#so he can learn that death is not the answer and that there’s love and betterment for him

[azullumi]

IN THE DESCENT OF MADNESS CALLED LOVE !!

premise — he’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair that mirrors falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you; alternatively, phainon is everything warmth and kindness embodies, and when he stumbles upon you, a person who just wants to get out of this very hell but can’t, the both of you get caught up in the mess created by your very own hands. content tags and warnings — pairing: phainon x gn!reader | alnst!au, kind of a toxic relationship, graphic descriptions of death, wounds, and blood, cynical and hater reader meets golden sunshine boy, a lot of physical touching and intimacy, religious themes and metaphors, love is cannibalism, some things about anakt garden is up to assumption, comfort/fluff if you squint, rocky start but they get bad before they get better then worst, angst, not proofread | wc: 5.0k

note from me — i did not write this with a sane mind at all but its fun exploring this kind of dynamic lol also this week i learned that i have scoliosis ?

i.) cast the flames and shatter your heart, you are nothing without the ache of your hands

Anakt Garden is ugly.

It’s suffocating and abhorrently quiet despite the echoes of laughter and feet stomping and stumbling on the grassy grounds. It’s detestful how some humans treat it as paradise when it actually is a warm embrace before death takes you, a preparation for something equally repulsive as the lights on stage or the collar on your necks. 

You’ve stopped caring about it, about everyone else. 

You’re a few minutes into your granted free time, and you’ve decided to sit by the trees near the lake—not a lot comes here, after all, so you can finally have some peace.

You’re halfway through sketching a single fish when a shadow looms over you. You don’t look up, disregarding the presence as another measly child who is simply too curious.

You finish the sketch, take out the crayons, and begin coloring. Minutes pass; you hear some shuffling and rustling, then finally, a voice, gentle and clear as the crafted melodies you have sung.

“Can I color too?”

You look beside you where the sound came from, where you see a blur of blue and white. It’s a boy—there’s a boy sitting right beside you and peering over your sketchbook and you cannot see his face.

Either he had mistaken you for a close friend of his or it’s normal for him to be this friendly to a total stranger.

“No.” You simply answer, before scooting a little away from him and resuming your work. You add details to the fish on the left, adoring it with sparkles and a reddish pattern.

The boy follows and keeps the same distance.

“Why not?” You don’t answer, so he pursues like a relentless fire. “I’m not going to ruin it.”

This time you finally look at him and you see it—hair, the reflection of snow, and a pair of eyes that holds the skies within. It’s a beautiful blue, adoring and soft; the kind of hue you have heard your provider tell you when she mentions this place called ‘ocean’. You’re sure you can see yourself in them too as he keeps his gaze on yours.

“It’s not about ruining it.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know you.”

Not like you know anyone here, though. You’ve always kept your distance from everyone, nothing good is going to ever come out of making bonds in this grand play of life and death. You look back to your artwork. 

Silence falls in the small space between you and him, in the gap between that can be easily closed if he were to push a little closer, but he seemingly abates and you’re about to let out a sigh (of relief?) when he speaks once more.

“I’m Phainon.” He beams a grin at you when you look at him again. “Nice to meet you!”

It feels like there are floating flowers and stars surrounding him when he speaks, and you’ve come to realize and accept the fact that this stubborn child is not going to give up. So you simply just relent and give him the boxes of crayons, bringing the sketchbook closer to him.

You don’t see him but you feel it—the sparkle in his eyes and the utter warmth that clings to his smile. You think you never want to see it.

“Ah, you smudged it.”

“Oh, wait. Let me fix it quickly.”

“You ruined it even more!”

“Oops, sorry.” He looks at you while scratching the back of his head, his somewhat insincere face completely rendering his apology useless.

“Don’t look at me like that. We can just do this,” he picks up a different crayon, one that stands out from the background, and begins doing whatever he is planning while you watch. It’s not like you don’t have the energy to stop him—and maybe you actually do—, but curiosity triumphs over you as your eyes follow the movement of his hand. “Ta-dah! I present to you: Fishnon!”

