to his home he was taking you into the mountains to his cave.

“Never gonna let you leave- all mine, gonna raise such pretty lil dragon pups with you”

he purrs into your ear sealing your fate.

[daycourtofficial]

Tell me I’m the only, only, only, only one - part five

Pairing: Eris x Azriel x reader | WC: 6k | warnings: general angst, canon violence, blood, loose medical stuff that likely doesn’t make sense

Summary: avoiding Azriel only works for so long when he uses Rhysand to get you to see Eris one more time. You’re more than shocked when your meeting is ambushed, wounds making you reconsider things.

A/N: we’re insecure, and we don’t know what for! Anyway please enjoy 💕

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After Azriel had left you in the bathroom, you stood there for what had to have been hours, the last remnants of his warmth clinging to the air around you. You had never felt so alone, his rejection an intense sting you were certain branded your soul.

Your chest felt heavy with his presence. At some point in the night you had finally figured out how to shut him out. The iron was heavy as it shackled your heart, cutting off the mate who was supposed to protect you, not knowing he was who you needed protection from.

Sleep didn’t come to you that night and it was a battle the next night to sleep for even a few hours. Your mind felt stale and stagnated, yearning for the fixation that was his journals. Azriel had given the most recent one to you just before rejecting you, not even having the chance to crack the spine yet. His confession that Eris was above you still stung too much.

You spent most of your time outside of work now laying in bed, unable to stop your thoughts from analyzing every angle of your entire relationship with Azriel. You hardly slept, no idea how much time had passed in the stillness of your grief.

Rotting in bed was an option both Nesta and the House did not appreciate - the latter stopped giving you full meals, the former making her way into your room this afternoon informing you that you would be seen at dinner so she had proof you were alive and eating.

The last people you wanted to see were happily mated couples, practically rubbing their mateship in your face just by existing. The Mother was surely testing you in some way, and you weren’t sure if you could handle the outcome of failing.

You had left your room one singular night during your solitude. The moon had been bright through the windows as you snuck to the library, leaving a note for Clotho to deliver a book on failed mating bonds to your room in the House of Wind.

It was an unusual request, but you knew Clotho would do it. You spent many nights in the library pouring over textbooks, dropping off various sweets for Clotho and the other priestesses in offering and thanks for their help.

By the next afternoon the book was on your bedside table, placed there by the house no doubt to ease your embarrassment from the nosey eyes of Cassian. Now the book on broken bonds sat on top of the last journal you had gotten from Azriel, taunting you with your future within its pages.

They were all going to find out eventually that Azriel had rejected you, but that left you in an even more impossible situation. Reaching out for comfort from your friends meant Azriel’s secret mating with Eris became public knowledge. No matter how mad or upset you were with the both of them, that was a line you refused to cross.

Would Nesta and Cassian kick you out? If Azriel didn’t want you, surely you’ve lost the friendships you’ve made the past few years with his family?

Maybe you’ll move to Spring. Tamlin surely won’t notice if you just picked a spot and built a house.

You put your head in your hands, wanting to claw the possibilities out to find which one would save you from this grief.

Your self imposed isolation hadn’t kept you safe from seeing Azriel. You had asked Cassian to fly you home from work, a job he did with delight. You avoided dinners, changed your entire schedule to maximize your potential to avoid him.

And yet you’d pass him in the hallway, see him in the stairs, and find him in the kitchen. He was everywhere, each appearance only pissing you off further. Every time you ignored him, even going so far as to bump him with your shoulder when passing by.

But he never said anything. Just looked in your direction, his eyes not catching the light like they used to. His shadows don’t even follow you around anymore. They clung to Azriel like a second skin as if holding him upright.

Were you a failure? Had any other fae had such a short mating? Was it even truly a mating?

Your anger had been simmering for a while, but now as you descended the steps to dinner, your rage was palpable, nearly carrying it with you like Azriel does with his shadows. You craved it, needed it to hold you through seeing him, having to pretend he hasn’t laughed in the face of the Mother and carved out your heart.

But your anger was for naught as you approached the dining room. Azriel wasn’t there amongst the faces of his family, a rarity for the House of Wind. Usually dinners consisted of Nesta, Cassian, and Azriel, but tonight Rhys and Feyre were in attendance, a small Nyx situated on Feyre’s left.

Your fury tampered down, taking it off the heat and letting it cool down as you walked in, all eyes turning to you.

“Just in time! Now can we eat, Nes?” Cassian was impatient, his fork already in hand, clearly waiting for the second you showed up.

“Let her sit down first, Cassian.” Rhysand laughed. “Or perhaps you’re going to gnaw on her legs, hm?”

The growl of Cassian’s stomach rippled through the air, his body’s own testament to the discomfort it felt.

“Go ahead and dig in, I wouldn’t want Cassian to starve.” Cassian let out a ‘thank you’ between mouthfuls as you sat across from Nesta. She watched as you sat, her eyes tracking as you picked up the tongs to plate your food. She didn’t relax until you began eating, and even then it was only enough for her to eat.

You watched her watch you, confused about her intensity, not even paying attention to Rhys and Feyre’s light teasing of each other.

It was wonderful that they had happiness with each other. Good for them. You stabbed your chicken with a bit more force, chewing slowly, putting on a show for whatever Nesta was watching for.

“Azriel should be back in time tomorrow.” It was almost comical how quickly your ears tuned into the conversation at his name.

“In time for what? What’s going on tomorrow?” It was the first words you had spoken, and you didn’t notice the glances they all shot to each other. Rhys turned his attention to you, violet eyes kind as he spoke.

“You and Azriel will be seeing Eris tomorrow.”

“We are?” The incredulity of your tone could be heard from streets away, other family dinners halting at the annoyed tone that floated on the breeze.

“Yes, he told me Eris is quite chatty with you. Azriel left word that Eris had something important to share and that it was urgent the two of you met with him.”

You blinked a few times, trying to push your anger aside to make way for the bewilderment. Had Eris called for this? Or was it Azriel, finally wishing to put an end to this?

Your heart hammered, the string around it pulsating tighter, worried it would be broken and left unraveled to slosh around inside your chest for eternity.

“Maybe Eris likes you.” Cassian made kissing sounds at you. Your eyes remained fixed on Rhysand, as if the longer you looked the more answers you’d get. He tilted his head, the slight caress of a claw tapping onto your mental shields the only thing to get you out of your trance.

“Don’t be gross, Cass.” Feyre chided despite her giggles. “I don’t think he’s capable of enjoying anything.”

“Eris likes fresh blood.”

“So did Amren.”

“Rhys, I’m not sure if I should go.” You broke up their joking, finally responding to Rhys’s prodding. You were pleading with your High Lord, trying to make him understand you can’t.

“I know he’s a bit much, but if Azriel’s right and Eris has some soft spot for you, it’d be in our best interest to exploit it.”

How far Cassian had been from the truth. Eris would delight in nothing more than ripping out your arteries with his teeth.

You nodded silently, looking back to your plate, pushing the peas around. You don’t say another word, you’re not even keeping watch of Nesta before retiring for the evening.

-

Rhysand hadn’t given you a time to expect to leave, so you spent the morning working with Madja, telling her you’d have to leave at noon to attend to some affairs Rhysand had asked of you. The older fae was annoyed, her wrinkles deepening, but she kept her mouth shut before walking off, muttering something about young males in power.

A few patients had come in, mostly to have previous injuries checked for an all clear. The cold snap in Velaris had left several fae slipping on ice, many twisted ankles keeping you busy the past few weeks.

You left promptly at noon, saying goodbye to Madja before heading out. Seeing your most recent patients had you checking every step for ice, ensuring sure footing before fully putting your weight down as you headed to the end of the road, already seeing the tips of Cassian’s wings.

You bundled yourself in your coat, burying your face into your scarf as you began mentally preparing yourself for seeing Azriel. Eris you could handle - he was cruel, but manageable. He never pretended to be something he wasn’t. But Azriel kept popping in and out, handling you delicately and with care before shattering you unexpectedly. Your heart was beating faster at the thought of seeing him, while also sinking deep into your stomach.

Your eyes followed the cobblestones, being mindful of any patches of ice, too busy to notice until you were right in front of him that it wasn’t Cassian you had seen. His blue chest siphon m was the first thing you saw, a soft expletive leaving your lips before you could stop it.

“Hello to you too.”

You finally looked up, his shadows peeking out from the collar of his leathers, tracing up his neck in beautiful patterns. You nodded in greeting.

“Where’s Cassian?”

“We’re heading straight for Spring, so I told him I could come by and get you.”

It was painfully silent as the two of you stood there, Azriel’s head moving constantly to try to catch your eye. His annoyance flared up in your chest, and you were too absorbed in it to shut it down.

“Talk to me.” His voice was pleading, but with a sharp edge.

“I don’t want to.” Your tone was petulant, a childishness to it that was uncommon.

“Why not?”

“You’ve made your opinion of me very clear. Besides, don’t you need Eris’s permission to talk to me first?” He sighed, the siphon on his chest glowing slightly. “Surely he’ll be upset you had to hold onto me to winnow here. Maybe he’ll have soap on hand to scrub your hands of me once and for all.”

“You’re being childish.”

“Can we just get this over with? I know why we’re here and I don’t exactly want to linger for a long time.”

Azriel’s eyebrows shot up at the curtness in your tone, but you couldn’t be bothered with niceties anymore. You were exhausted of chasing after him, begging for his attention, just for it to always be on Eris. The sooner this was over, the sooner you could move on.

He reached his hands out, gently scooping you into his arms. You took care not to dive nose first into his neck like last time, not wanting his scent to overpower you or make you spiral further.

The bond inside of you was rattling in your ribcage, desperate for you to fight, to snark, to do something to get Azriel’s attention. But you blocked it out, only looking ahead for the entirety of the flight.

The two of you landed in the familiar spot, an earthy scent clinging to the air. The spot was empty, and you felt Azriel’s stomach drop in disappointment at the knowledge through the bond. Your hand rubbed across your face before you quickly tampered down the bond, not wanting to know how they’re feeling about this.

The two of you waited for several minutes. The chittering of the forest was loud, heightening the awkward silence. It was so green and bright in Spring, the plant growth nearly blinding after the intense snowfall Night had been experiencing.

You felt Azriel’s eyes on you, hazel irises unwilling to depart from your form. Your name was a soft exhale from his lips, a pleading tone that would have sent past you spiraling. It only furthered your resolve.

“Don’t do that. I’m only here out of duty to Rhysand. My High Lord asked this of me, and frankly, it’ll likely be the last time Eris ever sees me.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I’m done. Clearly the Mother was wrong and clearly you and Eris both know that. It’s just taken me until now to figure that out myself.”

“That’s not true.”

You finally looked at him. Your beautiful, beautiful mate, who had always been so kind to you. He had been nothing more than a charade, a carefully crafted story to deter from his actual mate. You straightened your shoulders to gather your words, trying to voice your exact thoughts.

“No, Azriel. I’m done being your second choice, I’m done being strung along. I don’t want that for me, and as my mate, you shouldn’t want it either. So treat me with the respect I deserve and recognize I’m only here because of Rhys’s asking. You and Eris have made your opinions of me very clear.”

Azriel opened his mouth, but rage flew from yours. The dam had broken, and now a flood was headed directly for the shadowsinger.

“Was it just so I wouldn’t say anything about you and Eris? Was that why you kept stringing me along? Keep your precious bond between you and Eris, keep it to yourselves, I no longer want any part of it.” It felt incredible to say the words aloud, to try to get the point across. But his face twisted with anger, his wings twitching behind him.

“You were never just a secret keeper. You’re my friend, you’re important to me. I told you about Eris in an effort to show you something! I’m trying to reprioritize, but it’s hard.”

For the first time in ages, a shadow moved from Azriel’s body, swirling around you. You were too caught up to notice the little thing, its attempts to calm you down failing.

“Azriel, when have you ever prioritized me? Every time something happens, you’re gone.”

“What do you want me to do? Eris is my mate.”

“And what am I?”

The question cut through Azriel, slicing between his ribs, the pain fracturing through his chest. He didn’t get a chance to reply before Eris materialized in the woods.

Eris was in more regal attire now, a vest covering his tunic that was likely thousands of hours of embroidery. The stiff collar made his jawline seem sharper, his features even more cutting in such regalia. Eris blended into the trees, making the natural world bend a knee to his beauty.

“I see the two of you are incapable of leaving me alone.” He didn’t even look at the pair of you, looking instead at his manicured nails. Filed to a point, the red polish made it look as if blood were dripping from his fingertips.

“Eris, stop.”

“It’s fine, Azriel. I came on your invitation, after all. What is this most pressing matter?”

“We need to talk.”

“Think of that all by yourself?”

“Shut up, Eris. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t know anything going on in your life as of late.”

You looked up, surprised at that tidbit. Maybe you weren’t the only one uncertain of where you stood with the shadowsinger.

“I’m trying to figure it out, Eris.” Azriel’s words were icy, coming from some deep, dark depths of himself.

“What is there to figure out?”

The pause after Eris’s question was too still. The forest was quiet, all birdsong gone. Not even insect chittering to fill the gaps. The world was still outside of the three of you. You looked up into the canopy above you, a chill going down your spine.

“Azriel, I asked you-“

The sound that cut off Eris was a quick burst of wind as an arrow came whizzing past. Azriel was the first to move, pushing you onto the ground, his body laying on top of yours, sheltering you. You pushed against him, trying to get up, trying to see, but he wasn’t budging. Panic flooded you as his wings formed a cocoon around the two of you, what should have been a womb of safety felt more like a cage.

Wood splintered as arrows hit trees, impossible to tell how many fae were targeting the three of you. It sounded like hundreds of arrows, each whizzing past at speeds that could easily kill.

Your breathing quickened as a new worry overtook you: had Azriel been shot? Was he injured?

And where was Eris?

Azriel grunted into your ear, his body jolting. His arms cradled your head, not even a slither of light coming through. This darkness was so different from the one that followed Azriel. It felt nearly suffocating, not even his shadows pittered about in it. It felt cold and hopeless

You could hear the roar of flames beyond the shelter of Azriel’s body, the crackling getting closer to the pair of you. Sweating and breathing heavy, it felt like Azriel’s body weighed even more. You tried to push him off again, but your ragged breathing made it even harder.

Something reached through Azriel’s body, a warm touch gripping your wrist. A flicker of light made it through, not enough for you to see anymore than a blinding white. Suddenly the world shifted, the mud beneath you hardening into wood floors. Azriel’s body was heavier now, his weight digging into you.

“Push.” A muffled voice came from somewhere beyond Azriel, nearly muffled by his body. Fear struck through you - was this whoever had ambushed you? Was Azriel the intended target and you were simply a bystander?

Or was Eris the target, carted off to some court while they dealt with the witnesses?

Despite the panic, your heart tugged in the direction of the voice, practically guiding your arms to push Azriel from you. As you did, more and more light filtered to your eyes, his shadows clinging tight to his body, securing their master’s wounds.

Pale hands wrapped around Azriel’s torso, and you thought you’d never be so happy to see the ring clad fingers of the Vanserra. It took a moment, but Eris was able to lift Azriel enough for you to crawl out from beneath him.

You glanced over Eris, the only injury to be seen were cuts on his face and arms. Relief flooded you at the sight of him, your breaths still shallow. You felt the adrenaline coursing through your veins, only speeding up with the lack of danger. The cabin was dark around you, the place seeming more empty than when you were here last.

“Aren’t you a healer?” Eris had been speaking to you for several moments by this point, his words a buzzing you couldn’t make out until now.

“Yes.”

“Then help him.”

You were frozen, unable to do anything other than look at your hands. You had never been in combat before - during the Battle of Hybern you had been left in the city to run the clinic, the only one left behind.

Azriel’s blood was on your hands, sinking into your skin. Are your bones marked red now?

“Useless.” Eris was a wildfire, moving quickly down the hall before coming back, his arms full of tonics and bandages. The sight snapped you back, your thoughts coming in full force at what to do. You stood, moving quickly to stop Eris.

“Stop, you need to give him some pain medication first.” You rifled through the bottles and bits, each of Azriel’s labored breaths making your heart sink further and further.

“No, we need the arrows out of his back, they’re killing him.”

“I can give him some medicine to manage the pain first. Removing the arrows will mean we’ll have to act quick to stop the blood. It’s better to give him something for the pain now.” Your voice took a sharp edge, the commanding tone of someone in charge. “Then we take out the arrows in his wings.”

Eris’s face was hard as he looked toward you, no doubt hating you even more. Azriel dove to protect you - his state now should have been you. You found the bottle you needed, it’s not as strong as you’d like, but it’s the best you can do.

“Azriel, you have to swallow this.” Your hand gently caressed his cheek, letting him know someone was there. He slowly opened his mouth, allowing you to pour the purple liquid down it. The grimace he made almost made you laugh, like this were any other time, having him eat something unappetizing because Nesta had made it.

Fire stung at your fingers, but you ignored Eris as Azriel finished the potion.

“Okay, we need to trim off the tops of the arrows so we can pull them out more easily. Eris, find a knife and use your fire to sterilize it.”

He started to open his mouth, but you leveled him with a stare that had him quickly closing it.

“Are you going to waste our time by second guessing everything I tell you? If you bothered to let Azriel tell you anything you would know I work directly beneath the court’s healer and am quite competent.”

Eris’s sharp canines protruded from his mouth, a low growl emitting from him, but no more protests as he heated a knife.

“Az, we’re going to cut off the arrow heads and remove them from your wings. Can you stretch your wings out for me?” You rubbed your thumb across his cheek, trying to offer any tenderness he could hold onto.

He nodded so softly you hardly noticed it, his wing unfurling ever so slowly. It didn’t extend fully, but he got about three fourths of the way there.

“I’m going to help you stretch it out this last bit, okay? I need to see all of your wings to help.” You sent a light pulse of what you hoped was soothing down the bond before closing it off again, bending to rest on your knees as you sat in front of his left wing.

Several arrows had pierced through the delicate membrane, but only four remained caught in his wings. You swallowed down your guilt - it wasn’t what Azriel needed now. He needed Madja’s apprentice, not his rejected mate right now. You took a deep breath before extending his wing further, ignoring Azriel’s groans of pain.

“Eris, hold his wing taut.” The uncertainty slipped off like a second skin, making way for the commanding presence you took on for the care of your patients. Once Eris had his wing, you took the hot knife from his hand, quickly and methodically snipping off the heads of the arrows, making sure to hold the base to keep it stabilized before pulling each one out.

You pulled the wood slowly, trying to keep the wood from grazing his skin again. Each arrow went into a pile behind you until his left wing was clean of them, the holes they left the only reminder of them. The two of you repeated the process for his right wing, this one only having three arrows in it, the extraction going much more quickly.

“Is he still awake?” Eris shuffled before a grunt of agreement came from Azriel.

“Azriel, we have to move to the arrows on your back. It’s going to hurt, but we’re going to move fast.” You looked back to the bottles of potions Eris had found, searching for anything that could help Azriel clot faster or sanitize the wounds.

“Why didn’t we do his back first? It’s worse and the arrows are draining him.”

“Because I’m not sure how much blood he’s going to lose. It was a 50/50 gamble, either way.”

“A gamble? Do you even know what you’re doing?”

“Of course I know what I’m doing, Eris! I’m dealing with a squabbling family member who thinks they know better and are keeping me from my job. My job right now is to save his life, not argue with you over semantics. Now either shut up or get out.”

You don’t even watch to see his response, your attention solely on Azriel again. Your hands worked of their own accord, rubbing potions across his back, careful around the protruding arrows. You eventually looked up to find Eris just staring at you.

“Have him drink this.”

Eris took the vial, coaxing it down Azriel’s throat, murmuring softly to the shadowsinger.

“Do you have any towels or rags? We’ll need as many as you have.” Your hands felt down his back, his skin riddled with scars, each one telling a story. You couldn’t fixate on them - how the small nick by his third rib was made by steel a little over a century ago. The sideways gash across his fourth vertebrae made from a carbon blade roughly twenty years prior.

You focused on his current wounds, pinpointing how far the arrows have lodged themselves. You closed your eyes, feeling for his body. A path unfurled in your mind’s eye, following the layers of tissue and muscle the arrow penetrated.

Both arrows avoided the soft, delicate organs housed in his chest, but the longer they stayed inside, the likelihood they’d cause more damage to him.

“Eris, as I remove the arrows, I need you to immediately place rags on the wound. The arrow didn’t pierce any organs, but it cut through several veins. Is Azriel still awake?”

“Yes,” it came out as a croak, so different from Eris’s usual snark and calm.

Eris was ready as you pulled the arrow out, quick and unflinching. A spurt of blood followed the arrow, shooting onto you before Eris covered the wound.

“I can either move onto the next one or start trying to close this one up.” You were muttering to yourself, trying to decide on a course of action.

“The faebane in the arrowhead will make his healing take longer, it’d be better to pull it out.”

The faebane from the arrows was already swimming through Azriel’s bloodstream, but Eris was right - the sooner it comes out, the better for Azriel. You nodded to Eris.

“Right. Keep holding pressure while I pull this other one out. Then we’ll switch sides and I’ll start working on healing him.”

The second arrow was much messier, Eris’s rags darkening with blood much more quickly. The air held a copper tang that was getting stronger by the minute, your concern rising with it.

“Eris, do you know how to count heartbeats?” You don’t even watch for a response before you start explaining. “Count how many times his heart beats for a minute, and then keep repeating. After a few times you’ll know if his heart rate is steady or not.”

You focused on one wound at a time, magic making its way through Azriel’s skin, slowly stitching up the path of destruction the arrowhead forged. It was slow work, his body fighting against the faebane with every breath.

Every ten minutes or so you made Eris help Azriel drink water, hoping the fluids will help wash out the toxin. Each time he did, he’d also make a call out of Azriel’s heart rate.

Azriel remained unconscious, his heart rate changing drastically every few minutes. It had dropped quickly a time or two, causing Eris to panic, but Azriel’s heart rate never got below a threshold, always staying where it could manage.

The sun had set at some point, the cabin surrounded by darkness. Your hands ached from stillness, your joints crying out to move even just a little, but you refused, remaining steadfast. You were a conduit for the magic that lived inside you, magic that was slowly stitching Azriel back together again.

“Here.” Eris sat next to you, holding the cup of water before your face. You hadn’t heard him move, too focused on Azriel. You shook your head, pointedly looking down to your hands.

“I can’t.”

“I can help you.” You looked to find a new expression on his face, something you’re not sure anyone had ever seen on the male. As much as cruelty sharpened his cheekbones, the softness of his eyes made him nearly blinding in the moonlight. You nodded, unable to speak. He held the cup up to your lips, the cold liquid refreshing as it trailed down your throat. Your hands remained on Azriel, but you gulped down the entire cup, not realizing just how parched you were.

Eris pulled the cup away, settling in next to you. More time passed, all of it a blur as you kept your focus on Azriel. Neither of you spoke. Azriel’s face was pale, from blood loss or his shadows having gone missing, you’re not sure.

You slumped back against the couch, rolling your stiff neck. Azriel’s wounds weren’t perfectly healed, but your magic had repaired his blood vessels enough to allow you a break.

It was easy to get swept up in healing - you have a focus, a goal. You know what steps to take next. But as Azriel’s breathing remained strong and steady, yours became shallow. The reality of the day hitting you all at once, Eris’s warmth from next to you making you feel claustrophobic.

“I can’t do this anymore.” Your words were quiet, not much louder than Azriel’s breathing. He was still so close to you, his eyes closed as he laid there. He looked so peaceful.

A month ago you would have salivated at the idea of touching him for hours, but now the smell of his blood made you want to throw up the contents of your stomach.

“He’s yours, Eris. I can’t - you won. I’ll go away, move to the continent to be as far away as possible.” A soft confession that had been lingering in the back of your mind the whole day. You were foolish to believe you could best Eris, completely underestimating the deep well Azriel and Eris’s mating bond ran to.

“You’ll do no such thing.”

“You despise me. If you feel anything like I do, you want me gone.”

Eris was still, his heat nearly unbearable despite the distance between you two. It was so hard to breathe around him, as if he were drawing in all the air for himself.

“He doesn’t want me. I’m tired of fighting for his attention when his mind always goes back to you. He was my friend for so long, and the fact he can just toy with me like this.. I’m not sure how to handle it.”

All you could hear was Eris’s breathing, but you knew he was listening.

“He was my friend and now I’m- well, I don’t know what I am. He’s going to pick you, Eris. He doesn’t want me.”

The confession you had been holding so tight slipped from your tongue like silk. The words sent the bond in your chest into a chorus of screams, their agony the perfect soundtrack to your turmoil.

“Say the word and he’s yours.”

For once, Eris was quiet, no words coming from his mouth. He only shook his head, the movement so precise and imperceptible you thought you dreamt it. You looked back at Azriel, needing to prepare to winnow the two of you away.

Coated in his blood, you had to leave sooner rather than later - Rhysand is surely on the cusp of worry, and there was only so much explaining you could do without forfeiting the cabin.

You watched Eris as you grabbed Azriel’s hands, his eyes reflecting all the hurt you’ve felt the past few weeks. Eris was the easy choice to be mad at - you were tied to Azriel, Eris was just some male tethered to the other end of your mate. But watching him keep his gaze on Azriel, some part of your anger to the redhead cracked, allowing the words to come from you.

“I’ll bring him back to you. He’ll be okay.”

“Thank you.”

Eris’s face hardened as the world blurred, your grip on Azriel strong as the ground gave out beneath you, the wood flooring exchanged for the hard stone of the House of Wind. The two words followed you through space and time, ringing in your ears.

Those two words broke you completely, every ounce of sorrow and pain breaking through. There were no soft cries, only guttural wailing.

It was Nesta you saw first, having followed the loud commotion throughout the house. She found you gripping Azriel, softly crying out to him before she pulled deep in her chest to get Cassian’s attention.

She crouched next to you, wrapping her arms around your shoulder as fat tears rolled down your face.

The bond cried out in pain, practically pleading with you to change your decision, but you knew it was the right choice. Once he healed enough, you’d sever it. You had to. Someone had to put an end to the madness, and you could do what Azriel couldn’t.

Azriel almost died because of this stupid arrangement.

Too lost in your thoughts, you didn’t notice when Cassian or Rhysand arrived, their voices indistinguishable to the inner anguish you felt. You were exhausted, your soul crying out in pain. You swore you could hear tiny cries echoing how you felt.

Through the thick fog of your thoughts, you heard Cassian’s voice clear as a bell.

“I bet Eris is behind this. Bastard tricked us.” You crouched over Azriel, becoming even more defensive of the Illyrian. It was a ridiculous stance, trying to shield him from his brother, but you couldn’t help it.

“It wasn’t Eris.” It came out more as a snarl that sent Cassian reeling back. “I don’t know who, but they- it was bad and- Eris winnowed us away to some clearing.”

Your pleas were gut wrenching, anger dissipating and making way for what you had pushed too far down to heal him.

“Azriel’s bandaged.”

“Eris left and got us supplies. He came back for us. He wouldn’t do this, you have to believe me.” You were sobbing now, clutching Azriel’s arm to your chest like that would fix everything. Your breaths were quick, bringing in enough air to sob once more.

“He didn’t - and Azriel-“ arms wrapped you from behind, gently pulling you into their embrace. The smell of leather and sweat enveloped you, Cassian’s strong arms slowly pulling you from Azriel.

You were blubbering now, mostly cries of Eris’s name over and over. You were scared and full of guilt for Azriel, but your mind kept playing that tender moment between Eris and Azriel over and over again. Your heart cried out for the redhead, a deep well of sadness that you had to pull him away from his mate.

Footsteps retreated away from you, but you reached out, clinging to Azriel’s sleeve to remind yourself he was still there.

Header by @tsunami-of-tears 💕

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If you want to be tagged or aren’t being tagged, let me know ���️

A/N: if you’ve read this far, just know I’m a bit on the fence about this part so don’t be mean to me 🔫

[celestialowlbear]

🌿 ♡ Halsin NSFW Headcanon Drabble ♡ 🌿

Pairing: Halsin x Reader (GN)

WC: ~600

Warnings: 18+, NSFW. Smut. Mentions of marking, possessiveness, some fluffiness. Reader/Tav not described besides having soft skin.

A/N: I’ve been having major Halsin thots and had to get them on a page (hence the bulleted list). Enjoy, my fellow big Druid lovers. 😊

You are like nothing else he has ever experienced in his long life. 

He craves you, an insatiable hunger that burns his body from the inside out, and only you can tame that raging fire within him.

Your lips, your gentle touch, your sounds…

You are the rising sun, the soft glow of the moon, the peaceful breeze on a summer’s day, and life at the onset of spring.

Sometimes he wondered if he was a dead man walking, a specter of some sort, because being with you was heaven, or what he imagined it to be.

Halsin has to continuously control himself around you, at least while others are around.

When the camp was quiet and he had you all to himself, was when he could absolutely and utterly devour you, show you just how much he longs for you.

You let him lose control, wanting it, craving it yourself. 

You want to feel his fingers dig into your thighs, hear his louder and louder moans as you take more and more of him so, so willingly. 

When you are very much warmed up by his tongue and fingers, he finally fills you, sinking himself into you inch by inch, careful to never harm you and checking that it was never too much.

Halsin loves praising you, breathlessly comparing you to everything extraordinary and exquisite in nature and beyond.

His honeyed words spur you both on as his pace increases, the head of his cock caressing that spot so deep inside you it leaves you boneless and seeing galaxies.

You know he still holds back, the bear desperate to claw its way out, the primal urge raging under his skin as he pounds into you.

Halsin always wants your pleasure before his, making sure to get multiple orgasms out of you before he finishes. 

The way your body reacts, the way his name from your lips transforms from breathy whimpers to guttural moans of pure ecstasy is seared into his memories until the end of time, and that will still never be enough.

When you are finally spent, flushed and sweaty and thoroughly loved, is when Halsin takes what is his.

He loves flipping you on your stomach, gripping your thighs and pulling you up toward him, sinking into you with one thrust.

He mounts you, caging you in with his body, his bulging forearms on either side of your head, his lips at your ear, his broad chest pressing to your back.

You love it, feeling protected by him, encapsulated by everything that was Halsin.

The man, the bear, your lover, your mate. 

He is always able to get deeper in this angle, his fingers digging into the grass and dirt beneath you, his hot, growling breath on your neck as he finally loses his control.

Your soft body beneath him, the trust you have in him, the love in your eyes even as he fucks you relentlessly like a beast in heat, always brings him to his end, intense and blinding and all-consuming.

When you bask in the afterglow, Halsin carefully maneuvers you, checking you for any wounds he may have accidentally inflicted in the height of passion.

There’s usually a bruise or bite-mark or two, and you have to convince him it’s fine. 

You can tell he always feels bad after losing a bit of control, but part of him loves the fact that he’s able to see the marks on your body, reminding you and anyone else that you were his.

Then you lay in the grass, gazing up at the stars, your head on his chest.

He loves telling you stories about the constellations, and his deep timbre always lulls you into a peaceful sleep, with him following soon after, content in one another’s embrace.

-ˏˋ⋆ Thanks for reading, comments and reblogs are always appreciated! ���ˊˎ-

[yuoimia]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ SAVED NUMBERS

summary: you’re not the only one trying to keep it together (conversations over the phone) based off this scene from summer strike. characters: alhaitham, kinich, childe notes: fluff, teasing, mention of anxiety in kinich’s, wc: 1.3k

alhaitham

A sudden pattern of musical chimes sliced through the silence of the dark bedroom.

Automatically, a cathartic groan and yawn escape from your mouth as you blindly manoeuvred your hand across your nightstand, finally seizing the source of the irritating noise. A tap of your finger revealed the time and responsible caller.

“Is he crazy?” you abruptly sat up, roughly rubbing your eyes as if it there were some kind of mistake. “It’s 4am, for goodness sake.” Nevertheless, your finger swiped to answer the call, sinking yourself back into the warmth of the thick blankets and pillows and holding the phone close to your ear.

“Do you know what time it is?” you drawled, switching your attention from the ceiling to the phone.

“I couldn’t sleep,” came a breathy reply, those three words fluctuating in audibility. A faint hint of laughter. “But to answer your question, yes I do. It’s 4:06am.”

His voice is tender and doused in fatigue, a rare state to find the illustrious scribe. Gentle rustling of a comforter and indistinct breaths over the line. How close was he holding the phone? As if instinctual, you raise a hand against your lips to suppress any traces of nervousness and regulate the rapid beating echoing in your chest.

“You haven’t fallen asleep yet, have you?” he asked albeit suddenly, the sounds of movement halting.

You turned over and pulled the blanket to signify your consciousness, clearing your throat. “No,” then smiling as you added, “does my absence go as far as to completely disturb your precious sleep?”

Despite the cool emptiness of the night, the momentous distance that separated you both felt unimportant and forgotten. “You’re so bold.” Imperceptible traces of adoration intertwining within his voice, “but you’ve never been wrong when it comes to me.”

kinich

The scent of salt and sweet fruit juice swept through the open window of your rented cabin, sweeping the sheer curtains that adorned the wooden sides in graceful arches. Beyond the intricate frames stretched the breathtaking vastness of a tired sky, dwindling from its vibrant hues to a soothing navy blue, the prelude to a serene night blessed with stars. Faraway music and laughter echoed through the rolling hills of the People of the Springs, their infectious celebrations spilling through the evening, washing away any last remnants of worry or doubt that were previously clawing in your guts. It felt strange, almost eerie, somehow. Everything that once seemed so big and important felt so small and trivial against the quiet sanctuary where thoughts could gather by choice. This fragile feeling of saturated peace was always depicted as something temporary, and perhaps it was, but its value always lasted infinitely.

You take a step back and turn yourself to survey the cabin, leaning your hands against the windowsill. A coastal design with a minimal palette of blues and greys. Warm lamps scattered from the corners of the room to the ceilings of the ensuite. Puffy armchairs and beige bohemian couches around the edges of the bed, generously sized and cocooned by thick blankets and billowy pillows.

From beneath one of the blankets, a faint light emits through the fabric, simultaneous with the constant vibrating. The contact name elicits a soft smile, wasting no time to slide your finger to answer the call.

“I thought you’d forget,” you admitted, sinking yourself into the plush mattress. You laid on your back, an outstretched arm over your head as another held the phone.

“I’m offended that you thought so,” came his lofty reply. He was always so casual with his way of speaking. Blunt in some eyes, but equally endearing.

“I don’t have much time before Ajaw comes back,” and as if sensing your confusion, he adds, “I sent him on an… impromptu and urgent mission.”

His earnestness, so refreshing in the midst of such a quiet evening, brought forth a fit of laughter that resonated in your chest, and spread through the form of euphoria into your veins, warm and delicately precious. “It’s not late yet. Did you trick Ajaw into completing your commissions for you?”

His response was a half-hearted ‘hmm’. If this was a video call, you’re 99% sure that it would be accompanied by an even more half-hearted shrug. A moment to close his eyes, too.

“Poor Ajaw,” you jested, leaning to your side. “Out doing his master’s work while he handles other things he deems more important.”

“This is more important,” Kinich replies thoughtfully. “I wanted to say I love you before you went to sleep.”

For a fleeting moment, you’re completely suspended in silence, as if time momentarily halted. Did you hear that right? Of course you did; it wasn’t anything shocking. He was probably teasing you, provoking a reaction, like usual.

“The sun is still setting; what made you think I’d sleep this early?” You were nosy now, curiosity piqued at what he had to reason. I wanted to say I love you. It chanted like a spell, casting you into a dazed and smiling mess. I wanted to say I love you.

“The People of the Springs pride themselves on their bustling atmosphere. You’re not the type to miss out on that. Knowing you, you’ve probably exhausted yourself and are lying in bed as we speak.”

Bingo, bingo, and bingo.

childe

Only three more hours…

Boredom and exhaustion rippled through your body as you cupped your face in your hands, leaning absentmindedly over the front counter of the Northland Bank. Ornamental decorations occasionally twinkled when someone would enter, lazily drifting for a few seconds before falling back right into place, mirroring your state quite accurately. Each person was greeted in the same, uniform way. You’d briskly straighten with a polished smile, brightly posing a list of questions everyone would be asked before slouching back down once you successfully redirected them to an appropriate staff member.

“It would probably be dark by the time I’m out,” you mumbled with a ghost of a pout at the door, gazing half-heartedly at the tinted panels lined near the ceiling. Spotting a loose pen on the floor, you bent to retrieve it when the sound of a phone ringing from a cupboard caught your attention.

Answering personal calls while on the job was a strict regulation that was generally prohibited. Even so, you pondered, folding your arms and sneaking sideways peeks at the entries to empty hallways, so painfully desolate that even it too seemed opposed to any opportunity for distraction, those heedless and sickeningly pompous higher-ups would never dream of working on a Saturday afternoon, more or less care if a forgettable receptionist were to be caught on the phone.

“Hello?” you answered flatly, clearly disinterested in who the caller was from the way you didn’t bother to check the contact name before holding the phone close to your ear. Indistinct sounds of metal clashing and dull thuds echoed in response, and oddly, the bubbling of rushing water.

“Hello?” you repeated once again, a bit more forcefully in case the recipient couldn’t hear over the bizarre assortment of noises. A new round of agitation flushed through your body at the callers purposeful disregard, heat clambering up your face. Within the second you seriously contemplated hanging up, a panting voice emerged, and with it, a fervent series of persistent coughing and choking.

“Hey, don’t hang..up,” the voice, weak but evenly enthusiastic. “Sorry about that, I called, then a random army of treasure hoarders started attacking me from nowhere, and I had to-“

“Is this who I think it is?” Pausing in disbelief from amazement, you felt surges of every possible emotion colliding against each other in nauseating rounds inside your head. Hearing his voice so close by your ear whilst being surrounded by the bleakest of places felt like a taste of something divinely transcendental.

“Who else?” a breathless laugh came from the person on the other line. “I know…you told me to not call you unless it was an emergency, but hey, i’ve got your attention now, and I’d like to savour that for as long as I can.”

[d1stalker]

The Feeling's Mutual | Final Part

Summary: With Logan heading toward the enemy's clutches, you're left alone, questioning if you'll be able to stop her and finally put an end to it all.

ONE | TWO | THREE

Warnings: canon-level violence, death, some logan POV, arguing, angst, fluff WC: 9.5k - MASTERLIST

----

Logan regrets his decision to leave you the moment the warehouse door slams shut behind him, cutting off the desperate cry that echoes from within. The sound of your voice, the look of fear and pleading in your eyes as you begged him not to do this, haunts him even as he forces himself to move forward.

Every instinct in him screams to turn back, to protect you, to face whatever comes together. But he knows he can’t. Not now. Not with what’s waiting for him outside.

The sight that greets him as he steps out into the open is nothing short of a nightmare. A horde of mutants, all gathered outside, bodies tense and mouths practically frothing at the mouth, ready to take a bite. The moment he appears, they spring into action, launching themselves at him with everything they’ve got.

He grunts as the first mutant crashes into him, small bursts of electric energy crackling all around. Still, he doesn’t hesitate. His claws flash out, cutting through the mutant’s flesh with ease. Blood splatters across his face, warm and sticky, but he barely registers it. Another mutant charges at him from the side, and he ducks under the swipe of its tail, driving his fist deep into its chest with a snarl.

They fall one by one, but there’s no satisfaction in it. These aren’t enemies; they’re victims, Shadowmind’s marionettes.

Another one slams into his side, driving him back a few steps, and Logan snarls as he jams his claws through its chest. Still, they keep coming. He’s fought worse than this—he’s fought against himself—but the sheer number of mutants bearing down on him begins to be overwhelming.

He can feel the weight of them pressing in on him, the force of their combined strength pushing him, inch by inch. He fights them off with everything he has, each slash of his claws sending one after another to the ground, but it’s just not enough.

A particularly large mutant grabs him from behind, its arms locking around his chest, effectively crushing him. Logan grits his teeth, muscles straining as he tries to break free, but he then something—or someone—slam into his legs, knocking him off balance. He stumbles, and before he can recover, more mutants pile on top of him, their weight dragging him down.

“Get off me!” he yells hoarsely with exertion as he thrashes around, but still, it’s no use. They are like a tide, and they’re dragging him toward the location of the underground tunnels, where he knows she is waiting.

It’s like he can feel the ground shifting beneath him as they drag him closer to the entrance of the tunnels, the air grows colder, darker, more unsettling. With each passing second, he’s pulled further from the warehouse, further from you.

When they reach that damn metal grate it’s quickly pushed to the side, and he's roughly shoved down into the hole, grubby hands forcing him into the depths. He lands hard on the damp, uneven ground of the tunnel system, the impact jarring his bones, but he doesn’t let the brief pain slow him down. He clambers to his feet, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of movement.

The remaining mutants surround him, forming a barrier between him and the way out, and Logan knows he’s trapped. He knows that there’s no way out except forward.

“Wolvie!” He hears, the voice a sing-song echo through the tunnel in false excitement. “Back so soon? You just couldn’t stay away, could you?

“What do you want, Lorna?” he growls, using her real name deliberately, trying to strip away the power she’s claimed for herself.

She steps out of the shadows, but she doesn’t answer his question right away. Instead, she lets the silence stretch, her predatory gaze fixed on him as if she’s savouring the moment.

“I want what’s mine,” she says finally, dangerously. “And you… you’re part of that.”

Logan’s claws twitch, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t take the bait. “You’re delusional,” he spits.

“Am I?” she replies, her tone laced with false innocence. She takes a step closer, her eyes never leaving his. “You and I… we were made by the same people. We’re two sides of the same coin, Wolvie. But there’s a difference between us.”

Nostrils flaring, he tries to keep his breath coming in controlled, measured beats as he fights to keep his mind clear, focused. “The difference is, you let them turn you into this, even after their downfall.”

Shadowmind’s laughter is sharp, biting, like the crack of a whip. “You think you’re better than me?” she hisses. “I fought back. I never let myself get corrupted by them. But you?” A laugh rips from her throat. “You were just waiting there, ready to be useful, weren’t you? Just a good little weapon, eager to please.”

Logan clenches his jaw. The words hit their target, but he forces himself not to react, not to let her see the impact. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

“Oh, I think I do,” she purrs, her voice softening with false sympathy. “You didn’t fight back. You let them break you, turn you into their perfect killing machine. You were more than willing to do their dirty work, weren’t you? All those years, all those lives… They didn’t mean anything to you.”

His breath hitches, just for a moment, but it’s enough. Shadowmind’s eyes glint with satisfaction, sensing the crack she’s been looking for. “You couldn’t wait to sink your claws into anyone they pointed you at. But the worst part? You’re still that same weapon. All your talk about being better, about being in control… It’s all a lie, isn’t it?”

“Shut up,” he growls.

“And what about that little sidekick of yours?” she continues, her tone shifting to one of mock pity. “Knifey, you called her? She’ll never see you the way you want her to. How could she? You’re nothing but a relic, Wolvie. Too much baggage, too old, too damaged. She’ll realize it soon enough—she’ll leave you behind, just like everyone else.”

Logan’s hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fights to stay grounded. He knows what she’s doing—knows she’s trying to weaken him, to break him down until he’s vulnerable enough for her to control. But it’s working. He can feel the doubts creeping in, the old fears and insecurities clawing their way to the surface.

“You’re a failure, Logan,” She whispers, her voice slipping inside his head, bypassing the physical world entirely. “You’ve always been one, too. You can’t save anyone, and you won’t save her. All you do is destroy. That’s all you’re good for.”

“Stop it,” he snarls.

“You can’t escape your past. No matter how many times you try to change, no matter how hard you fight, you’re still the same broken weapon they made you. You’re nothing.”

His vision shakes, the darkness of the tunnel closing in around him as her words seep into his mind, pulling at the edges of his sanity. He can feel the walls he’s built around his mind starting to crack, the strain of keeping her out taking its toll. She’s pushing harder now, digging deeper, little by little, weakening his defences, until she can take control.

“You’re alone, Logan,” she pushes. “And you’ll always be alone. Because of who you are, what you are. You destroy everything you touch. You bring pain and suffering to everyone you care about. That’s why she’ll leave you.”

His heart pounds in his ears, the sound almost drowning out her voice, but not quite. He can feel the line between reality and nightmare beginning to blur, her words fading the edges of his perception, making it harder to distinguish between the two.

“You can’t break me,” Logan says, veins in his neck bulging at the amount of effort he's exerting, the fight inside him burning bright despite the wickedness closing in. “You’ll never break me.”

Lorna’s laughter echoes through the tunnel, haunting. “We’ll see about that, Wolverine,” she whispers, her voice dripping with malevolent glee.

----

The days after Logan sacrifices himself to the horde of mutants blur into one long stretch of despair and frantic thinking. You know he did it to protect you, to keep you safe, but the only thing it does is leave you feeling utterly alone and powerless. All you want to do is follow him, tear through those mutants and drag him back, but the door that closed so resolutely behind him now feels like an impenetrable barrier.

Self-sacrificing asshole.

You spend the first few hours pacing back and forth across the warehouse, your mind spinning with distressed ideas and plans that you know, deep down, are impossible. You think about sneaking back into the tunnels, maybe finding a back way in, using the element of surprise to take down Shadowmind before she can do any more damage. But the more you try to piece together a plan, the more you realize how futile it is. She could be hiding anywhere in the shadows of those damn tunnels, and if she has another group of mutants waiting for you... Every time you think you have a workable strategy, it falls apart under the weight of too many unknowns.

At one point, you even consider trying to bargain with her, offering yourself up in exchange for Logan’s freedom. But the idea of putting yourself at Shadowmind’s mercy again, knowing first-hand how she twists minds and breaks people, makes you regret contemplating it. And you know Logan would never forgive you if you did something so reckless, and let’s say if she agreed to the exchange, there’s no guarantee she wouldn’t just find a way to end you both.

So, you spend your days trapped in a cycle of despair and frustration, your mind constantly racing to find a way to get him back. Hardly sleeping, your nights are filled with restless tossing and turning, your thoughts consumed by images of what that wicked woman might be doing to him.

Is she torturing him, trying to break his spirit? Or is she forcing him to relive the horrors of his past, using his memories against him? Thinking of him suffering, of him being twisted and corrupted by her influence, leaves you feeling hollow and sick with worry.

You try to distract yourself, to keep busy in the warehouse, but everything reminds you of him. After all, it’s his place. The silence is deafening without the sound of his heavy footsteps, the gruffness of his voice cutting through the stillness. Even the small, mundane tasks feel impossible without him there. You find yourself flailing around in the kitchen, your attempts to cook a meal turning into a disaster. You can’t remember how he managed to make everything look so easy, his hands moving with ease as he salvaged your attempts at dinner. 

You stand there, staring at the mess you’ve made, feeling utterly useless. In the few short weeks you’ve known him, you always relied on him to help you with something, to have your back in a mutant-encounter, to steady you when you stumbled. Now, without him, you feel like you’re falling apart. 

At night, when you’re laying in bed—his bed—the thoughts never stop. Your thoughts wander, wondering how he’s holding up, whether he’s still fighting, still resisting. Or if he’s already succumbed to Shadowmind’s control. You absolutely despise the idea of him being forced to kill, to hurt others, knowing how much he loathes the things he’s been made to do in the past.

A small, treacherous part of you can’t help but hope that, if nothing else, Logan will find a way to end it. That he’ll kill her before she can break him, before she can twist him into something unrecognizable. You know it’s a dangerous thought, but you cling to it all the same.

She deserves to be punished.

If anyone can survive her, it’s Logan. If anyone can find a way to stop her, it’s him.

Yet, as the days drag on, that hope begins to fade. The longer he’s gone, the more your fears grow, until they consume you entirely. You imagine him locked in a battle of wills with her, his mind being torn apart, and it almost drives you to the brink of madness. You feel like you're unraveling, piece by piece, the threads of your sanity slipping through your fingers as you pace the warehouse, waiting for a sign, any sign, that he’s still out there.

The silence stretches on, building up to a crushing weight. Every time you hear a noise outside, every creak of the building, every gust of wind, you freeze, your heart leaping into your throat, hoping against hope that it’s him, that he’s somehow found his way back to you. But each time, you’re met with nothing but disappointment and the hollow emptiness that fills the space where he used to be.

You sit by the door for hours, just staring at it, willing it to open, willing Logan to walk through it and tell you that everything is going to be alright. That he’s beaten her, that he’s stronger than her. But the door remains closed, the warehouse eerily still, and your hope continues to wither away.

Just go. Help him. Do it yourself

These thoughts begin to swarm in your head. You realize that it’s been too long. If Logan were to do something, anything, he would have done it by now. For all you know, he could be chained up to those cold, damp walls, waiting for you to save him. 

Steeling yourself, you take a deep breath, gathering every ounce of courage you have left. You turn toward the door, ready to throw it open and march back into the madness, when suddenly, it swings open on its own.

And there he is. Logan stands in the doorway, his frame filling the entrance, the light from outside casting shadows across his face. For a moment, you’re frozen, disbelief warring with overwhelming relief.

He’s back. He’s here.

“Logan!” you gasp, rushing toward him, your feet barely touching the ground. “Oh my gosh, you’re back. Are you alr—”

But your words are cut off as his hand latches around your throat with a vice-like grip. Kicking the door shut behind him, the breath is driven from your lungs as he swiftly turns you around, slamming you roughly against it. Pain radiates through your back from the impact, your mind reeling, struggling to understand what’s happening.

“What—” you manage to choke out, but the words die in your throat as you feel the sharp edge of his claws pressing against your stomach.

Your eyes go wide, your mind a blur of shock and disbelief. This isn’t your Logan. It can’t be. Yet before you can process it, before you can even react, the claws extend with a sickening shink, and you feel them pierce through your flesh, cold steel sinking deep into your abdomen.

A strangled cry escapes your lips as the pain explodes through you, white-hot and searing, radiating out from where his claws are buried in your stomach. Your hands fly to grab his wrist, trying to push him away, but there’s no strength in your limbs, no fight in you. Your legs give out, and you slump against the door, held up only by the grip he has on your throat.

You try to speak, try to ask him why, but the words won’t come. All you can do is stare up at him as the reality of what’s happening sinks in.

There’s no recognition in his eyes, no hint of the man you’ve grown to care about. He looks at you as if you’re nothing, just another target, just another obstacle in his path.

“She… she got you?” you whisper, the question barely a breath, your voice breaking under the weight of your pain and confusion.

There’s no response. Hatred burns in his eyes as he pulls his claws free from your body with a slow, deliberate movement, the pain doubling as they slide out of your flesh. Blood pours from the wound, soaking through your clothes and pooling at your feet

You can feel your body beginning to mend itself together, until only a lingering ache remains, but the pain—oh, the pain—is still there, deep and throbbing, both physical and emotional.

Logan steps back, his claws dripping with your blood, his expression unchanged. The realization that you’re going to have to fight him slams into you like a fucking bus, and the thought of hurting him again makes you hesitate.

This is Logan. The man who’s fought beside you, who's trained you… But now, he’s under her control, and this version of him is not going to stop until one of you is down.

Trying to shake of the pain, you raise your hands in a defensive stance. “Logan, I don’t want to hurt you,” you plead, your voice trembling. But he doesn’t respond. He just charges at you.

You barely dodge the first strike, rolling to the side as his clawed fist collides with the metal door. Your mind is screaming at you to fight back, but your heart is in turmoil. Every move you make is half-assed, conflicted, as you struggle to reconcile the need to defend yourself with the deep, aching reluctance to harm him.

“Please!” you cry out, dodging another swipe that comes dangerously close to your throat. “You have to push against this!” 

This isn’t just a fight—it’s a mirror image of the horror you lived through not long ago. You know exactly what he’s feeling, the suffocating darkness that grips his mind, the tight grip of control that leaves him impotent to resist. Shadowmind’s influence is a force of sheer will, a crime against everything you are, twisting your thoughts, your actions, until there’s nothing left of you but a weapon in her hand.