There’s another fish standing beside the one you have drawn now, except this one looks a little messier—mixed in the blur of colors and blue, laid on top of the hues like a coveted stain, but it stands out in the array of pigments, nevertheless.

“Fishnon…?” You don’t know why you question it nor what you are even questioning for, but your eyes are glued to the paper, specifically to the newly-added fish with a sword. Oh, and the two fishes are now holding hands.

“Yeah, Fishnon! It’s Phainon and Fish combined.” 

He’s rather enthusiastic. And it’s stupid. Like extremely stupid.

Phainon’s art skills are not much developed compared to yours and his fish persona looks ridiculous standing beside the one you have drawn. But for some reason, the tight knots in your chest eases just enough to make you breathe again. You don’t realize you’ve been holding it.

“It looks just like you.” You say, adding details to Fishnon.

“As it should.”

And somewhere between here and there, in this moment under the carefully drawn skies, he calls for you in a kind tone (you don’t recall ever telling him your name) and you can feel something shift deep within you. Something soft, warm, slowly unraveling itself.

It’s high time in noon, meals are being served, and it feels like a curse has been cast on you.

Ever since then, your eyes betray you—always seeking blue, and whenever you find it, it’s already gazing back.

The thing that has you scratching your head and wishing to slap yourself is that it always follows with that stupid smile—that stupid grin with that dumb face and those annoying eyes that crinkles into crescents.

You stab your fork harshly on the pea that it scratches against the plate’s surface. It bursts under the tines, its guts smearing the porcelain. The poor vegetable colony probably cripples in fear of being the next victim.

“Is this seat free?” 

You don’t look up. You don’t need to. His voice is unmistakable—honeyed and light, like the choir’s song before they curdle into screams.

“Yes.”

“Can I sit beside you?”

This is why you never try to know anyone. Not only is it a waste of effort but it will do nothing but harm. Bonds here are rotten fruit born from a splendid tree, dangling from a branch just to be plucked and crushed underfoot. The Garden’s love is a slow poison, and Phainon gulps it down like communion wine. You’re not sure who to blame here, but is there really anyone to do so? Was this a sin?

But when you open your mouth, what comes out is:

“Go ahead.”

It all feels so foolish. Like pull-your-hair-out stupid, what-the-hell-did-i-get-into foolish. Despite averting your eyes away, your gaze only returns to him soon after like a pair of magnets that can never be separated—and perhaps he simply was just like that, how irritating he may be even if doing nothing. There was a certain fascination in how he can remain rather optimistic and happy despite the circumstances he is in.

Your gaze drags back to him. Always to him.

Phainon eats like someone who still believes food is a gift, not fuel. He peels the crust off his bread, arranges his carrots into a smiley face, hums between bites. Alive. Too alive.

“Are you always eating alone?”

You shrug, “I’m used to it.”

He leans in, elbows on the table, breadcrumbs clinging to his lips. "Let’s always eat together," he declares, as if it’s that simple. 

He’s going to die in this place; he will be trampled on and reduced to nothing but another pretty corpse onstage, and the only thing that will ever be remembered of him are those hues of stolen skies that glimmer like stars in their wake and hair like falling snow, and the only one who will remember is you.

"Suit yourself," you mutter, but your hand is already stealing a carrot from his tray.

He laughs, bright and startled, and you hate how it settles in your ribs like a second heartbeat.

ii.) let it consume you, it must consume you, allow your body to return to ashes

You’ve noticed this before but Phainon is really well-cared for.

In every moment he had pestered you ���leaning into your space with that infuriating grin, humming off-key hymns—and in every moment that you had indulged him, you have never seen him unkempt clothes or tattered fabrics. He appears to be pampered, meticulously attended to and looked after—it almost feels like every joint of his are strung, his movements controlled and calculated. Everything about him is so well-maintained it practically exudes that he is beloved by the aliens.

But not now.

Not with the bruise blooming across his cheekbone like a stain, not with his shirt torn at the collar, rust-brown blood smeared down his chin, dripping on his pristine-white shirt.

Your eyebrows knit into one, “What did you get yourself into?”

He had never struck you as someone who would get into meaningless squabbles. 

Earlier, whispers slithered through the halls: A scuffle near the dorms, a group of boys throwing punches against one another, a chorus of gasps. You ignored it—until you couldn't and you found yourself with your hand on his wrist and running away with him. And so here you are, inside one of the vacant art rooms—your art room, the one reeking of turpentine and stolen solitude—tending to his wounds with a careful efficiency like handling a porcelain vase.

You dig through the kit that you retrieved from your room: half-dried alcohol, cotton balls pilfered from the infirmary, bandages fraying at the edges. Supplies you’d hoarded for yourself, for the days when the weight of the Garden’s hymns threatened to crack your ribs open. 

You’ve never thought that you were going to use it in this way. I mean, sure, they are eventually going to be used to clean up wounds, cuts, or whatever, but you’ve only done it to yourself.

Doing it for someone is different. This—closeness and something unnamed that sinks into your bones, that engraves warmth in your lungs, that makes your hands tremble—is different.

He laughs—a nervous and embarrassed sound as he darts his eyes to the side. His collar is red. “Let me explain.”

You work in silence, dabbing at the split skin of his lip and he takes it as a sign to continue.

“They started it.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“They called you a freak.” Your hand doesn’t falter, even as your pulse stutters.“They called me one too, but that’s whatever. Then they dragged you into it, said you were—”

You press particularly hard, shoving the cotton into the gash of his knuckles. squeezing alcohol out of it that seeps directly into his wounded skin. He yelps.

“—OW! Okay, okay! Mercy!”

“Don’t do that ever again.”

Don’t make it so easy.

Don’t let them see you bleed. Don’t let them hear you care. But he does, he always does, and that’s what makes it devastating—like a tragedy waiting to be written with the ink of your blood and papers of your flesh.

Phainon’s smile is lopsided, a fractured thing, too bright for this rotting world. Blood is still trickling from his lip. "Worried about me?"

You want to strangle him. You should have let him bleed out on the floor, should have let the surveillance catch him and apprehend him, you could have.

You tape the bandage over his knuckles too tight, relish the way he grits his teeth. "I’m worried you’ll get us both in trouble."

He leans in, close enough that you taste copper on his breath. "Too late for that."

Outside, the tree’s shadows stretch long across the fields, and for a heartbeat, you let yourself loathe him. Loathe the way his lashes catch the light like gilded wire. Loathe the way his pulse jumps under your fingertips, alive and reckless and his. Loathe that he’s here, now, ruined—for you.

He is a cosmic masterpiece carved by the stars themselves.

A divine joke, what a terrible sense of humor the universe has. A boy built from sunlight and sonatas, now bleeding onto your hands because he thought your name was worth defending.

You press your thumb to the bruise on his cheekbone, smearing the violence deeper. This is how love feels, you think: like swallowing a shard of glass and calling it sacred. Like watching a god kneel in the dirt and knowing you are the blasphemy that brought him low.

“What are you thinking?” His voice is soft, mingling with your tangled breaths.

“Nothing.” You say, closing your eyes and inhaling the scent of the crushing abyss that awaits for your fall.

You will remember the exact shade of red his blood makes against your skin, long after the stage burns his voice from the light.

“Did it hurt?”

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, wrenching it aside to reveal the jagged letters carved into his skin. PHAINON—a filthy scar that glares at you, one that should have never existed.

You were subject to an excruciating procedure of having your names burned into your skin, a brand that will forever remain in your being, a foul stain. You don’t like it, you don’t like the pain, the screams that only the walls and machinery can hear; everything about it was disgusting.