You remember the way it felt, how every fibre of your being screamed to stop, to fight back, but your body moved on its own, driven by her malicious intent. The guilt, the helplessness—it had nearly broken you. And now, here you are, facing Logan, who’s trapped in the very same prison. 

The roles have been reversed, and the bitter irony of it a sick joke.

Hopelessness eats at your insides as you’re backed into a corner, your mind racing to find a way out of this without hurting him. He gives you no choice. He’s faster, stronger, and without the hesitation that’s holding you back, he’s going to overpower you if you don’t act.

He comes at you again, claws aimed straight for your heart, and you finally react on pure instinct. You grab his wrist just in time, using your strength to twist his arm away, the momentum sending him stumbling back for a brief moment. But it’s not enough to stop him.

“Come on, snap out of it!” you shout. You hate this—you hate every second of it. But you can’t let him kill you, and you can’t let Shadowmind win.

He doesn’t respond. All he does is attack, faster this time, his movements a blur. In a desperate move, you finally manage to knock him back, sending him crashing into a table. For a moment, he stays down, breathing hard, and you take the opportunity to plead with him one last time.

“Logan, I know you’re in there,” you say, eyes filled with tears. “You have to fight her. I don’t want to hurt you… I can’t.”

But when he rises again, there’s no sign that he heard you at all. He jumps in your direction once more, and your heart shatters as you realize that there’s no choice left. 

----

Lorna’s mental assault is relentless. 

“Just let go, Logan,” she hisses, a poisonous whisper that slithers into the cracks of his defences. “You can’t fight me forever. You’re not strong enough.”

Logan grits his teeth, nails digging into his palms as he struggles to keep her out, to hold on to the last shreds of his sanity. But it’s been days, and the gaps are widening, spreading like spiderwebs through his mind, and he can feel her starting to slip through, her presence growing stronger, more oppressive.

“You’re weak,” she continues. “You were always weak. That’s why they made you into what you are—a weapon. Because you were never good enough to be anything else.”

His vision blurs, the world around him fading as her voice fills every corner of his mind, pushing out his own thoughts, his own will. 

“Why keep fighting, Wolvie?” She ponders. “You’ve fought your whole life, and what has it gotten you? Pain. Loss. Loneliness. Just let go. Stop fighting. It’ll be easier that way. You’ll finally have peace.”

Her voice is all he can hear now, all he can feel.

“That’s it,” she whispers triumphantly. “Give in. You know you want to. You’ve always wanted to. Just let go. Let me take control.”

With one last, brutal push, she forces her way in, her power crashing through his mind. Logan gasps, his body going rigid as she seizes control, her will overriding his own, drowning out his thoughts, his memories, everything that makes him who he is.

He feels her in his mind, filling every nook and cranny. There’s no room left for him, no space to fight back.

“Good,” she purrs, “Now, do what you were made to do. Kill her.”

His body moves on its own, driven by her desires. He turns, face stoic, as he begins to move toward the warehouse, where you’re waiting, unaware of the danger that’s about to strike.  The chains around his mind tighten, pulling him along, guiding his every step.

Kill her, he hears again, and he obeys without hesitation. He’s powerless. And as he reaches the door, his hand reaches for the handle, the final barrier between him and his target, the woman he’s been ordered to kill. The woman he…

But the thought never completes itself. Lorna’s voice, dark and seductive, wraps around his mind once more, tightening the chains, binding him to her.

“Do it, Logan,” she whispers in anticipation. “Show her what you really are.”

The door swings open, and Logan steps inside, his eyes locking onto you. And as he closes the distance, there’s only one thought left in his mind, one command that drives him forward.

Kill.

----

The clash of skin against skin fills the warehouse as you and Logan engage into heated combat. Every movement, every strike delivered, but there’s an anguised edge to your attacks—one that comes from knowing you’re fighting someone you care about, someone who, under different circumstances, would never lift a hand against you.

But these aren’t different circumstances. This isn’t the Logan you know. This is Shadowmind.

Your body moves with the skill Logan taught you, every nerve on high alert as you parry his strikes and counter with your own. It’s a brutal dance, each of you trying to find an opening, but despite everything, the fight is even. You’re giving as good as you get, but you know deep down that his experience, his brutal history, gives him the advantage.

He fights as if he’s been doing this his entire life—which, of course, he has. You can see it in the way he maneuvers, the way he anticipates your strikes, even under her influence, the muscle memory doesn’t lie. Still, you keep going, keep pushing yourself to maintain your ground. Each hit he lands, your body heals, the pain sharp but temporary. You use your strength to block some of his strikes, to push him back, but he’s insane, his jabs coming faster, harder, until you’re struggling just to keep up.

Somehow you manage to sweep his legs out from under him, sending him crashing to the ground. But before you can capitalize on the moment, he rolls forward, moving on all fours as he reaches out and grabs your ankle. Then, he yanks you to the ground with a force that knocks the breath from your lungs. The impact reverberates through your body, and for a moment, your vision blacks out.

You try to scramble to your feet, but he’s quicker. He’s on top of you immediately, his weight pinning you down, his hands wrapping around your throat. You gasp, your hands flying up to his wrists as you struggle to breathe, to fight against the crushing pressure.

“Logan, stop!” you choke out, clawing at his hands, your nails digging into his skin. You know he won't stop. Not when he's under her control.

The world around you begins to fade around the edges, your vision shrinking as the lack of oxygen sends you spiraling into darkness. You can feel your strength diminishing, your body growing weaker as your lungs burn, desperate for air. Your hands slip from his wrists, falling limply to your sides as your muscles give out, your last reserves of energy draining away.

You don't think your healing factor will allow you to survive this.

Just as your eyes begin to roll back into your head, just as you’re on the verge of passing out, something in him shifts. His grip loosens, the pressure on your throat easing slightly, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes—something human, something familiar.

In an instant, Logan’s hands release you entirely, his body going rigid as if struck by an unseen force. His wide eyes stare down at you, processing what just happened—what he just did. His breath comes in harsh, ragged gasps as he looks at his hands, the hands that were strangling the life out of you not even a minute ago, and then back at your face, colourless and gasping for breath. The horror spreads across his features like a slow, creeping shadow, and with a choked gasp, he falls to his knees beside you.

“Fuck,” he mutters frantically, running a shaky hand through his hair, his fingers trembling as if they’ve just been burned. He looks lost, terrified, as if the reality of what he’s capable of is crashing down on him all at once.

“You have to go,” he says in barely more than a hoarse whisper. “You need to get the hell away from me.”

You force yourself to sit up, ignoring the searing pain in your throat, the way each breath feels like it’s dragging over raw, jagged edges. Your vision is still hazy, the space around you spinning slightly, but you manage to shake your head, reaching out to place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

The moment your hand touches him, his body jumps. It's as if your touch is the last thing he expected, the last thing he deserves. He flinches away from you, his eyes wide, but then it changes.

His expression hardens, the panic in his eyes melting into anger. “I’m not givin’ you a choice,” he spits out. “Leave before I hurt you even more.”

Deep down, you know he’s saying this to protect you, to push you away before he loses control again. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. The fact that he isn’t even considering your help, that he’s so determined to shut you out, feels like a betrayal.

“Hey, stop,” you begin. “Let me help you.”

He shakes his head violently, standing up abruptly, towering over you with a clenched jaw. “You don’t get it,” he snarls, the desperation in his voice now masked by a biting anger. “I almost killed you! I could have—”

“But you didn’t,” you interrupt, pushing yourself to your own feet, making him look you in the eye. “You stopped. You fought her off.”

“For how long?” he snaps back, frustrated. Not with you, but with himself. “How long before she gets back in? How long before I lose it completely and—”

“And what?” you challenge, “And kill me? Logan, if she’s in your head, you need me here. I’m not running away just because you’re scared.”

“Scared?” He practically growls the word, his fists clenching at his sides. “You think this is about being scared? This is about keepin’ you alive! You have no idea what it’s like, what she’s doing to me—”

“I know exactly what it’s like!” you shout, your frustration finally boiling over. “I was under her control too, remember?”

“It’s different with me!” Logan barks, his voice echoing in the small space. “I’m not like you! I’ve got too much shit in my head, too much darkness, and she’s feeding off it,” he takes in a heavy breath. 

You run your hands down your face, exasperated. “Why are you insisting on doing this alone? First you leave me to sacrifice yourself or whatever that was, and now you’re just gonna do the exact same thing again? It didn’t work the first time and it won’t work the second. We need to do this together!” 

“Remember when I told you this wasn’t a partnership?” he snaps as he struggles to keep his composure, the battle raging within him evident in every tense line of his body. “When I said I needed to figure out what was happening? Well, I did, and guess what? You’re not involved. This is my burden, and I’m telling you to go.”

“You’re being so fucking stubborn!” You yell, trying to break through the walls he’s building around himself. “You don’t need to push me away in order to protect me. That’s not how this works!”

His face twists in irritation. “I’m dangerous! I’m a goddamn ticking time bomb, and she knows how to set me off!”

“Then let me help you defuse it!”

You’re beginning to take a step toward when when you see it—the twitch of muscle below his right eye, then his left, and the scrunching of his brows. His face begins to contort in pain, and a cold dread settles in your chest as you begin to realize what is happening to him.

She’s not listening to you, Logan hears her voice return in the back of his head, a small whisper. 

She never will.

His hands fly up to his head, gripping it tightly as if he could physically tear her of his skull.

You’re useless, the words seep into his thoughts. 

You were always just a weapon. Nothing more. Nothing less. And now you’re nothing.

Each phrase pounds through his skull, each whisper amplifying in volume until they’re not whispers anymore but screams. His body begins to tense, muscles locking up.

She won’t want you. It’s a ceaseless litany designed to break him, to shatter the last of his resistance once more. His vision wanes, black edges creeping in as Shadowmind’s influence digs deeper, rooting itself back into the darkest corners of his mind.

“Run,” he chokes out, voice strained, barely recognizable as his own. The command is laced with urgency, with the knowledge that if you don’t, he won’t be able to stop what’s coming.

But you hesitate, unwilling to leave him like this. “Logan, I can’t—”

“RUN!” he roars, the sheer might of the word almost knocking you back.  Then, every emotion drains from his face, wiped out in an instant, leaving behind that same expressionless mask you saw when he first attacked you. The last shred of control he had is gone.

You don’t need to be told again. You turn and bolt for the door, and as you sprint out of the room, Logan’s world narrows to a single point of focus—the voice in his head, now no longer just whispers but a deafening roar. 

He’s coming for you, and there’s nothing left of him to stop it.

----

Your heart pounds in your chest as you run, the fear and adrenaline fueling your every step. You’re going as fast as you can, the world around you blurring into streaks of colour as you race down the street, but no matter how fast you go, you can hear him—hear Logan—right behind you. 

His footsteps are heavy, persistent. The sound of his grunting ricochets off the buildings and into your ears, and you don’t need to turn around to know he’s moving faster than you’ve ever seen before, Shadowmind unleashing some berserk mode within him, and you know this won't end until he's caught you

You dart around corners, leap over obstacles, trying to put as much distance between you and Logan as possible, but it’s no use. And when you do finally glance over your shoulder, he’s there, closing the gap with terrifying precision, his eyes fixed on you.

Your thoughts race as quickly as your feet, desperately searching for a solution, a way to escape. Where can I go? What can I do?

And then, like a bolt of lightning, an idea hits you.

With a sudden burst of determination, you swerve sharply, changing direction on a dime. The abrupt move nearly throws you off balance, but you recover quickly, setting your sights on the entrance to the underground tunnels—Shadowmind’s lair. You can feel Logan’s presence behind you, so close now that his breath is practically on the back of your neck, but you force yourself to ignore it.

Approaching the metal grate, you lift it up and throw it to the side as fast as possible, and leap down into the darkness. There’s no time to catch your breath. You sprint through the dark, winding passages of the tunnel, your feet pounding against the cold, uneven ground. 

Behind you, Logan’s pursuit is unending. The sound of his claws whipping through the air is horrifying, but you can’t afford to slow down, can’t afford to let fear overtake you. You have to keep moving, have to find Shadowmind before he gets you.

Her voice slithers through the tunnel with cruel amusement, a taunt that weaves itself out from the shadows. “Did you do it, Wolvie? Did you kill her?”

It sends a surge of anger through you, a hot, burning rage that fuels your steps. Your voice reverberates off the walls as your scream, “Shut the fuck up!”

You can feel her presence ahead, the oppressive weight of her mind starting to press down on you too, and the need to end this—to end her—drives you forward.

Finally, you see her. She’s standing at the end of the tunnel, her silhouette illuminated by a light that seems to radiate from the very walls. Her eyes gleam with malice, a psycho grin playing on her lips as she watches you approach. It’s as if she’s been expecting you, waiting for you to come to her.

Without hesitation, you lunge for her, but just as you’re about to reach her, Logan intercepts you, his body slamming into yours from the side with brutal force.

The impact sends you crashing into the opposite wall. Pain blooms along your shoulder, the breath knocked out of your lungs. The rough edges of the room scrape against your skin, and the dampness oozes into your bones as you struggle to regain your footing.

“Logan, I’m not fighting you!” you shout, exhaustion and frustration blending in your voice as you try to reason with the man you know is still in there, somewhere. “I’m going to kill that fucking bitch!” you finish, pointing at the woman standing behind him.

But her laughter fills the air. “Oh no, darling,” she sneers, “That won’t be happening. After all, I have a good guard dog, dont I?”

If looks could kill, she’d be dead tens times over. Your blood boils as you stare at her, the rage bubbling up inside you at the sight of her face. Somebody needs to put her in her place.

“Bet you feel real powerful, huh?” you jeer, voice laced with venom as you take a step closer, your eyes locked on hers. “Getting everyone to do your dirty work for you since you’re too fucking weak to do it yourself?”

Her smirk falters for just a moment, irritation crossing her features briefly, but she quickly regains her composure, her eyes narrowing in dangerously on you. 

“Because you wouldn’t survive if I punched you, right?” you continue. “All this power, all this control, and you’re still nothing without someone else’s strength. You’re a coward, Lorna. You haven’t done a single thing without hiding behind someone else!”

The words hang in the air, and you can see the fury building in her eyes, her cool demeanour cracking under your insults. Her fists clench at her sides, her lips pulling back in a snarl as the mask of control she’s been wearing begins to slip.

“Shut up,” she snaps.

“What’s the matter?” you mock. “Is the truth too much for you? Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, you cunt.”

“You know I’m right, don't you?” You press on. “Without someone to control, you’re nothing. You’re just a scared little girl playing with other people’s lives because you’re too weak to live your own.”

She’s seething. “Stop it!”

You grit your teeth, refusing to back down. “You want to get back Logan for hurting you all those years ago?” you shout at her. “When he was just a victim to the same mind control you’ve been inflicting on all those other mutants!”

“That’s not true!” she hisses, but the denial in her voice is thin, wavering. If Logan was himself, he’d think about how you’re getting to her the exact same way she got to him—and he’d be so proud.

“You’re no better than they were,” you carry on. “Making him hurt me won’t change anything. It won’t make you any better than they were!”

“Silence!” Lorna cries. “It’s not the same! He doesn't get to be happy! He deserves to suffer for what he did!

“What he did?” you retort incredulously. “What he did was survive. He was manipulated and controlled! Sound familiar? You’re no different from the people you claim to hate!”

“ENOUGH!” she screams in fury, the word bouncing off the walls. “I’m nothing like them!"

“Are you sure about that?” you ask, tilting your head to the side in faux confusion. "What are you doing right now then?"

The rage in her eyes flare, and her fists are clenched so tightly her knuckles turn white. You wouldn’t be surprised if she tried to attack you herself. But then her gaze shifts back to Logan, and a creepy smirk dances on her lips as she refocuses her control on him.

“Go get her, Wolvie,” she commands, like a queen ordering her knight to battle. His body tenses, and next thing you know, you've become his target once again.

You jump to the side, quickly evading the oncoming threat, your focus never leaving the woman. “This is between you and me, bitch!” you shout.

“Oh, it will be,” she replies, her voice dripping with malice. “If you can get to me.” 

You know she must have used her mind-control to speak to him again, because he moves mindlessly, his body blocking your path to her, working as a shield. All you can do is hold back the scream of frustration that’s building inside you as you take in the scene.

The Logan you know is trapped inside, buried under layers of Shadowmind’s control, and the sight of him standing there, ready to protect her, infuriated you.

A humourless laugh escapes your lips. “You think that’s going to stop me?” you mutter dangerously.

The rage, the pain, the fear—it all coalesces into a single point of concentration, you lunge forward, your fist glowing with that molten heat as you pour everything into this final act. As fast and hard as you can, you slam your first into his midsection, just like you had done once before. The sound of tearing flesh and the sickening squelch of your arm piercing through him reverberates through the room.

Grabbing his shoulder with your other hand, you shove him back harshly, using every ounce of strength to close the distance between him and his puppetmaster. The force of your push is enough to drive him backward, your arm still embedded in his torso as you reach toward her. Your eyes lock onto hers, and you see the shock at the realization that her plan is crumbling before her eyes.

Your fist makes contact with her chest, and you drive it in even further. Her mouth opens in a silent scream, eyes wide with terror. Logan’s body jerks violently, his muscles seizing as the control she had over him falters.

She gasps in agony, her power waning, her grip on his mind slipping away like sand through her fingers. It’s like you can feel it—the hold she had on him snapping, her influence retreating like a dying flame, flickering out.

But you can't celebrate yet. The job isn't finished. You yank your arm free from Logan’s body with a savage pull, and the force of your withdrawal sends him staggering to the side, body crumpling to the ground, finally free of her control but too weak to stand.

Lorna’s once smug expression disintegrates entirely, her eyes wide with unbridled fear once she senses her impending doom. 

“NO!” she screams in fright, but the sound is pitiful, and powerless. It’s too late. Far too late.

You grab her by the throat, her skin sizzling under your touch, the scent of burning flesh filling the room as she writhes in your grasp, her hands clawing desperately at yours, but you don’t let go. With a single, brutal twist, you snap her neck, ending her once and for all.

Her body falls to the ground, lifeless, and you stand there, breathing heavily, your chest heaving as the reality of what you’ve done slowly sinks in.

It’s done. She’s dead. 

As you turn your head to the side, your gaze falls on Logan. Your Logan. He's on his knees, blood pooling around him, his hands pressed tightly against the gaping wound in his midsection that’s slowly closing. His face is pale, drawn, and there’s a haunted look in his eyes, like he’s not entirely sure that he’s free, not entirely sure that he deserves to be.

He tries to speak, but the words seem to catch in his throat, his eyes glistening as he looks at you like he’s seeing a miracle. “Knifey,” he finally manages to say, his voice hoarse. 

You take a step toward him. “It’s over, Logan. We did it.”

Logan’s gaze drops to the ground, his shoulders slumping as he shakes his head, the weight of everything that’s happened pressing down on him. “You did it. I almost…” He trails off, his hands shaking as they drop to his sides, stained with his own blood. “I almost killed you.”

“But you didn’t.” You affirm, crouching in front of him. 

He doesn’t respond, his mind spiraling further into the abyss of self-loathing. “It’s my fault,” he mutters. “I let her do this to me.”

Shifting to your knees, you reach a hand out to rest on his arm. “It wasn’t you. Just like it wasn’t me when I was under her control. This was Shadowmind’s doing, not yours.”

He shakes his head, his hands coming up to tangle in his hair as if trying to tear away the thoughts that are consuming him. “It’s not the same,” he strains. “I was so close, if I just pushed against her harder…”

“No,” you say firmly, this time pulling him into a hug, your arms wrapping around him tightly. “You’re not to blame.”

“I hurt you,” he whispers, leaning into your touch. “I became the monster I’ve always been”

“You’re not a monster,” you murmur into his ear, “It’s over, she’s gone.” All you can do is try and erase whatever lies were put into his head. “I’m here, you’re not alone.”

Logan clings to you, the his actions pressing down on him like a suffocating blanket, but your words slowly start to filter through the haze that Shadowmind left behind. They’re so different—so completely opposite—from the venomous lies she used to break him down.

Where her voice was cruel and cutting, twisting the knife deeper into old wounds, your voice is gentle, comforting, like a balm to his battered soul.

You’re telling him that he’s not a monster, that he’s more than just a weapon. You’re telling him that you’re here with him, that he’s not alone. Your words wrap around him like a lifeline, pulling him back from the edge, anchoring him in a way that nothing else could.

A deep, overwhelming adoration blooms in Logan’s chest, spreading through him with a warmth that he hasn’t felt in what seems like forever. It’s counters the cold, empty feeling that he’s been always been carrying around with him, and that takes his breath away. He doesn’t deserve this—doesn’t deserve you—but here you are, holding him, comforting him, tugging him out of the void with nothing more than your presence.

He feels something shift inside him, breaking through the layers of self-loathing and hatred. It’s you—your words, your understanding—that does it, and it makes him realize just how much you mean to him, how much he needs you. For the first time in days, the fog in his mind starts to lift, and he begins to see things clearly again.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, Logan brings his arms up around you, returning your embrace. He presses his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the scent of you, the heat radiating from your skin grounding him in the present, in the reality that he’s still here with you. He's not under control.

His heart is pounding in his chest, but it’s not from fear or anger—it’s from the overwhelming gratitude and feelings that are flooding his system.

Without thinking, he presses a soft, almost reverent kiss to your collarbone, the gesture filled with a quiet, aching affection. It’s a wordless way of telling you how much he cares, how much he’s grateful for you, for your strength, for the way you’ve saved him from himself. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

You hold him even tighter, your fingers gently tracing soothing patterns on his back. The connection between you feels stronger than ever, as if this moment has solidified those unspoken, brewing, emotions between you. You tilt your head slightly, brushing a soft kiss against his temple in return. It’s simple, but it sends a rush through Logan, making his heart lurch in his chest. The tenderness of it all is almost too much, but in the best way possible. 

For so long, he’s been scared to open up, to let anyone see the vulnerable parts of him that he’s kept hidden. He’s always been the one to bear the burden alone, to push people away before they could get too close. But here, in your arms, all those fears seem to fade into the background. 

You’ve seen him at his worst—manipulated into a weapon, mindless and violent—and still, you hold him like he’s worth something, like he’s more than just a mutant to exploit. And in this moment, he realizes he wants to open up to you. He wants to let you in.

He feels a sudden, fierce need to protect this—protect you. He wants to try this out with you, see it where it goes. The fear of opening up to someone, of being hurt or abandoned, still lingers in the back of his mind, but now, it’s different. Now, he feels like maybe, just maybe, he’s found something worth fighting for on his own accord. No external influence. Just you. 

“Let’s get out of here” you say gently. “We can go back to yours, or mine. I have a bed we can share.”

Logan pulls back slightly, eyes softening at your suggestion. He cups your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your cheek as he looks into your eyes. “Yeah,” he says quietly, his voice filled with a depth of emotion that surprises even him. “Let’s get goin'.”

----

And that's exactly what you do. After the tender moment, you and Logan head back to his place, gathering what little you need and packing up the essentials. He doesn’t say much as he packs a small duffel bag with clothes, some weapons, and a few belongings. You can tell his mind is still elsewhere, likely replaying everything that’s happened, everything he was put through.

Once you’re both ready to go, you finally decide to ask the question that’s been nagging at you since he first came and attacked you. As you zip up your own bag, you glance over at him, who’s pulling on his jacket, and speak up, trying to keep your voice as gentle as possible. 

“How… how did she get into your head? How did she… take control?”

Logan pauses, his hand stilling on the zipper of his jacket as he looks at you. You can see shame cloud his vision, but he doesn’t shy away from the question. He lets out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall as he considers how to answer.

“She used my weaknesses,” he finally says. “Lorna knew what buttons to push, what wounds to press on… She knew how to get inside, to tear me down.”

You nod, trying to understand, but it’s hard to imagine Logan having any real weaknesses, at least in the way he’s describing. “What are they?” you ask quietly, stepping closer to him, wanting to offer whatever comfort you can. “What did she use against you?”

His eyes meet yours, and in it, there’s a vulnerability that you don’t think you’ve if ever seen. He hesitates, like he’s weighing whether or not to tell you, whether or not to let you in on the truth of what she did, or what you mean to him.

But then, his expression softens, and he simply says, “You.”

The word is spoken so tenderly, so earnestly, that it takes a second to fully sink in. When it does, your breath lodges itself in your throat, your heart giving a painful thud as you realize the full extent of what he’s saying. 

You are his weakness. You are the one thing Shadowmind can use to break him down, to get inside his head.

“Me?” you repeat, almost in disbelief.

“Yeah, you. You’re the only person who has made me feel like more than a damn killin’ machine, and I’m grateful for that. Grateful for you.”

His admission is raw and honest, a reflection of just how deeply you’ve impacted his life, even if it’s only been a few short weeks. You’ve seen the man behind the claws, the heart behind the hardened exterior, and even though you may not have started off on the right foot, being in each other’s presence constantly has allowed you to share sides of yourselves you otherwise wouldn’t have.

You step closer, your hand reaching out to gingerly cup his cheek, feeling the rough scratch of his facial hair beneath your fingers. “The feeling’s mutual,” you say teasingly, referring back to your first conversation together, but he knows you mean it, because it's true. You are just as grateful for Logan as he is for you. He came into your life amidst chaos, and helped you navigate through it. 

His support, albeit not always the most straightforward, has been the only thing keeping you sane.

He leans into your hand, a shy smile gracing his lips at the intimacy of it all, while reaching out and wrapping his arms around your waist, bringing you closer into his space. His warm breath fans across your skin, and for the first time in a long while, he feels something other than fear, self-hatred, or guilt.

He feels hope. Hope that he could move past this, live a normal life, one that's not shrouded in violence, manipulation.

“You’re too good for me,” he murmurs. 

You shake your head, a small, tender smile playing on your lips as you pull back just enough to look into his eyes. “Nothing is too good for you,” you say with conviction. “You deserve to be happy. No one, including you, can tell me otherwise.”

Logan huffs out a small, almost disbelieving laugh, his gaze dropping for a moment before returning to yours. “You’re stubborn as hell, you know that?”

“Yup,” you say, popping the “p” with a cheeky smile. “But you like it”

There’s a fleeting moment, where neither of you speak, where all you can do is stare at each other. Your surroundings seem to fade away, the previous events already pushed back into the farthest place in your mind. All you can—want—to focus on in the man in front of you.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly, you’re both surging forward, crashing into each other with a passion that takes your breath away. The kiss is fierce, all-consuming, a collision of the feelings between you that have been building since the moment he found you on the street, since he told you he liked your smile, since he helped you in the kitchen. His hands are moving instantly, one slipping around your waist, pulling you in even tighter, connecting your body with his, and the other cupping the back of your neck. Your own hands grip the front of his jacket, your fingers curling into the fabric as you kiss him back, pouring everything into it.

It’s not gentle—there’s nothing tentative or hesitant about it. It’s hungry, desperate. You can taste the longing in the way his lips move against yours. Time seems to stand still, and all that exists is this moment, the heat of his body, the pounding of your heart, the way his breath mingles with yours in the small space between you. Each second blends into the next as you lose yourself in him. 

Eventually, the kiss slows, becoming softer, more tender. Logan’s lips brush against yours in a series of light, almost teasing pecks, each one lingering just a moment longer than the last. “You’re right,” he murmurs against your lips. “I do like it.”

Your chest swells, and you move your arms so they rest around his shoulders. “I knew it.” 

He grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re trouble, Knifey."

“Damn right I am,” you beam, stealing another quick kiss, savouring the way his lips curve into a smile against yours. “Too bad you’re gonna be stuck with me for a while, huh?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, the sound vibrating through you as he leans in, fondly nudging his nose with yours. “Yeah, too bad.”

----

A/N: thank you all for reading this series!!

----

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[s4kura-tr3]

Meet once more

W: angst, character death, depression, happy ending, cursing. (Tell me if I missed any)

Summary: where a garden can change his good heart

Wc: 5.5k

The Heian era was a time of beauty and blood, where curses and sorcerers danced in an endless battle for dominance. Above the plains, high on an isolated mountain, lay the dark kingdom of Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses. His name was etched into history with fear and hatred, his four arms wielding death and destruction wherever he went. For all his strength and glory, Sukuna lived in solitude, his vast estate echoing with the silence of the dead.

His palace, a masterpiece of architecture, was shadowed by towering stone walls and intricate wooden beams. Yet, despite its magnificence, it was a tomb. No laughter, no warmth—only the howling wind and the occasional groan of old wood filled its halls. His servants were few and silent, bound to him by fear rather than loyalty.

But there was one place in his domain that thrived: his garden. It was a stark contrast to the desolation surrounding him, a lush, vibrant sanctuary filled with rare and beautiful flowers. Sukuna himself had overseen its creation, though he never allowed anyone to enter it. The garden was his alone, a quiet reminder of beauty in a world he despised.

It was this sacred space that she stumbled into one warm spring morning.

Sukuna was making his usual rounds, his steps slow and deliberate as he moved through the winding paths of his garden. The wisteria trees were in full bloom, their purple petals cascading like waterfalls. The air was fragrant and still. But as he turned a corner, he stopped.

There she was—a woman crouched among the flowers, her hands busy weaving together stems of wild daisies and chrysanthemums into a small bouquet. She was humming softly to herself, completely oblivious to the danger she was in. The sight was so unexpected, so absurd, that for a moment, Sukuna simply watched her.

Her presence disrupted the sanctity of his garden. The stillness he had cultivated for centuries was broken by the gentle melody of her voice and the rustle of leaves beneath her fingers. Fury bubbled within him, and he took a single step forward.

The sound of his footfall broke her trance. She froze, her hand halfway to her basket, before turning her head to look at him. Her eyes met his, and in an instant, her expression shifted from peaceful contentment to wide-eyed fear. She scrambled to her feet, the basket tumbling to the ground and spilling its contents.

Sukuna towered over her, his crimson eyes glinting like polished rubies in the dappled sunlight. “What do you think you’re doing?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“I—” Her voice faltered, but she swallowed hard and tried again. “I didn’t know anyone lived here.”

He stepped closer, his towering frame casting a long shadow over her. “You think that excuses your trespass? My garden is not a place for petty thieves.”

Her brows knitted together, and she shook her head quickly. “I’m not a thief! I didn’t know this was yours. I just… the flowers were so beautiful. I couldn’t help myself.”

Sukuna’s lip curled in disdain. He expected her to beg for forgiveness, to drop to her knees and plead for her life. Yet, while her fear was palpable, there was no groveling. Instead, she stood before him, trembling but defiant, her hands clenched tightly at her sides.

“You’re either incredibly brave or hopelessly stupid,” Sukuna sneered.

“I—” She hesitated, then straightened her back, forcing herself to meet his piercing gaze. “I meant no harm.”

He stared at her for a long moment, the silence between them stretching until it was nearly unbearable. Then, with a sharp flick of his clawed hand, he pointed toward the path leading out of the garden. “Leave. If I ever see you here again, I will not spare you.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. Grabbing her empty basket, she bowed her head quickly and fled down the path, her footsteps fading into the distance.

But she returned the very next day.

Sukuna had been expecting her. He had felt her presence as soon as she stepped into the garden, the faint hum of her aura a disruption he could no longer ignore. When he found her, she was kneeling in the same spot, carefully replanting a flower she had accidentally uprooted the day before.

His anger flared as he approached her, his footsteps heavy against the soft earth. “Are you trying to die, woman?”

She startled, looking up at him with wide eyes. For a moment, she hesitated, as though debating whether to flee. But then she squared her shoulders and met his gaze. “I… I thought it was the least I could do to make up for yesterday. I’m sorry if I caused any damage.”

Her quiet apology gave him pause. Most would have run at the mere sound of his voice, yet she faced him with trembling hands and a determined expression. “You’re an idiot,” Sukuna muttered, his crimson eyes narrowing.

“Maybe,” she admitted with a faint, nervous smile. “But I couldn’t leave it like this.”

Against his better judgment, Sukuna allowed her to stay.

Day after day, she returned. Each time, she brought a sense of life to the garden that had been missing for centuries. Her hands worked tirelessly to prune, weed, and water the plants, her soft humming filling the once-silent air. Sukuna found himself watching her from the shadows, his sharp eyes tracking her every movement. He told himself it was to ensure she wasn’t causing any damage, but deep down, he knew that wasn’t the truth.

She intrigued him.

Weeks turned into months, and her presence became a constant in Sukuna’s life. She spoke to him occasionally, her voice light and unassuming, as though she were unaware of the weight of his gaze. At first, he ignored her, offering only curt replies or silence in return. But slowly, without realizing it, he began to respond.

One evening, as the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the garden in hues of gold and pink, she sat beneath a cherry blossom tree, her back resting against the trunk. Petals rained down around her, catching in her hair. Sukuna approached her, his footsteps soft against the grass.

“Why do you keep coming back?” he asked, his voice breaking the quiet.

She looked up at him, her eyes thoughtful. “Because the garden needs care,” she said simply. “And… I think you do too.”

Her words struck a chord deep within him, one he had long thought dead. Sukuna stared at her, his crimson eyes searching hers for any hint of mockery, but all he found was sincerity.

“You’re a strange woman,” he muttered, sitting down beside her.

Her smile was soft and genuine. “And you’re not as scary as everyone says you are.”

For the first time in centuries, Sukuna felt something stir in his chest—a warmth he had almost forgotten.

The days stretched into weeks, and their strange companionship deepened. Sukuna found himself lingering in the garden more often, his usual patrols of the mountain becoming an afterthought. She was there, her presence as natural as the flowers she tended, her hands bringing life to every corner of his once-forgotten sanctuary.

He had never been one for small talk, yet he found himself listening when she spoke. She talked about simple things—how the cherry blossoms were blooming earlier this year, how a rare species of orchid needed extra care. Sometimes she would ramble about her village, her family, or her childhood, her words painting a life so ordinary it was almost foreign to Sukuna. He listened, silently absorbing the details, though he rarely offered much in return.

But even he couldn’t ignore the way her laughter softened the edges of his harsh world, or how her smile seemed to brighten the very air around them. She was a disruption, a flicker of light in the darkness he had wrapped himself in for centuries.

One day, as the afternoon sun bathed the garden in golden light, she looked up from her work and asked, “Why did you make this garden?”

Sukuna was leaning against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with his usual intensity. Her question caught him off guard. He had never told anyone the reason, never felt the need to explain himself. But something about the way she looked at him—curious, but never prying—made him pause.

“It reminded me that even in chaos, there’s order,” he said finally, his voice low. “That even in destruction, something can still grow.”

She tilted her head, her hands stilling as she considered his words. “That’s beautiful,” she said softly.

Sukuna scoffed, though there was no malice in it. “It’s practical. Nothing more.”

But her gentle smile told him she didn’t believe him.

The change in their dynamic was gradual. At first, Sukuna told himself it was her usefulness that kept her around. The garden had never looked more vibrant, and her care was unparalleled. But as time went on, he found himself seeking her out not for the garden, but for her presence.

She began to ask him questions—questions about his life, his powers, his reign. At first, he dismissed her curiosity with sharp remarks, but her persistence wore him down. He told her stories of the battles he had fought, the kingdoms he had razed, and the sorcerers who had dared challenge him. She listened intently, her eyes wide with a mix of awe and sadness.

“You’ve been alone for a long time,” she said one evening, her voice barely above a whisper.

Sukuna didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked out at the horizon, where the sun was setting behind the mountains. “Alone is safer,” he said finally.

“Safer doesn’t mean better,” she replied, her words hanging in the air between them.

He didn’t have an answer for that.

The turning point came one quiet night under the stars. The garden was bathed in silver moonlight, the soft chirping of crickets filling the silence. She sat beside him near the koi pond, her knees tucked to her chest as she stared at the water.

“I think I’ve fallen in love with this place,” she said softly, breaking the quiet.

Sukuna’s gaze flicked to her, his expression unreadable. “It’s just a garden.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s more than that. It’s… peaceful. It feels alive, even though everything else feels so uncertain.”

There was a pause, and then she turned to him, her eyes meeting his. “I think I’ve fallen in love with you, too.”

Her words stunned him. For a moment, he couldn’t speak, his crimson eyes locked on hers. No one had ever said such a thing to him—not with sincerity, not without fear. His first instinct was to dismiss it, to tell her she was foolish. But the look in her eyes silenced him.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” he said finally, his voice rough.

“I do,” she insisted. “I know exactly what I’m saying. I see you, Sukuna. I see the man behind the power, behind the fear. And I don’t care about what others say. I care about you.”

Her words cut through the walls he had built around himself, leaving him exposed in a way he hadn’t been in centuries. Slowly, he reached out, his clawed hand brushing against her cheek. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into his touch, her eyes never leaving his.

“You’re a strange woman,” he murmured, his voice softer than it had ever been.

“And you’re a complicated man,” she replied with a small smile.

For the first time in centuries, Sukuna allowed himself to feel something other than anger and emptiness. He allowed himself to care.

Their love grew like the garden—slowly, patiently, but undeniably. Sukuna found himself smiling more, his sharp edges softened by her presence. She brought warmth to his cold world, filling the empty halls of his estate with laughter and life. They married in a quiet ceremony under the cherry blossoms, with no witnesses but the flowers and the wind.

For a time, they were happy. Sukuna began to believe that perhaps he could have something good, something pure, in a world that had always been cruel.

But fate was not so kind.

The sorcerers came without warning, their spells shattering the peace of the mountain. They sought to destroy Sukuna, to end the reign of the King of Curses once and for all. In the chaos, they captured her, dragging her from the garden as she screamed his name.

Sukuna fought with a rage unlike anything the world had ever seen. His power tore through the sorcerers like a storm, their bodies falling like leaves in the wind. But when he reached her, it was too late.

She lay on the ground, her body broken, blood pooling beneath her.

“No,” Sukuna whispered, dropping to his knees beside her. His hands trembled as he cradled her face, his crimson eyes wide with disbelief. “No, this isn’t happening.”

Her eyes fluttered open, her gaze weak but full of love. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

“Don’t you dare,” Sukuna growled, his voice breaking. “Don’t you dare leave me.”

“I love you,” she murmured, her hand reaching for his cheek.

Before he could respond, her hand fell limp, and her eyes closed.

Sukuna’s roar of grief echoed through the mountains, his tears falling freely as he held her lifeless body in his arms.

Centuries passed, and the once-grand estate crumbled into ruins. The garden withered without her care, its beauty lost to time. Sukuna withdrew from the world, his heart hardened into stone. He stayed atop the mountain, a shadow of the king he once was, his mind haunted by memories of her.

The modern world grew around him, but he paid it no mind. Centuries passed, and the world moved on without him. The mighty King of Curses, once feared and revered, became little more than a myth whispered in forgotten tales. Sukuna no longer cared about power or dominance; even hatred had turned to numbness. His estate, once a palace fit for a god, had withered into nothing but a broken skeleton of its former grandeur. Stone walls crumbled, roofs caved in, and the lush, vibrant garden that once symbolized life had long since withered into decay.

Sukuna sat atop the hill in solitude, a silent monument to what he had lost. The days blurred into each other, the passing of time irrelevant to an immortal being. The world at his feet changed, skyscrapers rising like great mountains of steel and glass, cars roaring like beasts on paved roads. Yet his world remained frozen, locked in the moment her life had slipped from his hands.

He no longer wandered through the ruins of his garden; the sight of the overgrown weeds and the broken koi pond was unbearable. Instead, he sat in the shadow of the mountain, a lone figure in a shack that had become more of a cage than a home. The nights stretched endlessly, his mind looping through memories that refused to fade.

Then she came.

It was early spring, and the air was cool and crisp as Sukuna rested against the doorframe of his shack, his gaze distant as he stared at the valley below. The first thing he felt was a faint ripple in the air, an energy so familiar that it stopped him in his tracks. He thought he was imagining it, that his mind was playing cruel tricks on him again. But then he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path.

She appeared suddenly, rounding the bend where the old garden gate used to stand. She didn’t look out of place—dressed casually in a light jacket, jeans, and hiking boots, her hands tucked into her pockets. She wasn’t supposed to be there; people rarely ventured this far up the mountain anymore.

Sukuna’s breath hitched in his chest. It wasn’t just that she looked like her; it was that she felt like her. The aura she carried, that undeniable warmth, was the same. His sharp crimson eyes drank in every detail—the curve of her face, the soft glint of curiosity in her eyes as she glanced around the ruins. It was her. Reincarnated, but undeniably her.

She hadn’t seen him yet, too focused on taking in her surroundings. She knelt to touch the weathered stones of what had once been a garden wall, brushing away moss with her fingers. “It’s beautiful, even like this,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her voice struck Sukuna like a thunderclap. It was different, yet the cadence was the same, the softness that had once soothed him now filling him with a tempest of emotions. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep himself from rushing to her. How could this be possible? How could she stand here, centuries later, as if fate had finally returned her to him?

Finally, she noticed him. Her head turned, her eyes widening slightly as they locked onto his figure. He stood still, his towering frame half-hidden in the shadow of the doorway. For a moment, neither of them spoke.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “I didn’t realize anyone lived up here.”

Sukuna’s voice, rough from centuries of disuse, came out like a low growl. “Who are you?”

Her surprise turned to slight embarrassment. “I’m… just exploring. I’ve heard about this place before, but I didn’t think I’d actually find it.” She gave a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry if I’m intruding. I can leave if you want.”

He stepped forward, his crimson eyes narrowing as he took in every nuance of her expression. Her mannerisms were different, more modern, but there was no mistaking her. It was her soul standing before him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said gruffly.

Her brows furrowed slightly, her gaze flicking between him and the ruins around them. “I didn’t mean any harm. I just thought… this place feels special. Like it has a story to tell.”

His jaw tightened. A story. If she only knew.

She hesitated, her hand brushing over the vines that had overtaken the garden walls. “I know it’s run down now, but… it’s still beautiful in its own way. I can’t explain it, but it feels like this place is waiting for something. Or someone.”

Sukuna felt the weight of her words like a blade to his chest. He wanted to tell her everything—that this place was waiting for her, that he had been waiting for her. But instead, he swallowed the words, masking his emotions behind a cold exterior.

“The garden is dead,” he said flatly.

Her lips pressed together thoughtfully as she looked around. “It doesn’t have to be. Gardens can come back to life if someone takes care of them.” She smiled softly. “I’m good with gardens.”

Sukuna’s chest tightened. It was almost too much—the way she stood there, so full of life, speaking as though she were meant to be here. He clenched his fists, his sharp nails biting into his palms. “You think you can fix this place?” he asked, his tone colder than he intended.

She tilted her head, unbothered by his harshness. “Maybe. It would take some work, but I’d love to try.”

He stared at her, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Was this fate’s cruel joke, dangling her before him only to take her away again? Or was this his second chance?

Finally, he said, “The garden is beyond saving. But if you’re foolish enough to try, I won’t stop you.”

Her smile brightened, and for a moment, the world seemed a little less gray. “I’ll do my best,” she said, her voice full of determination.

As she turned to examine the overgrown garden, Sukuna watched her silently, his heart aching with a mixture of hope and fear. He had spent centuries in darkness, his grief carving him into something colder, harsher than even he had been before. But now, standing before him was a piece of the light he thought he had lost forever.

He would find reasons to keep her here, excuses to bring her back. He couldn’t lose her again. Not this time.

[thinkinonsense]

Francesca

old!logan howlett x fem!reader

cw: angst, mentions of death, sad logan, a bit of fluff

wc: 800+

a/n: not sure if this will be the last part of the mini-series or not. i think i'll only add more if im inspired. i have a new mini-series idea for old man!logan so be on the lookout for that in a week or so.

hozier mini-series masterlist

-ˋˏ ༻❁✿❀༺ ˎˊ-

Logan had lost a lot in his life. He watched people he cared about die right before his eyes; the ultimate curse of living such a long life. Everyone he loved had to go at some point, and for the most part, he accepted that until you entered his life.

He did everything he could to ensure your safety, and for the most part, it worked. The only place where you weren't protected was in his nightmares.

Ever since you two met, the nightmares appear less and less but they also never fully disappear either. Logan still wakes up in cold sweats and haunting images of your bloody body dead in his arms.

"Hey! Hey! I'm alright, honey." You whispered in an attempt to bring him back to reality. "I'm here. I'm right here."

The only thing that helps him calm down is when you place one of his hands over your heart; skin to skin, feeling your heartbeat pulse and knowing that you are indeed alive and lying next to him.

Logan's heavy breathing eases after a few moments. He carefully wraps you into his arms, placing you on his chest. You knew in times like these that Logan needed to feel you.

"No one's going to hurt me." You assure him.

"We don't know for sure..." He sighs. "and I can't risk that."

"I know for sure. You know how I am so certain that no one will hurt me?" You don't allow time for Logan to answer. Your fingers lace themselves with his, bringing this hand up to his and softly placing kisses over the slits in between his knuckles. "Because I feel safest with you and these claws are part of the reason why."

Logan wasn't one to blush or feel all mushy deep inside himself but those little kisses amazed him. He admired your kindness and patience towards him. It took him forever to understand how you did it.

"Sorry for waking you up, princess." He says, trailing his fingertips up and down your back. "Didn't mean to scare ya'."

"Do you honestly think I scare that easily?" Your light giggle almost makes Logan smile.

"Guess not." He shrugs, admiring how a sliver of moonlight catches on your face. "But in any other normal relationship you wouldn't have to deal with this bullshit-"

"Hey!" You whisper, springing up to fully face him now, soft hands holding each side of his face. "This isn't bullshit."

"It is, sweetheart." Logan sighs. "I'm selfish."

"How are you selfish?"

"Because you deserve to live a long life with someone who won't damn you."

"I don't care if you damn me!" Your voice raised, not in anger but in passion. "I love you. I love all of you. When they cut me open someday that's all they will find; my love for you pouring from inside of me."

Logan pulls you impossibly closer, afraid of you slipping away. His heart pounded with love; beating solely for your existence.

"Heaven couldn't house a love like ours."

There's a heaviness in your heart as you look into Logan's hazel eyes. even after all these years, it broke your heart that Logan always felt like you were made of sand. sure, you weren't a mutant like him but you wouldn't go down without a fight. he's always afraid that someone from his past will come for revenge and you'll be the one to pay for it.

"I don't want you to be so worried, lo.." you whisper, thumb soothing the salt and pepper beard that's bloomed over the last few days. "when my time comes, I don't want you to feel responsible for it."

Death was always a sensitive topic for both of you. your death, more specifically because someday it will come no matter if either of you is ready or not. Logan doesn't think he can live without you; you tell him that he's survived before you and will survive after you. he doesn't believe you.

"I've waited all my life for you. every agonizing, torturous moment brought me to you." his voice starts to strain. "now, you are all I have left to live for... so, when you're gone, babydoll, I won't be far behind you."

Tears roll down your cheek. overwhelmed with love and fear because you can't stop Logan from taking his own life if you die. he lays you back down on his chest carefully.

Logan had seen everything the world had to offer him; most of it was utter shit until he was graced with your presence. all he wanted to do with the rest of his life was shield you from all of the horrid darkness he had seen. you were too pure and he intended to keep you far away from it all, for as long as the two of you walked this earth.

[ohimsummer]

BEG FOR IT ft. BULLY! SATOSUGU

— minors dni, bully! satosugu x female! reader, feisty idk, dubcon, groping, nipple play, nipple stimulation, biting/marking, a hint of choking, teasing

wc 1.9k

You’ve heard the name Satoru Gojo whispered among males and females alike on campus. How he’s good looking and charming and oh-so skilled at everything. You think his greatest skill might be getting on the nerves of people who want nothing to do with him.

This isn’t the first time you’ve gotten into an altercation with Gojo. It seems he seeks you out for the sole purpose of one; to pin your wrists above your head and lean in close to tease, and suffocate you with his loud cologne that you’ll never admit smells delectable on him. The way this song and dance usually goes is he spots you, taunts you, wrestles you against a wall until he deems your squirming and whining “too annoying”, and then he leaves you with a “See ya later, princess!”. You don’t know why today suddenly warrants different results.

“Let go of me, Gojo.”, you deadpan at him, icy stare meeting his own. You don’t find this manhandling of you funny, you never do, and you hate the way Gojo laughs about it like your dismay is just hilarious to him.

“Make me.”, he chuckles in your face.

Fuck him. You twist against his hold again, and Gojo has to give you credit for actually managing to free a hand. Though it’s about all you’ll manage. He’s too big and too heavy for you to force proximity — it’s like throwing yourself at a brick wall. Doesn’t mean you can’t try.

“Aw, how cute.,” Gojo snickers at your attempt to push him away by the throat, grabbing your wrist and holding it away from him. “Try a little harder for me, yeah?” And he bats those stupid, long eyelashes at you.

You sigh in exasperation and squirm some more. You stamp at his foot, and he moves them at the last minute every time. You push against him to at least get away from the wall, but it’s all to no avail. He’s got you trapped here and there seems to be nothing you can do about it.

“Give up?,” he asks at your deflation.

His taunt springs you back to life, and your cheeks puff out in an angry pout. “Let go of me, I said!”

“Make me, I said.”

And if it wasn’t for your hands being restrained, you’d claw him right in his annoyingly pretty face.

You wriggle again. “You’re such an asshole. Don’t you have anything better to do with your spare time besides harass innocent girls?”

Gojo maneuvers your wrists into one hand just so he can tap at his chin. “Better than this? Don’t think so, gorgeous.” He leans forward to whisper into your ear. “And I’m not harassing innocent girls, I’m harassing you-“

“Get off me!” Your writhing and thrashing cuts off the end of his sentence, and Gojo bursts with laughter at your futile struggles.

“Oh? Who’s that?”

Both of you turn to the sound of the familiar voice. You sigh an obvious, angry breath at the arrival of another annoying man, Suguru Geto. Of all the people who could have come across you two, it had to be someone else to get on your nerves.

“My little plaything.,” Gojo answers. “Cute, isn’t she?“

Geto comes to stand next to his best friend, and something twitches in the pit of your stomach. Aggravation, yes, but something else telling you to hurry and get out of there.

You glare at the two men who steadily eye your constrained form. The look in their eyes harbors anything but good intentions.

Geto starts. “She-“

“Are you two gonna hold me here all day or….?” You have a feeling their spiteful answer is closer to yes, so since you figure they’ll keep you here, might as well be as annoying to them as they are to you.

“Such a pretty face.” You turn away as Geto thumbs at your glossy lips. “Shame you’re so rude.”

“Oh, excuse me for not being so polite to my captors.” They laugh at the scowl on your face, and you find yourself shrinking away from their salacious leering.

Geto tilts his head, and you notice his lingering gaze on your chest. “I just got here, I’m not the one keeping you in these halls.”

“Well, you’re surely not helping.”

Gojo chimes in. “You don’t wanna spend time with us, Y/-“

His grip loosened for just a second, guard let down because Geto’s around, and you take full advantage of it. You yank your wrists away from his grasp, bolting between them and heading for the nearest door to the outside. You can see it clearly, your escape: white double doors with warm sunlight flooding in through the window, a lit up path to your savior, the outside. Your fingers are grazing that first streak of sunshine, the heat of it kisses your fingertips-

There’s a jerk of your wrist, and your salvation is stripped away as fast as it came. You feel a firm heat against your back, and the view of the doors is blocked by Geto’s tall frame. Bright beams of sunlight flow around his body, giving him such a dramatic lighting. Like he’s a god or something. You have to laugh, if not for the irony then for your own sanity because your escape attempt has been so quickly thwarted.

Gojo’s hefty, patronizing laugh sounds out in your eardrum. “And where did you think you were going, hm?”

You’re so pissed off you can’t even hear their cruel mockery. Hands now pinned behind your back, all you can do is hang your head in frustration and curse them in your mind, and God knows you’re cursing the absolute hell out of them. Gojo and Geto and their stupid laugh, their stupid faces, their stupid, stupid need to always be bothering you.

Caught up in your own scornful thoughts, you don’t hear when they address you.

“Think we broke her?,” Gojo asks.

Geto hums, chuckles. “Maybe.” He steps a little closer to you and Gojo. “Let’s see.”

His larger hands hover over your sides, rising until they near your chest. Gojo eagerly studies his movements over your shoulder, watches in anticipation as his friend’s hands come to rest on your breasts.

The groping of your boobs brings you back to reality, and you snap your gaze to the dark haired man in front of you. “H-hey, wait a second-!”

Geto doesn’t stop, only begins slowly massaging your tits as Gojo speaks. “Oh? Back with us, princess?”

You’re incredulous at the absolute gall they have to treat you this way. “Stop that!”

Narrow, dark eyes meet your own, wide and brimming with newfound anxiety. Geto ignores your demands, and his thumbs move to press over your nipples through the two layers of your shirt and bra. It feels so teasing, and the ministrations are causing a wetness between your legs, but you’d never let these two see this is turning you on.

You wiggle and pull away from Geto, but that only presses you further into Gojo’s body. It’s a lose-lose situation. Geto sees the realization in your eyes.

“Gonna behave for me?,” he murmurs as his fingers dip beneath your shirt.

“St-stop—!”, you try and command him with even an ounce of authority, but it comes out as a feeble whimper.

Gojo uses one hand to keep your wrists bound, and the other latches onto your throat. He directs your wavering glare towards him, presses his lips to your cheek as he continues to taunt you.

“We’ll let you go if you beg…”, he offers.

And your immediate answer is of course no, you’d rather eat shit and die. “I most certainly will not! Let go of me!”

Geto pulls your shirt above the swell of your breasts, exposing a lacey, pink bra. He comments ‘cute’, and you barely register it since you’re too busy struggling to turn your head against Gojo’s tight grip. He presses a kiss to the corner of your lips, and while you’re reeling with what you hope is disgust, you feel the tightness of your bra loosen and the undergarment falls to the floor.

“Look at that.”, Gojo halts his teasing assault on you for a second to take a good look at your exposed tits. “So selfish hiding all this from us.”

“I’m not-!,” A squeak interrupts your statement as Geto runs a tongue over one nipple. Your thighs clench on instinct, and the look they share tells you they both noticed.

“I’m not!”, you finish your sentence. You don’t even know what else to say after that.

“Y’know…”, Geto mutters in between harsh suckles of your hardening nipples. “Perhaps if you weren’t so weak, you could’ve been out of this by now...”

The sheer audacity for him to even utter such a phrase has you struggling once again. “Weak? It’s taking two of you just to keep me here!”

Gojo promptly quips, “Only one of us is holding you, sweetheart.”

You aim to crush his toes beneath your shoes, only to be met with the floor when Gojo once again dodges your attack. Your lack of a proper comeback might as well be the funniest joke on earth the way he laughs in your ear about it. Not like it’s your fault, how are you supposed to focus with Geto swirling your nipples on his tongue and pinching them between thick fingers, and Gojo biting and sucking rough marks along your neck? You’re fighting back moans and trying to find the strength just to stay upright. If that wasn’t enough, you’re also juggling the fact that your panties are soaked straight through and, if you don’t leave soon, they’ll notice the discoloration dripping down your stockings.

Gojo gives your throat a squeeze, and smirks as you rasp in a breath.

“All you gotta do is beg for it.”, he quietly sings against your earlobe.

Pride be damned, you needed to get away before they used your arousal as another excuse to keep you around any longer. And to escape straight to your dorm for a little private time because just the way Geto was playing with you was gonna have your pussy leaking everywhere. You would not, could not afford to let them see you like that. You’d never hear the end of it.

Gojo’s hand leaves your throat and you let out a sigh. But your relief is short-lived as you feel his touch edge closer to your backside.

You’ve never made a decision faster. “Please let go of me.”

For a split second, it’s like time has stopped. Geto pulls away from your hardened nipples with a loud ‘pop’, Gojo’s hand stills on the curve of your ass. Both men look at you with matching grins, like they just won a Nobel prize.

Geto speaks first. “What was that?”

And Gojo right after. “Yeah, repeat it again?”

Your brows furrow and your gaze falls directly to the floor. “Pl…please let go of me.”

The grip on your wrists loosens instantly, and you snatch away from them both. You tug your shirt down to cover your breasts, and wrap both arms around yourself.

“See, now was that so hard?”, Gojo laughs after you who’s already heading out the door, yelling a shaky ‘fuck you guys!’ as it drifts shut behind you.

You walk back to your dorm on wobbly legs, erect buds poking through your wrinkled top. Finally able to flop down in the comfort of your bed, you realize you never picked your bra up off the floor.

No worries. It’s perfectly safe in their hands.

(aftermath)

[hoo-n-i-ki]

Cold One. (Fin)

A vampire’s love is eternal—it transcends lifetimes that others can’t live.

PAIRING - Volturi!Riki x Cullen!fem!reader

GENRE - Twilight AU

CHAPTER WC - 5886

WARNINGS - Vampires, shapeshifters, graphic violence, death, suggestive/fade to black. (This is a complete work of fiction and is in no way a representation of Riki/Enha).

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

Aro lifts you with ease, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. Cruel, cruel amusement.

Riki jumps, escaping the two tigers he’s facing.

It’s pure instinct, pure desperation, but Caius intercepts him, blocking his path. Riki snarls, his muscles coiled like a spring ready to snap, but Aro only chuckles.

“How tragic, my dear Riki,” Aro muses, his voice velvety smooth despite the carnage surrounding him. “Look how far you’ve fallen. A heart where there should be none. You would betray your own for this girl and her accomplice? Pray tell, is she your mate?”

Riki struggles against Caius’s grip, his ruby eyes burning with an emotion you’ve never seen before.

Fear. For you.

“She’s not the one who needs to die.” His voice is low, trembling with rage. “You’re here to kill me.”

Through his distraction, he lets the tigers’ minds go.

No.

But the tigers stay where they are.

“Caius, Master Caius, kill me. Let her and the Cullens go.”

“Oh, we will in due time,” Caius growls.

“But it is only fair you witness me take someone from you, dear Riki, is it not?” Aro’s smile widens, his fingers twitching around your throat. “After all, when you left, you took my prized Jane and Alec with you, and she was meant to die long ago, regardless,” he tsks.

Jasper moves, a blur of motion as he crashes into Caius, tearing him away from Riki. A split second is all Riki needs to break free, rushing for you—

But Aro tightens his grip.

“I wouldn’t,” Aro hums, lifting you even higher, causing the stony skin of your throat to start cracking.

Crack. By crack. By crack.

Alice screams your name.

Carlisle and Esme move in tandem, flanking Aro from either side, but Marcus intercepts them, knocking them back with a thunderous blow.

Riki closes his eyes.

Aro stiffens. His grip on you falters—just barely.

“Get out,” he hisses at Riki.

But Riki doesn’t reply. He’s trying his hardest to focus.

You can see it in the tension of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch. He’s reaching, pulling, fighting to invade Aro’s mind.

But it won’t work. You know it won’t, because this past week, you were told all there is to know about the Volturi.

Aro is over 3000 years old. If Riki had centuries to hone his skills, Aro had several millennia.

The moment Riki is lost in his concentration, Caius moves faster than a blur. His hand snaps around Riki’s throat, yanking him back with an unforgivable force.

Riki chokes. His eyes fly open—but it’s too late.

Caius snarls, his face twisted in pure fury. “Pathetic boy,” he seethes, tightening his grip. Riki claws at his wrist, struggling, but Caius is older. Stronger.

Riki is losing.

And you’re helpless.

Your knees buckle, and the world around you slows to a dull hum, the chaos fading as a sense of peace washes over you.

This is it—the end.

Goodbye to Misora, who stood by you and made your last couple of months enjoyable.

Goodbye to the Cullens, who saved you the first time, gave you shelter, and let you feel like you belonged even when you didn’t deserve it.

Goodbye to Riki.

Riki.

You wish you had more time.

A wish. A regret. A gradual fall never spoken aloud.

And finally, a hello.

Hello to the parents you haven’t seen in twenty years.

Hello to the light you pray will still be willing to take you in despite the darkness that temporarily washed over your soul.

“This is not what we agreed on!”

A blur of fur. Glowing streaks of amber eyes. The crackling of bones as four legs move upright, shifting to two legs and two arms, covered by light honey skin.

Where the tiger who goes by the name Jay once prowled at the edge of the battlefield, a black-haired human boy you’ve never seen before now stands, eyes burning with fury.

“But our agreement was to remove the threat from your little town, was it not?” Caius speaks. “The newborn might be in the Cullens’ coven, but she is just as dangerous as Riki and his sister. Look at her red eyes.”

Jay’s eyes flick from you, to your captor, to Riki and his, and to your family being held back behind you.

Please.

“You’re right. We see the red eyes.”

Jay shifts back. Heeseung growls—a deep, guttural sound that rumbles through the clearing. Behind them, the rest of the tigers step forward slowly. Deliberately.

Sunghoon’s lip curls over his teeth. Jungwon’s claws extend. Jake’s shoulders tense, fingers flexing.

“Finish the job,” Aro growls, his minor disorientation making him lose his decorum.

The tigers don’t need to be told twice—they’re already moving.

Jay lunges.

Straight for Caius.

Caius is fast, but Jay is unexpected. He slams into him, tearing Riki from his grasp, sending them both crashing into the dirt.

The Volturi are no longer the predators. And you are no longer the prey.

“Traitors!” Caius spits, dodging Jay’s next attack, but he’s outnumbered.

The six tigers are everywhere. And even better?

The Cullens who were out hunting return with an unmatched vigor.

A roar splits through the night as Emmett crashes through the trees, his massive frame barreling straight into Marcus, sending them both tumbling. Rosalie follows, her hands catching his throat before twisting—

A sickening crack.

Riki twists to face Caius, finishing the job on behalf of the Baekho clan. He paralyzes him, while Heeseung tears his throat out.

Edward and Bella collide with Aro. His grip on you weakens, so you move while you still can.

You run straight toward Riki.

He reaches for you, arms about to pull you close, but—

“You think I’d let you have all the fun?”

A blur of motion. A flash of familiar long black hair.

Misora.

She bursts into the clearing, her crimson eyes burning, her fangs bared.

Edward is fast. Bella is strong. And Misora is Aro’s downfall.

She strides forward, her eyes locked onto Aro as he fends off Edward’s blows.

“You know, Aro,” she purrs, “you’ve had a long reign. But even the greatest kings fall eventually.”

Aro snarls, dodging Edward’s next strike, but he hesitates. Just for a second.

And Misora smiles.

“Did you by any chance think I was powerless?” she taunts.

Aro’s body stiffens. His expression contorts.

Then—he staggers.

His red eyes dart around wildly, as if trying to see something that isn’t there.

“What are you doing, lowly nomad?” he hisses.

Misora tilts her head. “Shutting you up.”

Riki watches, frozen, as his former master stumbles.

His movements become sluggish, his expression turning from rage—to confusion.

Aro reaches for his head as if trying to grasp at something that isn’t there.

And Riki, beside you, is just as confused.

“What—” His voice is hoarse as he steps closer, gaze snapping between Misora and Aro. “What are you doing to him?”

Misora smiles. A slow, dangerous smile. “I’m stealing away every last bit of his mental fortitude.” She turns to her brother with a raised eyebrow. “You’re welcome.”

So Misora’s power… compliments her brother’s.

You see the moment the realization clicks into Riki’s head, in the way his eyes regain their fire, in the way he takes a deliberate step forward.

He takes his sister’s invitation.

Aro gasps.

His fingers twitch at his sides, his head jerking slightly—like his own body is no longer listening to him.

“You—” Aro chokes, but the rest of his words die in his throat.

Because without his centuries of control, Riki is inside his mind. It’s like he’s finally able to invade a kingdom without a king.

Aro’s body stiffens completely.

His own hands twitch at his sides.

Then—they rise.

His lips part in a silent scream as his fingers curl around his own throat, his grip tightening—

Harder.

Harder.

Crack.

His head yanks violently to the side.

Crack.

His arms twist.

Crack.

With a sickening, final wrench, Aro’s own hands rip his head clean from his shoulders.

His red eyes—filled with terror—stare at Riki.

Finally, Aro falls.

Carlisle steps forward, his usually gentle face is hardened with resolve as he carries a torch in one hand. The flames flicker, casting an eerie light across the battlefield.

The Volturi’s bodies lay sprawled in unnatural angles, a testament to the brutality that just unfolded. Aro’s lifeless head is still locked in the wide-eyed expression of terror, his crimson eyes frozen in the moment of his demise. The others are equally still, their once-immense power now nothing more than lifeless husks.

Without hesitation, he lowers the torch to the first Volturi corpse—Caius’s body. The flame flickers and dances, igniting the exposed flesh, the smell of burning vampire flesh acrid in the air.

Riki watches, his eyes never leaving Aro’s head, his face a mask of quiet satisfaction, though his fists are still clenched. Misora stands nearby, her expression hardened, but there’s a flicker of something softer behind her gaze.

Carlisle moves methodically, his eyes sharp as he turns to Marcus’s body. Finally, Aro. As the final body catches fire and the flames roar louder, you stand there, surrounded by those who fought for you—those you care about most.

Riki turns to you, his gaze softer now, though his expression still carries the strain of everything that just happened. “We won,” he whispers, voice still hoarse from the struggle. “It’s over.”

Is this it? Is this the flicker of hope you’ve been longing for all these years? Beckoned by this beautiful’s man deep voice and carried by the scent of smoke engulfing the clearing?

You don’t need to inhale, none of you do, but it’s a smell that ensures that they’ll never rise again, so you savor it.

But then, breaking through the heavy stillness, comes a low, rumbling growl. It starts as a faint vibration in the ground, a guttural sound that seems to come from the depths of the forest. The tigers. Even they are inhaling the thick smoke, their animal instincts drawn to the scent of burning flesh.

For a brief moment, the tension is suffocating. Riki’s muscles stiffen, and his eyes dart toward the source of the rumbling. Misora’s posture shifts, a subtle but noticeable shift as she prepares herself for anything. A flicker of fear in her eyes betrays her calm exterior, but there’s also determination there. Your family have come so far, fought so hard, but it isn’t over yet, is it?

The growls grow louder, and you feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up as the tension in the air becomes palpable. You can sense the change in the atmosphere—another threat, still present, lurking. The tigers, the ones who’ve been an uneasy ally throughout this, are not actually on your side. They’ve been here with a mission of their own. They believe the treaty is forfeit by having Riki and Misora around…

But before any movement can be made, the heavily striped tiger—Jungwon—slowly steps forward. His powerful form shifts and cracks, bones realigning with a sickening sound. In an instant, he stands before you, human once again, dressed only in the shadows cast by the surrounding trees, and already perfectly healthy, perfectly healed like you didn’t manage to injure him to begin with. His sharp eyes scan the clearing, assessing the situation, his body still radiating a tense energy.

The other tigers, their eyes wary and calculating, tense up. Their movements are slow, deliberate, as if testing whether the situation will turn hostile once more. The clearing is once again on edge, the air crackling with the energy of lingering uncertainty.

Jungwon doesn’t speak at first, but his gaze flickers to the burning bodies of the Volturi, to the smoldering remains that still hiss and crackle in the fire. He looks from Riki to Misora, his expression dark.

“We came here for one reason.” His words are clipped, sharp. “To kill you.”

A quiet tension fills the air as his words land, but then, as if to dispel the weight of them, he adds, “But it seems… at our core, we’re more alike than we thought.”

With that, he steps back, signaling to the others. They turn, almost in unison, retreating into the shadows of the trees, their movements swift and fluid. For a moment, it feels as if nothing has changed, as if the battle is far from over.

But the retreat is final. The tigers vanish back into the forest, leaving behind only the fading rumble of their presence and the promise that this fight is done. For now.

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

Riki enters one of Cullen house’s various unused bathrooms, more than ready to wash away the last remnants of the battle. The proof that it happened. Proof that they survived.

His body aches, though not from injury—he heals too fast for that. It’s exhaustion, the kind that sinks into his bones, deeper than any wound. His mind replays the fight in sharp flashes: the Volturi’s lifeless bodies, the fire in Carlisle’s hands, the scent of burning vampire flesh. And then the tigers—the way their growls had rumbled through the clearing, how, for a second, it had felt like they weren’t done fighting after all.

And then her.

Through it all, she was there. (Y/N).

He turns on the hot water, and watches it cascade in steady streams. He presses his hands against the tile of the walls, head bowed as the steam curls. He tries to distract himself with the motions, but there’s no stopping his thoughts from drifting to her. The way she fought, despite her tangible terror. The way she ran to him. The way she looked at him when the flames consumed Aro’s body—like she wasn’t sure if she could let herself believe that it’s really over.

And maybe he wasn’t sure, either.

A sound. Faint, but distinct. Footsteps just outside the bathroom door.

His head lifts slightly, eyes narrowing. He knows her steps anywhere. They haven’t even known each other for two weeks, but all of his senses are now attuned to her, so even if her footsteps barely make a sound, even if her presence is subtle—he just knows.

And she stops. She just knows that he’s the one in there, too.

For a second, he wonders if she’ll knock. If she’ll say something first.

She doesn’t. But she doesn’t walk away, either.

So he walks up to the door and speaks. “You’re still wandering around.” His voice is rougher than he expected, still worn from the night.

A pause. Then, from the other side of the door, “I’m feeling restless.”

He huffs out something that isn’t quite a laugh. “I get that. I figured a shower might help.”

A beat of silence. He can picture her standing there, arms crossed, maybe leaning against the doorframe. Thinking. He wonders if she’s listening to the water running, if she’s imagining him like this—tired, drained, but somehow still wired.

Then, softly, she asks, “Would it?”

He exhales, watching the steam curl upward. “Not really.”

She doesn’t say anything at first, and for a moment, he wonders if she’ll leave. But then—

“I don’t think it ever will,” she admits. “Not completely.”

His fingers curl slightly against the tile near the door. “Yeah.” He swallows. “I keep thinking about it. How close it was. How easily it could’ve gone wrong.”

“We won,” she reminds him, her voice steady.

He closes his eyes. “I know. But that doesn’t make it stop.”

Another pause. Then, softer this time, “Make what stop?”

His grip tightens against the wall. He doesn’t want to say it. But for her, he’ll spill his truths. It’s some effect nobody but her has had on him.

“The feeling,” he murmurs. “That it’s not really over. That something else is coming.”

She’s quiet for a long time. Long enough that he almost opens the door, almost steps out to face her.

“Maybe it is,” she finally says. “For now, at least.”

For now.

He sighs and turns around to tilt his head back against the wall. He doesn’t know why those words make something settle in him, even just a little.

For now.

It’s not a promise. But maybe it’s enough.

Riki stays quiet for a moment, letting the sound of the still-flowing water fill the space between them. He feels her still standing there, a pure mind he simply brushed his power against.

Just to feel her. He’ll never use it on her, nor on anyone he cares about ever again.

Misora’s face of betrayal is still imprinted into his thoughts.

Then, her voice, quieter now. “Back there… when Aro looked at me. When he asked you if I was your mate.” A pause. “What did he mean?”

His fingers still.

The words didn’t register at the time, but now she reminded him.

Now, and for a solid minute, it’s all he can think about.

His mate… could she really be? Does he deserve to have one?

“You don’t know?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips despite himself. That’s just like her. Finding ways to make him smile. Tearing down his brick wall of stoicism.

He leans forward, crossing his arms. “It’s… complicated.”

“I think I can handle complicated.”

He closes his eyes. “A mate is…” He exhales sharply, trying to find the right words. “You know vampires feel everything more strongly than humans. But vampires are also unchanging. So when we fall for someone? It’s more than love. It’s something deeper, something that gets ingrained into our very being. When we find our mate, that’s it. It’s irreversible. It’s…” He hesitates. “Forever.”

Silence.

Not for the first time around her, Riki wonders if he’s said too much. If he should’ve held back, softened it somehow. But then—

“Forever,” she repeats, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.”

Another pause. Then, hesitantly, “Is that… could I be that to you?”

Riki’s heart—silent, still—somehow feels like it should be racing. He takes a second to look up at the ceiling, feeling something he hasn’t felt in centuries.

The urge to pray to Ebisu, the Shinto deity of fortune.

He doesn’t remember much from his old life, not even the language, but lately he’s been feeling more and more human.

Now, he could make this easier on himself and lie. He could deflect. But she’s standing on the other side of this door, asking him something real. Something she deserves an answer to.

So he gives it to her.

“I think you could be, yes.”

The words lingers in the air between them. Vague, but just as heavy.

He waits. A shift in her stance. And then, softly—

“Oh.”

Just that. Just oh.

Riki huffs out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Not exactly the reaction I was expecting.”

She lets out something that sounds almost like a laugh. “I just… I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.”

She’s quiet again. Then, barely audible, “How would you know?”

He shrugs even though she can’t see it. “It‘s supposed to be something you just feel. I guess I… felt something for you from the first time we spoke, but I never thought I would…. I didn’t put two and two together.”

A shaky inhale from the other side of the door. Then, after a long moment, “Okay.”

It’s not a rejection. It’s not disbelief. It’s just okay.

Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He expected more—questions, hesitation, maybe even denial. But she’s still just standing there on the other side of this thin wall.

A smile tugs at his lips. “Just okay?” he murmurs, the words slipping past his lips like silk. “That’s all you have to say?”

She shifts on the other side, and he can almost picture her expression, the way her brows might furrow, the way she might chew on her bottom lip, thinking.

“Well,” she finally says, her voice quieter now, laced with something softer. “What else am I supposed to say?”

He shouldn’t push. He shouldn’t—

But what if he throws caution to the wind just once? See what happens if he chases happiness rather than duty?

“Come here, then,” he says, a hesitant invitation.

Silence.

“I—”

Riki reaches for the door handle, twisting it just enough to crack it open, enough to see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes—but also something else. Curiosity. Intrigue.

“Scared?” His voice dips lower, something between teasing and reserve so similar to her own it makes her comfortable.

She swallows, and he watches the movement of her throat, watches the way her fingers twitch at her sides.

But she steps forward.

It’s happening.

The second she’s within reach, he tugs her into the steam-filled space, but through their excitement, they tumble back together into the walk-in shower, the warmth of the water swallowing them both. The thin fabric of her shirt clings to her instantly, darkening as it absorbs the water, molding to the curves of her body. His eyes drop, flickering over her, taking in every inch, every tiny shift in her expression.

She shivers—not from cold, but from him.

Riki reaches out, trailing wet fingers over the line of her jaw, tilting her face up so she has no choice but to meet his gaze.

“You sure about this?”

She doesn’t hesitate this time. “Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

This is all he needs. Since the past couple of weeks.

Since the past couple hundred years.

He doesn’t want to waste another second before closing the space between them. But something tugs at him.

200 years of conditioning.

His fingers tense slightly against her skin—not because he doesn’t want to—fuck, he wants this more than anything—but because they’re still standing on the edge of something neither of them fully understand. Because this is new, because he’s spent centuries guarding himself against anything that could make him weak.

And he’s giving someone the power to break him.

His hands still. His jaw clenches, restraint warring with the part of him that just wants to feel.

She notices. Her brows furrow slightly, her fingers ghosting over his forearm. “Riki?”

Her voice is softer now, questioning. Searching.

He closes his eyes briefly, exhaling. If he stops now, she’ll understand. He knows she will.

But then she shifts closer, her body pressing against his, warmth meeting warmth. And it shatters him.

The restraint, the doubts—gone.

He opens his eyes, and before she can say anything, his lips finally find hers, slow at first, deliberate—like he’s giving her time to pull away, to rethink, to stop him. But she doesn’t. Instead, she presses closer, her fingers finding their way to his shoulders, gripping, grounding herself. She glides her lips against his full ones, teasing, tasting.

The water cascades over them, heat seeping into their skin, but it’s nothing compared to the fire burning between them.

Riki’s hands move, slowly sliding down her sides, memorizing. His fingers find the hem of her shirt, his touch featherlight against her skin. He tugs at it, just enough to test her reaction, to see if she’ll stop him.

She doesn’t.

The shirt is gone in a matter of seconds, discarded somewhere behind them, leaving her standing before him, glistening under the soft light filtering through the steam. Riki lets out a quiet curse, his eyes drinking her in, lingering on the way droplets of water trace paths down her skin.

“You’re—” He exhales sharply, like he’s struggling to find words, like for once, he’s at a loss. “So damn beautiful.”

Her blood orange eyes gleam, but she doesn’t shy away. If anything, she tilts her chin up slightly, as if daring him to keep going.

And so he does.

His lips find her neck, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the slope of her shoulder. His hands settle on her waist, strong and firm, holding her in place as he explores, as he takes his time.

She gasps when his teeth graze over a sensitive spot just below her ear, her fingers digging into his skin. He smirks against her neck. “That’s a nice sound,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “I think I wanna hear more of it.”

She barely has time to react before he’s backing her up against the cool tile, his body pressing into hers, leaving no space between them. The contrast of the heat from the water and the chill of the wall sends a shiver down her spine, but Riki is there, anchoring her, warming her, setting every inch of her alight.

And he’s not done yet. He doesn’t think he ever will be.

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

The sunlight barely peaks through the dense forest, the morning mist still lingering, as you hang around the spacious living room of the Cullen house. You stand by the window, watching the shifting shadows of the trees, lost in thought. Your mind is a tangled web of everything that’s happened in the past day. The Volturi. The tigers.

Riki.

Just then, a soft knock at the door makes you stiffen. Carlisle walks up to open it, and there he is—Dr. Park.

His eyes sweep the room, landing first on the Cullens, then on Riki and Misora, before finally resting on you. There’s no surprise in his eyes, just a quiet acknowledgement of the tension that lingers.

“I see the house is still… more crowded than I anticipated,” Dr. Park says awkwardly. His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of something else beneath it—something like resignation.

Edward stands by the fireplace, his hands clasped together, his face unreadable. “You’re not welcome here,” he says firmly, his voice lacking any warmth.

Dr. Park doesn’t seem bothered by the coldness. He just steps further into the room, uninvited but not deterred. His six tiger shifters follow behind him, their human forms nothing short of imposing, both the two you saw last night, and the four others. They stand in a loose formation, eyes narrowed, but they’re not hostile. They’re just… waiting.

Misora, standing by the back wall, crosses her arms. Her eyes stay cold, but there’s no aggression in her posture. She’s here to observe, just as much as the rest of you are. Dr. Park apparently wanted her dead just based on her eye color. But now, it seems, he’s learned how to differentiate between friend and foe.

At least, you hope so.

You can feel the tension in the room tightening, but Dr. Park seems determined to move past it. “I’m not here to make excuses. I did what I thought was necessary. I… miscalculated.”

Carlisle remains composed, but his gaze sharpens. “Miscalculated? You put all of us at risk, Dr. Park. You played your hand too long.”

There’s a long silence as Dr. Park looks at Carlisle, his eyes flicking to the six tigers, then to Riki and Misora. “I know. I can’t change the past. But I can try to make this right.

“We’re not used to letting vampires walk our territory.” A pause. “But I can see now that not all of you are the same.”

“We have no interest in staying where we aren’t welcome. Our family will be leaving soon,” Carlisle responds.

Dr. Park takes a deep breath, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “That will not be necessary.” He sighs. “The treaty Chief Black of the Quileutes forged between us was too limiting. Let us agree to a new treaty. So long as your matters do not concern our settlement, we will not interfere.”

Then, Jungwon steps forward, extending a hand toward Riki. “Apologies to you and your sister, and thank you for helping us kill the blonde one.”

You tense slightly, waiting for Riki’s reaction, but after a moment, he takes it. A handshake. A truce.

It’s not friendship, and it never will be, but it’s enough.

After Dr. Park’s visit, the tension in the Cullen house starts to settle, but an unsettling quiet remains.

Misora doesn’t move much from her spot by the wall, her arms still crossed as she watches the others, her expression unreadable. You know what she’s thinking—she’s never been the type to settle in one place for long. She’s a wanderer, always moving, always seeking the next challenge, the next horizon.

It’s something you both shared, for a while. You hunted together, finding moments of freedom that both of you crave so fiercely. You’ve seen each other at your best and your worst, and there’s a comfort in that unspoken understanding.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” you ask quietly, your voice breaking the silence.

Misora looks over at you, her gaze amused at first, but then softens just slightly. “I always leave,” she replies, a ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “You know me. I can’t stay in one place for too long. Not even for you.”

You let out a small, frustrated sigh. “I know. But it’s different now. You don’t have to run anymore.”

Her eyes flick to the others and then back to you. “I’m not running from anyone.” Her voice is firm, resolute. “I just don’t fit in here. I never have. And you? Are you going to stay with the Cullens?”

You hesitate, your gaze drifting towards them. You’ve felt the pull of belonging, of finding a place to settle, but you’re not sure you can embrace that life yet. “I don’t know yet. I think I’m still figuring that out.”

Misora steps closer to you, her presence grounding. “You don’t have to decide now. You’ve got time. But me? I know my path. I always have.”

You want to say something, to tell her to stay, but you can’t. You know better than anyone that she needs to go. Misora’s freedom is her own, and it’s not something she can easily give up.

She gives you a small nod, like she’s saying goodbye, but it’s not final. “Take care of yourself. Don’t let them tie you down. If you ever want to leave with me… you know where to find me.”

With that, she turns to walk toward the door, her movements smooth and sure. But just as her hand touches the doorknob, there’s a sudden shift in the air—an energy that only comes with Riki’s… your mate’s proximity.

Misora glances at you one last time, her lips twitching slightly in a way that could almost be mistaken for a smile, before she steps toward her brother. Getting through this last piece of unfinished business.

“Goodbye, onii-san.”

Riki pauses, his chin quivering. “Is that it?”

Misora shrugs. “We fought together, and we won together. That’s more than we can say for our previous life. I still don’t forgive you for the past 200 years or for you using your power on me. But… I might be ready to in a later lifetime. But for now? I’m not gonna pretend everything is fine when it’s not.”

Riki doesn’t reply right away. He stands there, his expression unreadable, the air heavy between them. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he exhales sharply and extends his hand.

Misora hesitates for only a beat before accepting the gesture. It’s not a friendly handshake, not a truce—just a silent acknowledgment of the past they share. And, perhaps, a quiet farewell.

“Goodbye, Misora,” he says softly.

With that, she steps past him and out the door, leaving behind a heavy silence in her wake. Riki watches her leave, his gaze lingering on the empty doorway for several beats.

Without thinking, you step closer.

He doesn’t look at you right away, but when he finally does, there’s something raw in his expression—something unguarded, vulnerable. And then, without a word, he leans into you.

Your arms wrap around him instinctively, grounding him. His body is tense at first, but eventually, his muscles relax. It’s quiet, but in that silence, so much is said.

After a while, you murmur, “What now?”

Riki doesn’t answer immediately. He stays where he is, as if he hasn’t quite decided if he’s ready to let go yet. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he says, “I don’t know.”

You pull back just enough to look at him. “Are you staying?”

His brows furrow slightly, and you know why.

He’s never been offered a safe, loving place before.

“If they’re okay with it…” he gestures to the Cullens. “Can I?”

But he isn’t seeing the way they’re already fondly smiling at the two of you.

“Of course,” you murmur.

He laughs awkwardly. “Maybe if I stay for long enough, my eyes will start to turn gold like yours are doing.”

You smile softly at his words, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “You don’t have to rush it,” you murmur. “You’re already starting to fit in.”

Riki exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I feel like I’ve been fighting for so long, I don’t even know how to stop.”

“You don’t have to figure everything out right away.” Your fingers trail down to his wrist, a silent reassurance. “You’re allowed to just… be here.”

He looks at you then—really looks at you—and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the room fades away. The weight of everything he’s carried, everything you’ve both survived, lingers between you, but in this space, in this second, it’s just the two of you. No threats, no expectations. Just quiet understanding.

Riki shifts slightly, his forehead nearly resting against yours. “You make it sound so easy.”

You chuckle. “It’s not. But you don’t have to do it alone.”

A beat passes. Then another. Neither of you move to pull away just yet, as if breaking the moment would make it less real.

His fingers brush lightly against your waist, hesitant, testing, and you can feel the way his breath hitches. Your own hand lingers at his wrist, your thumb tracing soft circles against his skin. There’s something fragile yet certain between you.

Then, slowly, Riki leans in.

The kiss is soft—uncertain at first, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real despite the ones you shared last night. But when you don’t pull away, when your fingers curl gently into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens it just slightly, exhaling against your lips. It’s slow, tender, a quiet promise exchanged between two souls who have spent far too long in limbo.

And it sets the tone for the rest of your day.

For the rest of your week, actually, as the two of your force yourselves to get used to the vegetarian diet under the supervision of the Cullens.

After a day trip with the wildlife, you follow Alice and her dainty, dainty footsteps back to the house.

She turns to you, halfway through your walk, gold eyes shimmering. “I saw you, you know.”

You blink. “What?”

Alice smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “Nineteen years ago. When I first met Riki in Volterra. I had a vision,” she continues. “I saw him standing beside a girl with golden eyes. A girl who was part of our family.”

The words settle over you like a gentle weight. For a long moment, you can’t speak.

Alice’s smile widens, just a little. “I didn’t know who she was back then—but now I do.”

☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾✦✧†✧✦☽✦✧†✧✦☾

HOLY SHIT I JUST FINISHED MY FIRST FANFIC??? MEEE THAT QUITS EVERYTHING!!

Special thank you to everyone who actually liked it and was hyping me up throughout this novella-length journey yall have no idea how happy seeing the notifs made me😭😭

Deadass will miss Riki and (Y/N) sm

Prologue | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Finale

@angelengene3011 @opheliaas-stuff @melzonly @meyinyin @nshmrarki @lizzygrantwrld @skyearby

[amica-aenigmata-naboo]

Pretty Boy

Christian Yu/Mito - drabble - 768 WC NSFW 18+

Masterlist

Warnings: sex, penetration, oral (female receiving), L bombs, consent check in, lust like a mf

------------------------------

“Come here pretty boy…” you said with a voice full of lust.

Christian swore he died and went to heaven. There you were laying in the middle of the bed, propped up on your elbows. Your white panties did little to hide the wet spot covering your core. Your breasts were barely covered by one of his dress shirts. You beckoned him closer with your finger.

“Yes ma’am…” he said immediately, almost fumbling over his own feet as they couldn’t get to you fast enough. He crawled on top of you, kissing up your bare chest. You sighed at the contact, aching for him all day. Christian pulled the shirt open completely, one hand going to your breast to tweak your nipple, his mouth covering the other giving it the same treatment. He alternated, making sure you were taken care of completely. He sucked hickies into your chest and neck, licking over them to soothe the marks. He nipped at you occasionally knowing you liked the little jolts of pain here and there. Your back arched as he slid your panties off with one hand, the other slipping his shirt off your shoulders. You tried to kiss him but he leaned back, smiling slightly at your wanting whine. “Not yet baby…” he said.

“I need you inside…” you whined, not wanting to be teased anymore.

“Already?” he asked with a quirk of his eyebrow.

You nodded quickly, mewling when you felt his fingers part your folds, rubbing feather light circles over your clit which drove you mad. You bucked your hips up trying to get more friction but Christian pulled his hand away. He was always the more teasing one of the three. You watched him undress, feeling over yourself to keep the fire in your veins going. When you saw his hard cock spring out finally you licked your lips.

Christian smirked down at you, “You want something pretty girl?” he asked.

“You Christian… please…” you panted out.

“Anything for you honey.” he smiled, running his cock through your folds before slowly inching his cock inside you.

You both moaned out at the contact. He stilled for a moment once he was fully inside, “You ok?” he asked, checking in with you. 

You managed to open your eyes, holding his face, you finally kissed him, “Never better.” you said rolling your hips up.

Christian moaned, caught off guard. He started fucking you just the way you liked setting the most delicious pace while his one hand rubbed circles onto your clit. Your body shook with pleasure - eyes rolling back, back arching, toes curling.

“God you’re so pretty baby… so good for me.” he said kissing over your chest and neck. 

You felt the electricity in your body start to overflow. You shook a bit harder, Christian kissed you fervently keeping you focused on him and the pleasure he was giving you.

“Fuck Christian!” you moaned as your high crashed over you. He kept pumping into you despite cumming with you, wanting your high to go on as long as possible. When you let out a strangled whimper Christian pulled out and pulled his hand away from your clit, knowing the overstimulation was too much. 

He looked down at you as you tried to regulate your breathing. You were absolutely perfect. Limps plump, cheeks flushed, eyes glossy - totally fucked out. He felt Mito clawing at him from the inside but not in the typical way. Not in the way when he knew a low was coming.

You felt his hands glide over your sides gently, feathery kisses ghosting up your body. Your hand tangled in his dark hair. You tugged him ever so slightly to your lips, kissing him slowly, wanting to taste him. “Hi Mito.” you breathed onto his lips.

He chuckled slightly, “How’d you know it was me?” he asked, kissing your face randomly.

“Chrisitian fucks like that but only you kiss like that.” you said before kissing him once more. He smiled into the kiss, nipping your lip as he pulled away. “But you’re both brats.” you laughed, sucking on the spot he nipped. 

“I love you.” he said earnestly, like he was still new to saying it despite saying it hundreds of times. 

“I love you.” you replied, pulling the sheets over you both but Mito stopped you.

“You rest baby, I just wanna take care of you.” he said, kissing your hip before he disappeared beneath the sheets. 

You felt his mouth on your heat. You settled back into the pillows, enjoying the feeling of pure love and lust being showered over you.

-----------------------------

Naboo's Note:

Hello! Finally got around to writing a smut for Mr. Yu. What a sexy guy. The first bit is based off that one interview, the thirst tweets one I think? IDK I saw an edit of it this morning and was basically drooling. I hope ya'll like this one. Talk soon! XOXOXOXOXOXO!!!!!!!

[gullemec]

Bitten

ao3 Bitten Masterlist

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: You and Joel left the QZ together a year ago in search of something better. Against all odds, the two of you have formed a bond, something quiet and rare and fragile. Then, on an ordinary day, it all comes crumbling down.

Warnings: description of infected, gore, description of mortal injury, gun use, mild non-sexual bondage, talk of death/dying

Please let me know if I missed any TWs <3

WC: 7.6k

A/N: My first TLOU/Joel fic I'm ever sharing! And you best believe there's more where this comes from! Also I've included another note at the bottom so please read that!

It’s a cool evening in the rugged wilderness between what remains of Billings and Big Sky, Montana.

The air carries a bite of late spring chill, sharp and clean, the smell of pine and damp earth lingering after days of torrential rain. The sun has dipped low, casting the forest in shades of deep green and dusky blue, streaks of gold like brushstrokes on the jagged peaks on the faraway mountainscape.

The river that snakes through the dense forest is a merciless torrent, swollen from the rains. Its waters, frothy and wild, churn over boulders and logs, their jagged edges slick with moss and spray. Branches, stripped bare of leaves, whirl chaotically in the current, their twisting shapes snagging on stones before being pulled back into the fray. The sound is constant and deafening, a relentless cacophony of crashing water and guttural growling of rocks grinding against each other beneath the surface.

You crouch at the river’s edge, boots braced against the slippery rocks, arms outstretched to catch the icy water in mason jars to filter back at camp. Overhead, the canopy is dense, needles interwoven with skeletal branches still clinging to the remnants of rain, droplets falling sporadically to pock the surface of the river. Despite the chaos of the water, you feel grounded here, your focus narrowed to the task at hand. The white noise of the rushing river drowns out the rest of the world, and for a brief moment, the wilderness feels almost serene.

Then, a movement— quick, sharp —in the corner of your eye. You freeze mid-pour, breath catching in your throat. Turning slowly toward the treeline, you rise to your feet, knees protesting against the sudden shift. The forest stretches out before you in stillness, dense with towering trees and underbrush thick with rain drenched ferns. Your eyes dart through the gloom, searching for the source of the movement, but the dimming light and shifting leaves conspire against you. The world feels suddenly larger, the quiet of the forest pressing in at the edges of the river’s roar, your pulse quickening in the cold dusk.

The snap of a branch shatters the stillness of the forest, cutting through the constant roar of the rain-swollen river. You freeze, heart lurching in your chest, as a low, guttural snarl ripples from somewhere just beyond the treeline. It’s faint, almost lost between the river and the rush of your heartbeat in your ears, but unmistakable.

But before you can fully process the danger, it’s already too late.

A blur of movement, a rush of air, and then a heavy weight slams into your side.

The impact sends you sprawling, crashing hard onto the slick, rocky ground. Pain jolts through your ribs as the world tilts, your vision swimming from the force of the blow. The jar in your hand shatters on impact, slicing your palm as shards of glass scattering across the wet earth.

The creature is on you before you can even catch your breath. Its weight is crushing, its limbs flailing wildly as it pins you to the ground. A feral snarl tears from its throat, a horrifying mix of rage and hunger, as its face, a twisted mask of decay and filth, looms inches from your own. Its skin is gray and bloated, patches of it sloughing off to reveal sinew and bone beneath. The stench of rot and old blood is overwhelming, its acrid breath clawing at your senses.

You thrash beneath it, hands instinctively going to its shoulders to push it away, but it’s strong, so fucking strong, and its gnashing teeth snap just shy of your face. Droplets of its fetid saliva spray your cheek as its jaw clamps shut on empty air.

Panic surges like a shot of adrenaline, cold and sharp. Shit. You twist your body, feet scrambling for leverage on the slippery ground, but the creature’s weight is unrelenting. You try to reach for your knife, only to remember — you didn’t bring it. You thought this area was clear, that the river’s roar would drown out any noise that might attract them.

A mistake. A stupid, deadly mistake.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as the stalker lunges again, its teeth snapping so close you can feel the rush of air against your skin. With a desperate yell, you plant your feet and buck upward, trying to throw it off. But it doesn’t let go, its rotting fingers clawing at your jacket, its growls reverberating through your body.

You twist violently beneath its crushing weight, legs curling upward as you fight for leverage. With a guttural cry, you shove your boots hard into its torso, muscles straining as you push with everything you’ve got. The creature topples to the side with a grunt, its limbs flailing as it scrambles to regain its grip. Wasting no time, you roll over and claw your way forward, boots slipping on the wet earth as your eyes lock onto one of the mason jars lying just out of reach.

Your fingers are inches from the glass when a cold, rotting hand seizes your waist, nails tearing through fabric and skin as it drags you back. Then the pain hits, a searing, white-hot agony as the creature buries its face into your side, teeth scraping into flesh. You scream, the sound ripped raw from your throat, and your free hand finds the mason jar. Without hesitation, you swing it with all the strength you can muster, smashing it into the creature’s skull.

The jar shatters on impact, shards of glass slicing into the putrid flesh. The stalker reels back, momentarily stunned, its snarls faltering into gurgles as blackened ichor oozes from its shattered head. You’re screaming again, this time desperate, panicked. 

“Joel!” The name tears from your throat as you shove yourself backward, kicking at the writhing body, desperate to put distance between you and the thing on the ground.

A single gunshot cracks through the chaos. The creature jerks once, then stills, its grotesque form collapsing into a lifeless heap.

Your chest heaves as silence rushes back in, broken only by the relentless roar of the river and the distant patter of rain. You scramble to your feet, legs trembling, hands flying instinctively to your side where pain pulses in hot, angry waves. The world feels unsteady beneath you, every movement uncoordinated and raw as you clutch at your side. Your fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt, and with a hiss of pain, you pull it up to inspect the damage.

Blood. So much blood. It blooms across your skin, bright and vivid, the gash at your hip jagged and cruel, clawing its way across your waist. Your breath catches, panic rising like a flood as the implications hit you.

Before you can speak, before you can even think, you hear it. The unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked.

Your head snaps up, eyes locking onto Joel. He stands a few feet away, his face a mask of hardened resolve, his breathing labored but steady. The barrel of his pistol is trained on you, unwavering. His eyes are dark, unreadable, jaw squared.

“Joel —” your voice trembles, barely a whisper.

“Don’t move,” he warns, his tone low and sharp. His grip on the gun tightens as he steps closer, each movement deliberate, measured.

“Wait!” Your voice cracks as the word bursts out, painfully desperate. You throw your hand out in front of you as if it could shield you from the inevitable, as though the small gesture might protect you from the bullet with your name on it. “Please, just… wait,” you beg, the words coming out as a broken, trembling whine that shames you even as you say them.

Joel doesn’t move. His shoulders are stiff, his hands trembling around the pistol, knuckles white with the pressure of his grip. His eyes dart frantically, torn between your face and the wound at your side, the gash you’ve tried to hide, like covering it could somehow erase it from existence.

Your left hand moves instinctively, tugging at your shirt to pull it over the gaping wound. The thick cotton clings to your skin, soaking up the blood in sticky patches. You feel the wetness against your fingertips, warm and damning, and your stomach churns at the realization of how bad it is. You don’t need to look at it again to know the truth, you can feel it.

“No…” Joel murmurs, the sound barely audible over the rushing river and your own ragged breathing. His voice is shaky, distant, like he’s talking to himself now instead of you. His gaze hardens, his jaw clenches, and his finger hovers near the trigger. He’s slipping away from you, mentally already miles ahead, as if you’re not even standing in front of him anymore.

You know what he’s thinking. To him, you’re already dead. The infection is a foregone conclusion, the gash on your body as good as a death sentence. You see it in his face — this is no longer you standing here. In his eyes, you’re just a corpse waiting to fall, a hollow body waiting for the bullet that will silence you before the sickness has a chance to take hold.

It’s over. 

“Joel.” You force his name out through chattering teeth, your lips trembling uncontrollably. “Listen to me. Please.” The words crack with fear, barely holding together as dizziness washes over you. Pain radiates outward from your side, agonizing, but the ache in your chest, the utter fucking hopelessness gripping your heart, is far worse.

In any other moment, you’d hate yourself for this. You’d hate the way your lip quivers, the way your voice shakes, the way you’ve laid yourself bare in front of him, vulnerable and pathetic. You’d curse yourself for throwing every card onto the table, for showing him just how desperate you are. You’d tell yourself to stand up straight, to act strong, to meet death with dignity.

But none of that matters now. You’re not ready. You don’t want to die.

This isn’t the first time you’ve begged for your life. There were countless moments over the years when you were forced to plead, to barter, to lie just to stay alive. But this is the first time you’ve begged knowing it’s utterly futile. Knowing that no amount of pleading will change the truth, or his mind.

You’d talked about this moment, back when you left the QZ together, when survival was still something you both believed in. You’d made a pact, as so many travelers do. 

If you get bit, I won’t hesitate. 

The words had come from Joel himself, blunt pragmatist that he is, delivered in that steady, gravelly tone you’d grown to trust.

And you’d agreed. Of course you had. It was practical, logical. You’d said the same thing to every companion before him. A foregone conclusion this late in the game, but still you'd felt the need to make it entirely clear that your definition of mercy was a swift bullet to the forehead. 

And yet, here you stand, begging the man in front of you to wait, listen, hear me out. 

“Joel,” you whisper again, softer this time, pleading. “You have to listen to me. I’m not —” Your voice catches, the words faltering as the weight of his gaze presses down on you. His face is unreadable, stone cold, but his eyes…

His eyes tell a different story.

You see the anguish there, buried beneath the hard lines of his face. The war waging inside him. The man you’ve come to trust, who’s fought beside you, bled beside you, isn’t made for this kind of mercy, no matter what he says.

And yet, you see his finger twitch on the trigger.

“Joel.” Your voice is shaking, but louder now. “I’m not ready. Please.”

The world feels smaller, darker, as you wait for his answer. For the sound of the shot and the unknown that follows.

This was the reality you’d known since you were a child, torn from innocence and thrust headlong into the nightmare of the end of the world. The collapse had been swift and merciless, leaving you to navigate the horrors of survival before you even understood what it meant to truly live. Death had been a constant companion, circling you like a predator, never far away. You’d faced it down more times than you could count, each encounter stripping away another layer of who you once were.

You knew it now with the intimacy of an old, cruel lover. The way it crept in quietly, the way it demanded submission, the way it took and never gave back. And yet, now that it has finally come for you, fully and undeniably, you recoil. You flee.

Your breath shudders as you stare into Joel’s eyes, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. His gaze is hard, but there’s something beneath it, a crack in the armor. You plead with him, your voice trembling, words spilling out in a desperate torrent, but it’s more than words. It’s the raw urgency building in your chest, clawing its way up your throat, begging him to feel it.

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly at first, then harder, his face tightening in anguish. His lip quivers, just the faintest tremble, but it’s enough. It’s a crack in the foundation, a glimmer of doubt in the man who never hesitates. You catch it, latch onto it like a lifeline.

When he says your name, it’s like a prayer, soft and broken. A plea wrapped in the syllables of something he’s never wanted to say. It cuts through you, sharp and cold, leaving you raw and exposed.

His hands are shaking now, the gun unsteady in his grip. You watch it tremble, the barrel wavering slightly, and for a fleeting moment, you think he might miss. That if he pulled the trigger now, the bullet would veer off course, grazing past you instead of ending you. Your mind whispers, Run. Maybe you could bolt, maybe you could make it. But deep down, you know better. Joel doesn’t miss. And if he did, he wouldn’t miss again.

The two of you remain locked in this fragile standstill, unmoving, unblinking, as the moment stretches unbearably long. The adrenaline that had flooded your system begins to ebb, leaving you hollow and weak. Your outstretched hand, once rigid with desperation, falters and starts to fall. It drifts downward, as if surrendering to the weight of inevitability.

Your legs buckle beneath you, the strength draining from them as exhaustion and pain take hold. You collapse slowly, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree behind you, its surface digging into your shoulder blades. Joel’s gun follows your movement, unwavering, the barrel trailing you as you sink to the ground.

“Just wait, okay?” you whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion, but you force yourself to keep your gaze locked on Joel’s. “Wait until I turn. Don’t shoot me… not yet. Just… wait.”

He doesn’t move. His grip on the pistol is steady, but his chest rises and falls unevenly, betraying the storm inside him. For a moment, the silence stretches so thin it feels like the world itself is holding its breath. Then, he exhales, a long, ragged sigh slipping past his lips.

“D-darlin’...” His voice cracks on the word, soft and uneven, a plea in itself. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and you see one break free, tracking a shining path down his cheek. “We agreed. You —” His voice falters, breaking on the words he can’t quite bring himself to say. “You were bit, and I… I have to.”

The way he says it, have to, isn’t just broken; it’s shattered. The weight of the words twists something inside you, but even now, as death looms close, the tenderness of his pet name stirs a small, bittersweet pang in your chest.

“You don’t have to do anything, Joel,” you murmur, shaking your head, your voice unsteady. “Just let me live a little bit longer, okay? I didn’t get to see much or do much… Just give me a few more minutes. Please.”

The words feel foreign, like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth, distant and detached. The adrenaline that once roared through your veins has ebbed, leaving you woozy and untethered. The world around you feels unreal, a blurry haze of pain and fear.

Joel’s jaw tightens as he fights with himself. His finger hovers near the trigger, but his hand trembles now, betraying the conflict raging inside him. You watch his face carefully, every muscle tense as he weighs the impossible decision before him. His eyes flicker, darting around the clearing, searching for something, anything, that would deliver him from the scene laid before him. 

He tilts his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His gaze turns skyward, as if beckoning the heavens to intervene. The seconds crawl by, agonizing and infinite.

Then, slowly, Joel lowers his gun.

You shudder as a strangled, heaving sigh escapes your lips. Relief floods through you, too sharp and too cruel, making your chest ache with its weight. It tricks you, just for a moment, into believing you’ve cheated death, that you’ve won. Your lips twitch with the urge to laugh, but you hold it in, choking back the sound before it escapes.

Joel moves quickly, breaking the fragile stillness between you. He drops to one knee, his pack already in his hands, and begins digging through it with a kind of frantic determination. You watch him, your body too heavy and your mind too dazed to question what he’s doing.

When he stands and starts toward you, a small bundle clutched in his hands, your stomach lurches. He unfurls it, and your breath catches, terror and confusion gripping you. Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for the feel of a knife piercing your skull.

“W-what are you doing?” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with fear.

“Fuckin’ — stay still,” he growls, his tone clipped and uneven.

Your eyes flutter open as his arms reach around you, and you realize what he’s holding: nylon rope. He pulls it around your torso, cinching it tightly against the tree. His breath comes in sharp, hot gasps, fanning against your cheeks as he works.

“Joel,” you gasp, your voice rising in alarm, but he doesn’t respond. His eyes are locked on his hands, refusing to meet yours as he ties knot after knot, the rope biting into your sides with cruel precision. The pressure sends fresh waves of pain shooting from your wound, and you wince, clenching your teeth to keep from crying out.

The final tug is brutal, the knot digging into your flesh, and he ends up behind you, his hands lingering for a moment as if testing the ropes’ strength. You feel him pause, his breath shuddering as he finally stops moving.

“Joel,” you say again, softer now, your voice cracking under the weight of everything left unsaid.

But he still doesn’t look at you.

When he steps back, his shoulders are slumped, his face shadowed by something you can’t quite name. Grief, guilt, maybe both. He wipes at his face roughly, as though trying to erase the evidence of his tears, but they’ve already betrayed him.

You’re bound, defenseless, and hurting, and yet all you can think about is how utterly broken he looks as he stands there, staring at the mess the world has forced you both into.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, your voice small and steeped in guilt. The words hang in the air, fragile and trembling, but Joel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even glance your way.

Instead, he turns on his heel, his shoulders tight and his head bowed, and walks to another tree about ten feet away. He plants himself at its base, his back to you. His silence cuts deeper than any words might have, and you feel the weight of it settling over you like a suffocating shroud.

The two of you share the silence, your shallow breaths filling the void between you. Each exhale feels labored, your body struggling against the pain radiating from your side, but you force yourself to focus on something else. You lean your head back against the rough bark of the tree, the texture biting into your scalp, and lift your gaze to the heavens.

The stars are impossibly bright tonight, scattered like shards of broken glass across a velvet sky. You try to commit them to memory, tracing their constellations with your eyes, knowing these moments might be your last chance before you navigate them on your imminent departure. 

As you stare upward, memories begin to filter through your mind, unbidden and fragmented, slipping through the cracks of your composure.

Your parents, once so vivid in your mind, are now nothing more than faint, blurred shapes. You can almost feel the warmth of their presence, the comfort of their arms around you, the safety they once provided. Almost. The memory is fleeting, like a firefly winking out in the dark.

Will their faces greet you on the other side?

Your adolescence in the QZ flashes through next, a sharp contrast to the hazy warmth of childhood. The cold, unforgiving reality of it all. Hunger gnawing at your belly, desperation clawing at your throat, the endless days that taught you how to survive but left little room for hope.

Then the years on the road in between QZs, each one harder than the last. The faces of strangers, some kind, most cruel, blur together. Every day had been a gamble, every night a test of endurance. And yet, through it all, you’d kept going.

Finally, your thoughts settle on Joel. The better part of a year spent in his company, you guessed. It had started as a shaky partnership, the two of you circling each other like wary predators. Two feral creatures lowering their hackles just enough to agree to watch each other’s backs. You’d both been so used to solitude, to the cold comfort of self-reliance, that you’d resisted the vulnerability of companionship.

But somehow, somewhere along the way, that had changed. 

The memory surfaces vividly, as if it had only just happened. The two of you had set up camp, the evening falling quiet save for the crackle of the fire. Joel had rolled out his sleeping bag next to yours, closer than he ever had before. It was unmistakable, deliberate. Your breath had caught in your chest when you realized just how close he was. Close enough to reach out, to touch. To feel his warmth radiating.

That night, he’d taken first watch, as always, sitting cross-legged by the fire with his rifle resting across his lap. But you hadn’t slept, not really. You’d stayed awake, your heart pounding in your chest, stealing glances at him through the dim light of the flames. The moonlight dusted his features in silver, softening the hard lines of his face. You’d stared at the rough stubble along his jawline, aching to reach out and trace it with your fingers.

You’d felt like a teenager again, giddy and restless, wanting something so badly it made your chest ache. It was dangerous to feel that way in this world, to allow yourself even a sliver of something as fragile as hope, but you couldn’t help it. That night had changed everything for you, though you couldn’t say if Joel even realized it.

Now, sitting bound to this tree, your side throbbing and your vision dimming, you wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he remembers that night, or any of the moments you’d shared since. You glance toward him, his back still turned to you, his shoulders hunched. You want to call out to him, to say something, but the words catch in your throat.

Instead, you close your eyes, letting the memories wrap around you like a threadbare quilt. You hold onto them tightly, as though they might somehow tether you to this life for just a little longer.

You’d never said anything. How could you? This life wasn’t made for love, for relationships, or for anything that resembled romance. Whatever you felt for Joel, whatever that small, fragile thing blooming inside you was, had always seemed impossible to name, let alone act on.

The world you lived in was harsh, brutal, and unforgiving. There wasn’t room for tender words or soft moments, and certainly no place for anything as foolish as hope. All you knew was that you felt safe under his protection, warm under his rare but lingering gaze. Anything beyond that, any flicker of desire, longing, or affection, could be swallowed whole by the world so long as it meant keeping him close.

But now, things are different. You’re staring down the end, and there’s nothing left to lose. Everything worth losing had already been ripped from you piece by piece over the years. Maybe it’s selfish of you to want this moment, to unburden yourself of something you could have taken silently to the grave. Maybe it’s selfish to pile this weight onto Joel when he was already carrying so much. But then again, you’d already been selfish, hadn’t you? Begging him to forgo his own safety for the sake of putting a bit more time between yourself and his bullet in your brain.

And he had complied, hadn’t he?

Fuck it.

“You know what I thought of you when I first met you?” you ask into the silence, your voice low and trembling, but steady enough to carry through the night air.

Joel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even flinch. His broad shoulders remain rigid, his gaze fixed on the darkness in front of him like it holds some kind of answer he’s desperate to find.

“I thought you were an asshole,” you continue, forcing a small, breathy laugh out of your chest. It sounds pathetic, even to you, but you push on. “A grumpy asshole.”

Still, nothing from him. But you’re certain, almost certain, you catch the faintest twitch of his shoulder.

“And once I figured out how easy it was to piss you off, I couldn’t stop myself. I’d say the dumbest shit just to get you all riled up.” You smile softly at the memory, even as the ache in your side deepens. You stop to take a deep breath, hoping he might take this chance to interject, beg you to shut the fuck up and die quietly already. But he doesn't.  “You’d get so mad, Joel. Your face would do this thing, this little twitch, like you were trying so hard not to tell me to shut the fuck up. And I think— no, I know —you liked it.”

That finally earns you something, a sharp exhale from his nose. A sound so faint you might’ve missed it if you weren’t straining to catch every little thing.

“If I was nice to you, you’d ignore me. But if I said something dumb just to piss you off? You couldn’t help yourself,” you press on, emboldened now. “I think you liked the banter. The arguing. Maybe it made things feel… normal.”

You pause, drawing in a shaky breath. Your chest feels tight, your body heavy, but you force yourself to keep going. “Do you remember that night a few months ago? When you set your sleeping bag up right next to mine?”

His shoulders tense at that, but he still doesn’t turn to look at you.

“I liked it,” you admit softly. “A lot. Probably more than I should’ve. And I couldn’t sleep that night, Joel. I just kept laying there, staring at you while you were on watch, thinking… Maybe you liked me, too.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, the confession hanging between you like a dwindling thread. You don’t expect a response, but part of you still hopes, desperately, foolishly, that he’ll turn around and say something. Anything.

Instead, his shoulders shudder, and you hear a ragged, broken breath that shakes his entire frame.

“Joel?” you whisper, your own voice trembling now.

But he doesn’t answer. He stays where he is, his back to you, his head dipping forward like the weight of your words, and everything they mean, has finally crushed him.

You lean your head back against the tree, the bark biting into your scalp, and close your eyes. The pain in your side throbs in time with your heartbeat, and your breaths grow more shallow with each passing moment. But you don’t regret saying it.

If this is how it ends, if this is your last night on this broken earth, you’re glad you told him. Even if he never responds. Even if the silence stretches on forever.

“I know what you're gonna say, Joel. You're gonna tell me it didn’t mean anything, and…” You stop, your breath hitching as tears well up and threaten to spill. “Fuck, maybe it didn’t. I don’t know.”

You inhale sharply, struggling to keep the flood of emotions from overtaking you.

“But you should know that it meant something to me. All this time we spent together, it wasn’t just survival for me. Being with you, it’s the closest thing to happiness I’ve felt since… since before the world ended.”

Your voice cracks again, the weight of your confession pulling it down to a trembling whisper. The tears that had gathered finally spill over, streaming hot down your cheeks. You can’t wipe them away, but even if you could, what would be the point?

“If I could go back,” you continue, “I would have told you then. I wouldn’t have waited. I’d have kissed you just so I could’ve known what it felt like. I’d have asked you to lay with me, to hold me, to —”

“Stop.”

The word cuts through the air like a whip, startling you into silence. Joel’s voice is hoarse, like maybe he's been crying too.

Your eyes dart to him, still sitting against the tree, his face hidden in shadow but his posture stiff, tense. His shoulders rise and fall heavily, and for a moment, you think he might stay there, unmoving, until the sun rises.

“Joel — ”

“No,” he snaps, the word cracking like a fraying rope. “You need to stop.”

Before you can respond, he pushes himself to his feet in one swift, almost frantic motion. His boots crunch against the underbrush as he rounds the tree, his long strides closing the distance between you in seconds.

The gun glints in his hand as the moonlight catches it, but he doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t point it at you. Instead, he stops just in front of you, towering over your slumped, trembling form.

His head blocks out the moon, casting a glow around his mess of curls and plunging his face into darkness. You should be scared, you realize. The anger in his voice, the speed at which he moved toward you, his imposing stature above you, his mere presence a threat designed to cow and intimidate. He’s used it countless times against others, and now it’s turned on you. He wants you to be afraid of him.

You should feel afraid.

And yet, the only fear you feel in this moment is for the darkness you know will soon steal you away. 

You stare up at him, the moonlight weaving through his curls like a halo, his face cast in shadow. He looks like some tragic figure out of a dream, the kind that lingers in your bones long after you wake. Your lips part, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“I love you.”

It’s barely a whisper, cracked and fragile, but he hears it. You can see the way his shoulders tense, the faint shudder in his breath. Despite yourself, you smile, a soft, bittersweet curve of your lips. You want nothing more than for him to drop to his knees, to pull you close, to press his lips to yours and grant you one final wish before the inevitable.

But you don’t ask. You know better.

You’ve been selfish enough, asking him to delay the mercy he’d promised you. And Joel... Joel is many things, but generous isn’t one of them. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.

He shakes his head, the motion jerky and stilted, and you feel tiny droplets splash across your cheeks. For a second you fight the urge to chuckle at the insult of sudden rainfall added to the injury of your imminent demise. Of course you would spend your last moments shivering, cold, and wet. 

But when you glance up, the sky is clear, the stars sharp and bright against the endless black.

It’s not raining.

The realization dawns slowly, your gaze drifting back to him. His broad shoulders quake, his head bowed, his face hidden from view. A sob tears free from his chest, the sound of a man breaking under the weight of something far too heavy to bear.

“Oh no, Joel — please don’t cry,” you croak, your voice trembling as guilt twists like a knife in your gut. “I’m sorry, I—”

Your words catch in your throat as a sob wracks your own body, your tears flowing freely now, warm and relentless. The two of you stand there in the heavy blue night, heaving cries and choked sobs filling the air between you. 

And then he moves.

Joel drops to his knees in front of you, the motion unsteady, like his legs are buckling under a weight he can no longer carry. His hand hovers in the air for a moment, trembling, before it finds your cheek. His palm is rough and calloused, but his touch is impossibly gentle, wiping away the tracks of your tears. His thumb lingers, as though he’s memorizing the curve of your cheek, the warmth of your skin, before it fades forever.

He leans forward, his breath shuddering as it fans across your face, and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft and lingering, a silent prayer offered up to whatever gods might still be listening.

When he pulls back, you tilt your head up instinctively, angling your lips toward his. You can feel his hesitation, the way he freezes, his hand faltering on your cheek. His eyes dart between your mouth and your tear-filled gaze, his own eyes wide and uncertain, searching for something he can’t seem to find.

But then he pulls away.

Your heart clenches, fracturing further as he backs up, his boots dragging across the dirt. He doesn’t stop until he’s ten feet away, where he collapses against the base of another tree. His posture mirrors yours, slumped and defeated, but he’s unbound. Untainted.

You can’t blame him. You know how the infection spreads, the risks it poses. A kiss might seal his fate as well as yours, and you couldn’t bear that, not after everything. But there’s a cruel, gnawing thought that whispers something worse: that he didn’t want to kiss you at all. That it wasn’t the infection that held him back, but a lack of affection.

You’d been his companion, his partner in survival. Nothing more. His tears now are a testament to his enduring humanity, to his ability to feel for others despite the walls he’s built around himself.

And you’re a dying woman desperately clinging to the scraps of a life already slipping through her fingers. A life at its end, spent confessing your love to a man who might never have loved you back.

You let your head fall back against the tree, your vision swimming as fresh tears blur the stars above. You’ve never felt so small, so painfully insignificant. The weight of the unspoken words between you drains you of what little life you have left.

The two of you sit there in the thick, silent night, your breaths the only sound between you. For what feels like forever, you both stare at each other, the words too painful to say aloud lingering in the space between you. The moonlight plays across his features, painting him in shadows and silver, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if he sees you the same way, if he’ll remember this night after you’re gone.

You start talking.

You tell him about your life before the world ended, the warmth of your parents’ smiles, the taste of summer nights spent in the quiet of a safer world, the way everything seemed so simple back then. You describe the house you grew up in, the creaky wooden floors, the old red bike you used to ride around the neighborhood, the smell of your mother’s cooking wafting through the open windows. It’s all so distant now, like a dream you can’t quite remember.

Then you move to the people you’ve met since the world burned down. Companions, friends, lovers, whatever they were, however brief. You tell him about the ones who had your back, the ones who betrayed you, the ones you couldn’t save. You tell him how, despite everything, none of them ever quite compared to him. There’s a rawness in your voice, a truth you never dared speak before now.

You find yourself laughing a little, shaky at first, when you tell him about the time you tricked a QZ guard into giving you double ration cards. The image of his face when he handed over the papers is enough to make you chuckle even now. The momentary relief, the feeling of outsmarting the system, feels almost like a lifetime ago.

But then your voice falters, and you recount the loss of your parents, their faces gone too soon, their absence an ache that never quite goes away. You talk about the lengths you went to survive in the aftermath, how the world didn’t stop for grief and how, somehow, you found a way to keep moving, even when everything inside you screamed to collapse. Your eyes never leave Joel’s face, watching him as he listens. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer pity or comfort, just listens, soaking up every word, every part of you you’re willing to offer.

As the words flow, they start to spill out faster, louder, and more frantic. You’re no longer telling stories, no longer reminiscing. You’re unraveling, thread by thread. You talk about your regrets, your fears. You speak of all the places you never got to see, all the dreams you’ll never chase, the future you’ll never have. You tell him about Yellowstone and Old Faithful, about the sunrise over the Grand Canyon, about the quiet peace of a morning in the mountains. You make him promise, with desperation edging your voice, that he’ll go. That he’ll see it for both of you, and your hope that, in doing so, you’ll somehow live on.

Your heart aches with the weight of it all. You want him to know you, every little piece of you. You want him to hold onto your stories, to carry them with him long after you're gone, so that maybe, just maybe, someone will know you for who you were, not just what the world reduced you to. You want to be remembered.

But as you talk, you begin to feel the distance between you grow. The adrenaline that once fueled your desperation, your need to be heard, starts to wane. You feel it in the weight of your limbs, the fog creeping at the edges of your mind. You know the end is near, even if you don’t want to admit it. You can feel yourself fading, your words becoming less coherent, your thoughts scattered like the leaves in the wind.

And Joel, he sees it too. He sees the way your shoulders slump, the way your eyes flicker like you're trying to hold onto the present but failing. He watches you, his face hardening with the realization that no matter how much he listens, no matter how much he tries to understand, he can’t stop what’s coming. He sees you slipping through his fingers, and it makes it hard for him to focus on anything else.

You try to hold onto the last few fragments of yourself, the last words you want him to hear. But your vision blurs, and the words begin to jumble. You hope, in the deepest part of yourself, that somehow he’ll hold onto them, that something will remain after you’re gone. That somehow, in this moment, you’ve found a way to live again.

But as the world narrows, as the last threads of you unravel, you realize that perhaps all that’s left now is for him to remember you in the way you are right now. Alive, speaking, a fleeting presence in the shadow of the man who, in this moment, matters more to you than anything else you could have ever dreamed.

“I… I gotta go.” His voice cracks as the words leave his mouth. “I’ll just move over there,” he gestures toward a large tree about ten feet away. “I’m not leavin’ you. I just… I can’t see you like that. I can’t watch it happen. I’m sorry.”

The words hit you like a blow, but not the one you expected. Not the harsh sting of rejection, but that of heartbreak. You hold his gaze, letting the weight of his apology settle between you. His eyes are regretful, heavy with the pain of his own helplessness.

In the year you’ve spent together, he’s given you more than anyone else ever could. Tonight, though, he’s sacrificed everything, pushed his own limits to keep you alive just a little longer. You can’t ask him to stay by your side and watch as you slip away, but God, you want him to. You want him to hold you, keep you anchored, be the one who’s there when you cross over.

But you know what’s fair. What’s right. You know he’s already given you everything he has. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to breathe through the ache.

“Joe, will you still talk to me though? Please?” You whisper. “Just until… until it’s over. Please.”

It’s his turn to nod now, his eyes wet but unwavering. He gives you one last lingering glance, a soft promise, something too sore to touch. A mental photo to keep in the locket of his heart. You catch a brief flash of sorrow in his eyes, something deeper than words can express, before he turns away.

He walks a few paces, the sound of his boots crunching against the damp earth almost too loud in the heavy silence. Then, as he settles at the base of the tree, his back to you, you realize something. He’s doing this for you. He’s giving you space to fade without the burden of his gaze, giving you dignity in the last moments when it matters most.

You can’t help but wish for the opposite, wish for him to be by your side, holding you as you fall away. But you don’t voice it. Instead, you whisper, as though your words are the last thread tying you to this world, to him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible through the thick air.

“It’s okay,” he answers, his voice strained like he’s holding back tears. It’s a simple phrase, but it means everything to you.

You smile weakly, the gesture trembling at the edges, as you whisper back, “Please don’t cry.” It feels like an echo, your voice thin and fragile in the night, but you say it because you know it’ll be the last time you can.

“It’ll be okay,” he replies, and you feel the weight of his words settle over you like a blanket, soothing in the way only he can.

But the darkness is creeping in now, inevitable. You’re so, so tired. The exhaustion is more than physical, it’s in your bones, in your soul, and you can’t fight it anymore. You pull your head up just enough to see him one last time, to glimpse his silhouette framed by moonlight, his broad shoulders, the fray of his dark curls.

A weak, tremulous smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. It’s a smile for him, for everything he’s been for you, everything you never expected to have. For the kindness, the tenderness, the fleeting happiness you got to hold onto before it all slipped away.

You feel the weight of your own eyelids, heavy. Impossible to avoid now. Your head slumps forward, your gaze unable to keep hold of anything.

And then, just like that, you descend into the dark, the world slipping away from you like sand through your fingers, the last breath you take a whisper in the wind.

Hoo boy, did that hurt as much to read as it did to write?? 😭 Believe it or not there are (at least) two more chapters that follow this so... 🌚 I won't be updating this as regularly as golden cage partially because i don't have it all written just yet, and partially because i am doing my master's degree while working full time lol. also please like/comment/reblog, i'm a new writer and all the encouragement i get genuinely means the world to me!

[slashire]

Hiii! Me again... Could you do a part four for sebastian fic where reader moves on and flirts with someone? Like jelous Sebastian. In a demonic way? I wanna see it after last episodes.

you know i love your requests at this point. you just read my mind.

one hell of a headache pt four

Summary: after weeks of nothing but normalcy, one stroll through the garden with another seems to get on Sebastian's last nerve, and he just won't admit it. Still protective, possessive old Sebastian, who also has jealousy issues.

Sebastian Michaelis x fem!reader

notes/warnings: no warnings just typical banter. 

WC: 5352

part one part two part three

You walked through the estate gardens. The weather was temperate, the hedges perfectly sculpted. The gravel crunched softly beneath your heeled boots as you walked with measured steps, the delicate stitching of your dress hem trailing just above the ground. It was a deep navy blue today, high-collared with a fitted corset bodice and black lace trim that looped along the cuffs and neckline, modest by design but sharp in detail. Your gloves were a fine cream color, imported. You haven't worn them since early spring. You held your parasol at a precise angle to shade your face, matching the etiquette expected during an afternoon garden walk.

It had been weeks. Weeks since that night in the library. Since the corridor. Since you’d clawed each other to pieces, collapsing between body heat and bitterness. You had not acknowledged it, you hadn't let it show. But you hadn't forgotten either, you remembered everything.

The way his hands undid the laces at your back. The quiet growl in his throat when you cursed against his skin. The exact way he looked at you right before he stopped pretending he had control. And then he vanished before morning like nothing happened. As if nothing had been torn apart.

Lord Hadrian, of the derby estate strolled beside you with practiced confidence, though his steps faltered whenever you turned to look at him. His waistcoat was slightly over-buttoned, and his gloves were a size too large. His posture stiffened each time he spoke. Incredibly average. Charming in a harmless way. He stammered when you complimented his waistcoat and turned red when you laughed at his clumsy compliment. It was innocent. Almost sweet. His hand brushed yours once, and you let it stay. Let the air between you warm just slightly. You smiled. You tilted your head. You let him look. 

You weren't trying to flirt, not really. You'd just gotten good at pretending. And when Lord Hadrian, sweet doe eyed, painfully polite, offered you his arm during the afternoon garden stroll, you took it. Why not? He was harmless. Harmless was safe. 

“I daresay these roses rival the ones back home in Chesterfield,” he said, offering a hopeful smile. Attempting conversation, it was passable.

You turned your head slightly, the ribbons from your hat brushing your shoulder. “You should congratulate the gardener. I hear the soil here does all the work.”

He laughed. It wasn’t unpleasant, just poorly timed. Before he could reply, a soft cough from behind interrupted the moment. Crisp, brief, intentional.

You glanced back over your shoulder. Sebastian stood several paces behind, hands clasped behind his back, coat perfectly pressed, his gaze unreadable. But you could feel him, sharp and simmering, more shadow than servant. His eyes were cold, ancient, barely leashed.

Hadrian blinked. “Erm, am I boring you?”

“Not at all,” you said quickly, smoothing your skirt and glancing back. “My butler simply had indigestion of the soul.”

Sebastian, perfectly composed, offered a single nod. “I apologize, my lady. I was merely startled. The sunlight, you see. It caught Lord Hadrian’s collar in such a way I briefly mistook him for a doily.”

You smirked. Hadrian blinked in confusion. 

“I think it's rather charming,” you said. “He's got the personality of one too.”

“I agree. Disposable, and stains easily.”

You coughed to cover your laugh. He didn't get it. Poor thing.

The stroll continued, awkwardly. Hadrian tried to recover with small talk about horses. You responded with gracious nods, flirtatious smiles, and the kind of laughter that he could pick apart in his sleep. It was a performance, and you played the part beautifully.

Hadrian cleared his throat. “I was wondering, my lady, if you might allow me the pleasure of your company this Friday, my family is hosting a small gathering. Private, of course. Nothing elaborate.”

“She will not,” Sebastian said without inflection.

You stopped walking. The parasol lowered slightly.

“I beg your pardon?” Hadrian asked, blinking toward him.

You turned fully toward Sebastian, face angled with deliberate control. “Explain.”

Sebastian’s gaze did not waver. “Your calendar does not permit detours. The young master’s estate reports are overdue, and your review of the charitable ledgers remains unfinished. I assumed you would prefer accuracy to…improvisation.”

Your jaw tightened slightly. “How considerate.”

Hadrian smiled uncomfortably, looked as though someone poured ice water down his cravat. “No, no, of course, I wouldn’t dream of- if i've overstepped-”

“You have,” he said politely. “But it's understandable. Not all men are born with self-awareness.”

“I believe we require a moment,” you said smoothly, passing your parasol to Hadrian. “Keep this upright, won’t you?”

Then you turned on your heel, skirts whispering against the gravel, and made for the shade of the nearest hedge corridor. You didn’t wait to see if Sebastian followed. You already knew he would. He followed silently, no hesitation in his steps.

Once hidden from view, and out of earshot, you turned sharply. “Since when do you get to decide who I speak to?”

He adjusted one cuff, his fingers precise as they slid the fabric into alignment. “I spoke because you were uncharacteristically permissive.”

“You mean polite.”

“Some would call it transparent.”

You stepped forward, heels silent on the dirt path beneath the hedge canopy. “And you think it’s your job to correct that?”

“I think,” he said, “that Hadrian is the sort of man who mistakes eye contact for invitation. You were entertaining him. I intervened. You are under my car. I monitor potential liabilities.” he tilted his head slightly.

“Liabilities?” you repeated, brows raised. “Hadrian?” 

“A man whose idea of courtship involves complimenting a woman's parasol, three different times,” he said. “Yes. A walking liability.” 

You snorted. “And what's your idea of courtship? Waiting until someone collapses from frustration?”

“I've found that method rather efficient, actually.”

You let out a slow exhale through your nose. “I see. And you, of course, sound jealous.”

“I don’t believe I’ve claimed that. Jealousy is a human indulgence. I do not have time for such inefficiencies.”

“You don’t have to,” you said dryly. “You speak like your presence is already proof.”

He stepped forward, posture still immaculate. “You were laughing.”

“Conversation requires participation.”

“You touched his arm. Twice.”

“It’s called walking in heels, on gravel. I don’t have your centipede-like balance.”

He didn’t react to the insult. “He would’ve tripped over his own shadow if you’d sneezed. Hardly fit company.”

You lifted your chin slightly. “So now you’re the arbiter of my social engagements?”

“If someone must be.”

You stared at him for a long moment. His gloves were flawless. His lapel had not a single wrinkle. His voice hadn’t shifted in tone once.

“You left,” you said, flatly. “After the other night.”

Sebastian’s head tilted incrementally. “You were asleep.”

“I woke up fully clothed, covered, and alone.”

“I assumed discretion was preferable.”

“Don’t pretend you were doing me a favor.”

“I never pretend.”

You stepped in close, expression controlled. You raise your hand to slap him, or try. He caught your wrist, his eyes glinted just for a moment, gold, glowing, and hungry.

“That temper of yours,” he said softly. “It might kill a man someday.”

“Shame you're not one.”

He released your hand immediately. Like it didn't mean anything. Like you didn't mean anything. But you saw the tension in his jaw. The flicker behind his eyes. The possessiveness simmering just beneath the starch and polish. You stared at him, his gloves pristine, as always. No wrinkle in his coat. Not a hair out of place. And yet, his pupils were sharp. Too sharp. Like he has not blinked in too long.

“And, they weren’t insults,” he said. “They were assessments.”

“Right. And what’s your assessment now?”

He looked at you then, eyes steady, gold just barely flickering at the edges.

“You’re deflecting,” he said. “Using Hadrian as a placeholder. Temporary attention for temporary gratification.”

You rolled your eyes. “You think very highly of yourself.”

“Only when proven correct.”

You exhaled sharply. “You're impossible.”

“And you’re predictable,” he said coolly. “You burn every bridge you cross and then act surprised when no one follows.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Better to burn than to linger.”

“That’s why you wear navy,” he added, stepping forward again. “It’s more difficult to spot ash on dark fabric.”

You blinked once. “That sounded almost poetic.”

“I assure you, it wasn’t intended to be.”

You studied his face. Not a single muscle moved. His posture had not shifted since he’d entered the garden. But the space between you had closed. He was close enough to see the embroidery in the collar of your gown. Close enough that the faint scent of starched linen and polished leather lingered in the air between you.

You took a sharp step back.

“I’m going to finish this walk,” you said. “You can either follow at a distance or get back to work.”

He nodded once. “As you wish.”

But he didn’t turn immediately.

You did.

And you didn’t look back. As you rejoined Hadrian, you felt his gaze brun between your shoulder blades until well after tea.

The evening air settled like pressed silk across the garden.

Lord Hadrian had left an hour ago, his carriage wheels crunching over gravel as he bid a too-lengthy farewell, your parasol returned slightly smudged and crooked. You’d tossed it aside the moment he left.

Now, seated alone on a wrought iron bench beneath the upper boughs of the estate’s towering cedar trees, you stared up at the stars, arms folded loosely around your waist, listening to the gentle rustling of the wind through the hedges. The lanterns by the garden paths had been dimmed. The only illumination now came from the pale blue spill of moonlight that caught the metallic glint of your brooch and the silver embroidery on your gloves.

It was peaceful.

The kind of rare quiet that came only after everyone else had gone to bed and the house had sighed into stillness.

You let your head lean back against the bench. The stars above the manor grounds were unblemished by the fog of the city, crystal-clear and numerous. The shape of Orion hung just overhead, his belt aligned in perfect symmetry. For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax fully, spine curving, gloved fingers stretching over your lap.

Then came the sound.

A soft scrape. Like boot leather dragging against gravel.

You straightened immediately, eyes cutting toward the hedgerow. Nothing.

Then again, closer. A shift of fabric against stone. A twig snapping.

You sat forward now, the tails of your coat brushing the wrought iron behind you. Your eyes scanned the shadows between the trimmed rose bushes, the fountain, the stone sundial. The wind had picked up slightly, and the distant rustle of leaves seemed to mimic footfalls.

“Who’s there?” you called, voice clear but level.

Nothing.

The silence that answered was louder than it should’ve been. No birdsong. No insects. Just that heavy, listening hush.

Your hand drifted to the small pocket-knife tucked into your garter beneath the folds of your skirt. You didn’t move to stand yet, but your body shifted toward the edge of the bench, ready.

You turned your head to check behind you, and a hand landed firmly on your shoulder.

Before the scream left your throat, another hand clamped tightly over your mouth.

You thrashed, instinctively elbowing back, but the grip was already shifting, redirecting you, restraining without harming. You recognized the glove first. The scent second, clean pressed linen and faint cologne. And the voice came next, low against your ear.

“Quiet.”

You tried to turn your head, glare sharp and immediate.

He let you go as fast as he’d grabbed you.

You spun around. “You’re lucky I didn’t stab you.”

Sebastian straightened. “I was prepared to disarm you.”

“I had the upper hand.”

“You were sitting.”

“You snuck up on me.”

“I’ve done it before.”

You glared. “Did you come to scare me into bed?”

“I came to retrieve you,” he said. “Someone is trespassing on the manor grounds. I’ve been tracking them since dusk. Your outdoor brooding has compromised the perimeter.”

“Brooding?” you repeated. “I was stargazing.”

He raised a brow. “With a blade tucked into your garter?”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“Debatable,” he said. “You’re alone, unescorted, and sitting in the one location with limited line of sight to the main estate.”

You stepped back. “You didn’t need to grab me.”

“I didn’t need to warn you either. Shall we call it even?”

You scowled. “I’m not going inside just because something went bump in the dark.”

A pause. Then Sebastian said, almost too quietly, “It wasn’t a bump.”

The tone shifted.

Before you could answer, he swept forward, one arm at your back, the other just beneath your knees.

You gasped. “Put me down-!”

“You can file a complaint with the young master in the morning,” he said coolly.

“You’re manhandling me!”

“Carrying. There's a distinction. Do hold still, your skirts are tangling.”

“Sebastian-!”

He moved quickly and silently, as always, back toward the main house through the garden path. You squirmed just enough to make it annoying, but his grip didn’t falter once. You couldn’t even hear his shoes on the stone steps as he passed through the open side corridor leading into the manor. The path to the house passed in silence apart from your skirts flapping indignantly with each of his strides and the occasional hiss of, "Put me down," which he ignored like ambient noise. You were deposited at the foot of the stone steps with precision, as though he were shelving you back into your rightful place. Gently. The way one might lower an expensive violin after use.

You immediately dusted off your skirt and smoothed your bodice. “You’re absurd.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

"You deserve worse," you snapped, struggling slightly in his grip as he continued to hold you still after putting you down.“You are insufferable.”

“Thank you,” he said without missing a step. “I strive for consistency.”

You stumbled slightly. “If I had a brick, you’d be meeting it.”

“You should be grateful I didn’t toss you over my shoulder.”

“Oh, please do next time,” you snapped, smoothing your skirts. “At least then I could stab you in the spine.”

“I doubt you’d reach.”

“I would aim.”

He didn’t so much as blink. “A noblewoman of your standing, stabbing her butler. Truly, a scandal worth the headlines.”

You rolled your eyes and turned on your heel toward the hall. “Go play cat-and-mouse with your mystery trespasser, demon. I’m going to bed.”

“As you should have done an hour ago,” he replied smoothly, already stepping away. “Try not to sneak off again. I’d hate to have to leash you.”

You froze, scoffed through your nose, and didn’t turn back. “I'd like to see you try.”

His only response was the quiet closing of the side door as he vanished into the night.

The corridor fell silent in his absence.

You stood alone for a moment before ascending the stairs.

In your room, you undid the buttons on your bodice with slightly more force than necessary, brushing out your hair with methodical strokes as you listened to the muted sounds of the household settling into silence. Outside your window, the night wind stirred the hedges, but you couldn’t hear anything beyond the whisper of branches.

By the time you were dressed in a long, ivory nightgown and wrapped in a soft robe, you were almost convinced you had imagined the earlier sense of danger.

Almost.

You padded quietly down the hall to the breakfast parlor. The household staff had cleared most of the dishes by now, but the room was dimly lit, a small fire still smoldering in the hearth. You helped yourself to a few pieces of fruit left out on a silver tray and seated yourself with the practiced posture of someone determined not to think too hard.

The door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to.

“I assume you murdered whatever was rustling about out there,” you said calmly as you sliced a grape in half with your fruit knife.

“I handled it,” Sebastian replied. His tone was light, but you could hear the undercurrent of tension beneath the words. Like something that had been wound too tight, and only barely released.

You glanced up casually as he moved around the table, pouring tea into your untouched cup. His gloves were immaculate again, but the corner of his white collar, just near the seam under his jaw, was stained. Faint, but unmistakable. A single smear of dried blood. Crimson against white.

You didn’t say a word.

He didn’t explain.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but deliberate. As if both of you were pretending there wasn’t something heavy and unseen crouching in the room with you, breathing between the teacups.

He set the pot down with a gentle clink. You took the cup. Your fingers brushed his glove as you did. Neither of you acknowledged it. He  straightened. “The young master expects you at breakfast proper in the morning.”

You lifted the cup to your lips. “How thrilling.”

He moved to leave, paused just short of the doorway. “Try not to wander, my lady.”

“I make no promises.”

He didn’t turn his head when he spoke next, but you heard it all the same.

“You rarely do.”

And then he was gone.

You sat alone in the flickering light, sipping warm tea that had gone slightly bitter. Your gaze drifted toward the window. The garden was dark now, nothing moving. And yet your pulse hasn't quite returned to normal.

Not from the fright. Not from the trespasser. But from the memory of a grip too fast to see, a voice too calm to question, and a stain too red to ignore. You didn’t sleep easily that night. Not because you were afraid. Because you didn’t know what Sebastian chose to leave outside.

Or what he'd brought back in with him.

The rain had started sometime before dawn. It wasn’t loud, but the steady patter against the high arched windows made it difficult to ignore. You stirred in bed far later than usual, your sleep patchy and dreamless. The light in the room was soft and silvered, filtered through sheer drapes drawn over tall windows. Somewhere downstairs, the subtle sound of porcelain meeting china echoed faintly, a distant breakfast being served.

You groaned softly, rolling onto your side. Your body ached with that strange stiffness that came from being too still for too long, and your thoughts were too fogged with the weight of the night before to gather themselves properly. A chill clung to the room. You’d forgotten to stoke the fireplace.

By the time Mey-Rin entered to assist with your dressing, you were upright, shoulders draped in a robe, sitting at your vanity and staring blankly at your reflection.

“Yer breakfast’s nearly finished downstairs,” she chirped, bustling in with a towel and a pair of warm stockings. “But the young master said you’re excused for tardiness today, miss. Said you were up late.”

You frowned slightly at the reflection. “Did he now?”

“Yes, miss. Said something about Lord Hadrian visitin’ this mornin’ and that you shouldn’t be rushed, what with his surprise arrival and all.”

Your hand froze mid-reach for your comb.

“…He’s what?”

Mey-Rin blinked, unsure if she’d said something wrong. “Lord Hadrian, miss. He’s already downstairs.”

You straightened slowly, the words clicking together in your mind like the pieces of a trap. Of course Ciel would do something like this. He’d noticed the change in Sebastian’s mood, of course he had. And when Sebastian had let slip, in that clipped way of his, that Hadrian was “less than ideal company,” well… it only made sense that Ciel would file it away for later.

And apparently, later was this morning.

You dressed in record time, though Mey-Rin’s nervous fumbles made the process longer than it should have been. She laced the back of your corseted bodice too tightly and had to start again, apologizing profusely while you barely blinked, your thoughts already two steps ahead.

Downstairs, the long breakfast table was set as always. Ciel sat at the head, a polite smirk hidden behind the edge of his teacup. Lord Hadrian was seated comfortably to the right, his coat removed and hanging neatly over the back of his chair. He looked infuriatingly well-rested, a slice of toast in one hand, the other holding a knife as he gestured toward something Ciel had said.

And standing silently to one side, gloved hands clasped behind his back, posture knife-straight, was Sebastian.

He didn’t look at you when you entered. Not even once.

You were halfway into your chair before Lord Hadrian looked up and said, “Ah, there she is. I was beginning to think you’d taken ill, my lady.”

“I might still,” you muttered as you reached for the teapot.

Hadrian chuckled. “You’re as radiant as ever.”

Ciel cleared his throat lightly. “She’s not a morning person. We find it best to avoid eye contact until after the second cup.”

“Wise,” Hadrian agreed easily. “She almost took off my hand with a parasol just yesterday.”

You raised your brows. “I was simply grabbing it back.”

“I was admiring the embroidery.”

“You were pawing it like a hound at a roast.”

Hadrian grinned, delighted. “You wound me.”

“I could arrange something less metaphorical.”

Sebastian moved to your side silently, pouring your tea with clinical precision. His gaze didn’t touch your face, didn’t even brush your sleeve. When you glanced his way, he simply said, “My lady,” and stepped back like a shadow sliding across the floor.

Ciel watched all of this over his cup, one sharp eye flicking between the two of you.

Breakfast passed in that odd kind of silence where the conversation was polite, but nothing said truly landed. Ciel occasionally tossed in pointed questions, mostly toward Hadrian, and always things Sebastian would disapprove of. “Have you ever seen the south greenhouse?” or “Perhaps you’ll stay for supper if our dear lady encourages it.”

Sebastian remained a portrait of passive indifference.

Until Hadrian rose.

“Well,” he said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, “I really should be off. I’ve taken up enough of your morning.”

“Nonsense,” Ciel replied. “You’re always welcome.”

He turned then, looking directly at you, mischief sparkling just beneath the calm veneer.

“It would be polite,” Ciel said slowly, “if you walked Lord Hadrian to his carriage. Don’t you agree, Sebastian?”

Sebastian’s voice was flat. “If that is the young master’s wish.”

Ciel’s lips barely twitched.

You stood stiffly, expression unreadable, and followed Hadrian out into the drive. The rain had stopped, but the stone path was still slick and gleaming, the sky a pale gray.

“I can’t tell if you hate me or just everyone,” Hadrian said cheerfully as you reached the waiting carriage.

“I don’t hate you,” you replied. “I’m merely indifferent to your entire existence.”

“Ah. Progress, then.” He caught your hand before you could pull it back. “For what it’s worth, I do enjoy our conversations. You’ve got a sharp tongue and a sharp mind.”

“You’ve got a bruisable jaw,” you said, watching him closely.

He smiled, lifted your hand to his lips, and kissed the knuckles with exaggerated slowness. Then he bowed and climbed into the carriage. You didn’t turn around immediately. But you didn’t have to. You felt Sebastian’s gaze the entire time. Like a weight at the back of your neck. When you finally did turn, he was standing on the steps with Ciel beside him, expression unreadable. Ciel was watching him.

The carriage rolled away.

The rest of the day passed in slow, deliberate silence. Sebastian spoke only in titles. “My lady.” “Yes, ma’am.” No sarcasm. No wit. No interruptions. He appeared when summoned, vanished when dismissed, and never once acknowledged you outside of formality. It was maddening.

Even worse, you missed it. The friction. The bite. The crackle of tension that had always lived beneath the surface of your arguments. Now there was only space. Empty, pristine silence.

By nightfall, the rain had returned. Thin streams slid down the windows like melted glass. The fire in the library crackled softly as you curled up in the armchair with a book you weren’t reading. Your nightgown was hidden beneath a heavy robe. Slippers silent against the carpet. The clock above the mantle ticked too loudly.

You didn’t expect him to come in.

But he did.

The door opened quietly, Sebastian stepping inside like a shadow made flesh. He was still dressed for the day, only his coat removed, sleeves rolled up just slightly. His gloves were spotless.

You didn’t look up.

“Still awake,” he said quietly.

“I have a library and a storm,” you murmured without turning the page. “What else could I need?”

“A sensible bedtime.”

“Would you like me to fetch my parasol?”

He didn’t answer. You heard the door close behind him, heard the quiet click of his shoes across the carpet. When you finally lifted your eyes, he was standing near the hearth, watching the fire like it had insulted him.

“You’ve been quiet today,” you said softly.

“I’ve had little worth saying.”

You snorted. “Now that I don’t believe.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look at you. But something in the air felt heavier. Tighter.

“You’ve been irritated since breakfast,” you said, marking your page with one finger. “I can’t imagine why.”

He was silent.

“You aren’t jealous, are you?”

His jaw tensed, a subtle shift in the dim firelight.

You smiled slowly. “You’re jealous. That’s why you’ve been sulking like a maid in the rain.”

“I don’t sulk,” he said coolly.

You stood, stepping toward him until only a few feet remained between you. “You’re brooding.”

“Brooding is hardly the word I’d use.”

You tilted your head. “Then what would you call it?”

He finally looked at you. And though his expression didn’t change, something in his eyes sharpened, something old and barely chained.

He stepped closer.

You didn’t back up.

“Watch your tone,” he said, voice low, steady.

“Or what?” you whispered. “You’ll pour my tea a little too quickly?”

There was no answer. Just the sound of rain outside and the fire cracking quietly as the tension between you thickened again, tighter, closer, unbearable.

And still, you stood there, trapped in that quiet, storm-slicked standoff, with only inches between defiance and something far more dangerous.

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

The fire cracked again, but it might as well have been a gunshot for the way the tension snapped tighter between you.

Your eyes scanned him slowly, reading every detail like it was one of the ledgers you were constantly asked to review. But tonight, the notes were different. Too stiff in the shoulders. Too sharp at the corner of the mouth. Too calm. Too silent.

“Tell me, did you burn a hole in the front window watching Hadrian’s carriage pull away, or was that just a trick of the glass?” Your voice was smooth, mildly amused, but behind it was bait, dangled with precision.

His answer was delayed just long enough to confirm the hit.

“I am employed to monitor the estate perimeter,” Sebastian replied with his usual polished cadence. “Not to comment on the behavior of passing rodents.”

You raised a brow. “Rodents? That’s generous. You called him ‘less than ideal company’ the first time. Now he’s been demoted to a rat?”

“I’ve seen rats with more tact.”

You stepped closer, deliberately slow, eyes locked on his. “He kissed my hand.”

“I noticed,” he said flatly.

“And bowed.”

“Sloppily.”

Your eyes narrowed. “He was perfectly polite.”

Sebastian’s mouth twitched. Not in amusement. In irritation. “That’s one word for it.”

“What would you call it?” you asked. “Aside from ‘vermin,’ obviously.”

“A waste of time,” he said, stepping forward sharply. “And a desperate attempt to impress someone far beyond his reach.”

You blinked, then tilted your head, voice laced with mock-sweetness. “And you think you know who’s within my reach?”

“I know who doesn’t try to peacock around like a fool the moment your back is turned.”

“You mean unlike you, who’s been silent all day, sulking behind tea trays like a brothel ghost?”

He smiled now, cold and thin. “Better a ghost than a jester.”

“Is that what this is?” You smirked. “You’re upset because I humored someone who can actually say something interesting without reminding me he’s ‘one hell of a butler’ every five minutes?”

His gloved hand twitched behind his back.

You pressed forward just enough to make the final jab: “What’s wrong, Sebastian? He talk to me too long for your liking?”

His jaw flexed. Just once. “I don’t concern myself with who you choose to flatter. I simply advise against wasting time with mediocre men who mistake theatrics for worth.”

You laughed, dry and sharp. “So you are jealous.”

He took another step, cutting the last of the distance between you. “Jealousy implies emotional attachment. I assure you, I feel nothing of the sort.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you murmured, chin raised.

“And yet I haven’t,” he said, voice barely above a whisper now. “Because you’ve been circling this since you walked into the room.”

You said nothing.

“Why don’t you admit it?” he added. “You enjoyed getting a rise out of me.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “I like watching you slip.”

“I don’t slip.”

“You’re slipping right now,” you said, nodding down toward his balled fists. “Look at your hands.”

His eyes flicked down once, then back up. His posture remained perfect. Controlled. But there was a heat in his stare that hadn’t been there before. Something flickering behind the mask, ancient and hard-edged.

You turned toward the book you’d dropped earlier, bending to retrieve it. “I don’t blame you for being annoyed. He is taller than you.”

The insult struck like a knife, but Sebastian said nothing. You straightened again, smug, waiting.

But this time, he didn’t take the bait.

He simply stared at you for a long moment, gaze unreadable, and then said flatly, “It’s late, my lady.”

You raised a brow. “And?”

“It’s time you returned to your chambers.”

You folded your arms, spine straight. “Not tired.”

He stared. Then moved to the bookshelf to your left.

“If you refuse to retire, I will stay here until you do,” he said as he selected a random volume and opened it without looking.

“Petty.”

“Practical.”

“Jealous.”

“Amused,” he said, tone colder now. “That you think this affects me.”

You stepped toward him again, brushing past him just slightly, knowing he wouldn’t react. Not visibly. But you could feel it.

The air between you was stiff as steel wire. Tension wound like clock springs between every breath, every glance.

“You sure you don’t want to call Hadrian a few more names while you’re here?” you asked over your shoulder.

“I prefer to deal with pests outside the house,” Sebastian murmured, not looking up. “Or do you enjoy playing with strays?”

You opened the library door with an elegant flick. “You’re getting slow. That insult barely registered.”

“Forgive me,” he said, eyes lifting briefly. “I’m restraining myself.”

You paused, lips twitching. “That’s what I like about you, Sebastian. So polite. So well-behaved.”

He closed the book with a snap.

“Goodnight, butler.”

“Sleep well, my lady,” he replied coolly. “Do dream of something less… embarrassing.”

You didn’t respond, just slipped into the hallway. Behind you, the library door closed without a sound. But the air in the corridor still hummed, heavy with the static left behind. He hadn’t said it. But you’d won this round. And the next would be worse. For both of you.

And somewhere upstairs, that storm still hadn't passed.

[rainychaoloveshack]

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ 𝐑𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐱𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐠.

a casual night with sonic.

⋆°•☁︎ content . sonic x reader, fluff & comfort, light suggestiveness at the end

☂︎ wc. 1k

☂︎ a/n. hello! spring has sprung, and therefore so has my writing motivation! very happy to be writing again :P btw, once i finish some of these requests, expect a lancelot fic next :))

Seeing Sonic tower over you was a sight you never truly got accustomed to, even after seeing him repeatedly every moonlit night. Sharp claws, threatening fangs, enlarged and muscular arms screamed a story of legend; a transformation of horror, yet his gentle, emerald eyes are all the same.

“C’mon, I wasn’t hurt that bad.” He grumbles as your fingertips run over the wrap of bandages on his arm, staring down at the cream colored fabric. Your head tilts up to gaze at his now bashful face, brows furrowing. “You’re being such a worrywart about it. I’m fine, I promise.”

While you worry and strain yourself for the night over his wound and last battle, Chip snoozes soundly beside the both of you, cuddled up against the couch cushions, mumbling incoherently about some sort of ice cream he favors greatly, one him and Sonic bought today at the vendor in Apotos. Sonic peers around to look at him thoughtfully, before a small tug on his bandages brings his focus back to you, as you reassure yourself that you applied them correctly. As you check over his other arm, he starts to speak, his signature energetic voice now grumbled over his new form, yet enthusiastic nonetheless.

“This whole Dark Gaia stuff is giving a whole buncha’ people a run for their money.” You turn over his right palm to check for any wounds or scrapes there, then his left. A little scarred, but healing fast, and otherwise healthy. “It had a bunch of people in the town worried and acting all crazy. Same thing with Spagonia.” You give him a reassuring pat on his arm, and his smile widens once your eyes meet his. “But I can handle it.”

Not that you ever doubted him for a second.

You reach up, giving him a little scratch under his chin, watching his smile increase into a toothy grin along with a content growl as you pull yourself up further to reach the top of his head. He seems to notice this and brings his head downward, allowing you easy access to his fuzzy self.

“But wow, can it get annoying dealing with those creatures sometimes!" His ear keeps on twitching as you scratch behind it, a small thumping noise coming from his foot tapping against the flooring, scraping up bits of wood with his spiked cleats. "Both Egghead's robots, and-" His words are cut off by a soft chuckle once you start scratching his other one, and he leans into your touch. "And Dark Gaia's minions!" As you slow down and stop, the thumping noise stops rather quickly, and you decide to let him keep some of his dignity and don’t mention it. “At night, sometimes when I try and help people, they-”

He cuts himself off, his grin fading, eyes hardening as he stares outside the window to meet with the moonlight. “They uh…” You don’t rush him, taking his right hand into both of yours, rubbing his palm slowly. After a few seconds or so, he speaks.

“Don’tcha think I’m... Scary like this?” Sonic seems confused by your affection, his eyes distant and melancholic. “Everyone else kinda avoids me, but you don’t at all. I dunno why you-”

You don’t answer verbally, but let your actions speak instead; nothing but a soft sigh against his fur leaves you, pressing your lips to the middle of his knuckles in a tender kiss, lingering as a shiver from him hits your lips. Pleased at his reaction, you back away.

“Geez.” The intonation of his words doesn’t pair up to his expression, hiding his face with a turn of his head. His ears pin down at the sound of your soft laughter, clutching your hands in his.

His hands are still so temperate in yours, yet wary of his appearance and strength. Once your laughter starts to die down, he gives a bashful, toothy smile your way.

“I’m so lucky to have you around, y’know." Before you can say something in response, his firm hands grip your shoulders, pushing you back and down against the couch cushions, bashful smile turned sinister.

Oh?

“‘Might wanna show that appreciation someday. If you really aren’t scared of me, then I might just…” Sonic leans in, his mouth widening as he huffs a soft pant of breath on your neck, sending shivers across your body that he acknowledges with a rough chuckle, darting the tip of his tongue out to lap at the soft skin of your neck, leaving a small trail of drool.

Oh. Oh. Oh gosh.

Before he can do anything more, you immediately push his head away by the base of his snout, reminding him of the slumbering dessert lover on the other side of the couch. Still stuck in a deep slumber, but you’d rather not take any chances. No matter how good Sonic’s tongue can be.

Sonic’s face suddenly clears as if caught with his hand in a cookie jar, eyes darting to Chip, then back to you, grinning sheepishly.

“... Guess I got a little carried away, huh?”

What an absolute dog.