Phainon tilts his head back so you can see the engraving better. “Not really,” he simply says, like he’s discussing the weather. “I didn’t feel anything at all.”

“You’re a bad liar, Phainon.” Your thumb gently glides over the engraving and his breath hitches—just once—when you trace the A, the I, the N, as if you could rewrite him with your hands.

“Okay, yeah. It hurt a lot.” A shadow flickers across his face—there and gone, like a fish darting into deeper water. “But it’s just skin anyway,” he murmurs.

Just skin. As if the both of you don’t know that skin is the first thing they take from you.

You release his collar with a sigh, “Whatever.” But he catches your wrist before you can retreat, his hand wrapped around right above where your name is engraved. He smiles, tilting his head like a curious hound: “Why do you care?”

The question hangs between you, sharp as a guillotine. You could lie. You could say it’s disgust, that it’s nothing else beyond the warmth that spreads on your skin that touches his, that it’s fear and repeated nightmares of his blood on your hands.

“I resent you.”

His thumb strokes your inner wrist, right over the vein. “I know.”

Of course he knows. He’s always known.

You resent the way he grins through bloodied teeth, the way he hums and runs around like everything is just a mere game. You resent that he chose you—a hissed sit with me, a crayon shoved into your hand, a thousand tiny violations of your solitude that you allow anyways.

Hatred, you’ve learned, is the closest thing to love this place allows.

This rotten land doesn’t teach you how to cradle someone’s face gently—it teaches you to bite. It doesn’t teach you whispered confessions—only how to carve your devotion into flesh, letter by letter, until the wound never closes.

"You’re disgusting," you say, and your fingers dig into his engraving like you want to peel it off his bones.

Phainon laughs, breath hot against your cheek. "Yeah." His other hand slides up your spine, nails catching on fabric. "You too."

It almost feels like a vow.

You hate him. You hate the way his breath hitches when you claw at his back. You hate how he licks the blood off your skin, how he steals food from the cafeteria trays to leave in your room, how he burns brighter every time you try to push him away.

Most of all, you hate that he’s right—that this is love, here in this rotting cradle.

Love is teeth breaking skin, it is holding someone’s heart just to feel how hard it struggles, it is watching the aliens mark him for slaughter and thinking, Mine, mine, mine.

“You shouldn’t have followed me that day,” you mutter.

“You were drawing a fish,” he says, as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

The air between you is thick with the scent of something cruel and soft at the same. His grip tightens, not enough to bruise, but enough that you feel the ridges of his fingerprints like another brand.

“Does yours still hurt?” he asks suddenly.

You could lie again. Instead, you yank your wrist free and press your palm to his chest, right over his heartbeat. You lightly push him away, glaring, “Yes.”

He exhales, sharp, like you’ve stabbed him. Then he leans forward until his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm and uneven. “Good.”

Phainon does not believe in love the way they tell it, in the way endless adoration and worship is tangled into one golden thread that ties you to another person, but he believes in you, in this anger, hatred, warmth, in the way your nails dig into his engraving like you want to peel his name from his flesh and swallow it whole. 

It’s ugly. It’s his.

And that’s close enough for him.

(He will adore you for a very, very long time.)

It’s starving, gnawing.

The guilt is a living thing inside you—a parasite with needle teeth, chewing through your ribs, gorging itself on the soft pulp of your shame. It festers in the hollows of your lungs, swelling with every breath, until you choke on the stench of your own rot. 

You want to claw it out. You try—digging your nails into your sternum, as if you could peel back skin and snap your bones apart to reach it. But it’s slick with bile, writhing deeper every time you grab hold, leaving your fingers glistening with the proof of your sickness.

Every thought is a crime.

You should have pushed him away harder.

You should have let him hate you.

You should have been cruel enough to save him.

But you weren’t. And now, the competition looms like a guillotine blade, and all you can taste is the sour tang of regret on your tongue, the way it coats your teeth like rust. You want to scream. You want to vomit. You want to tear your own skin off if it means escaping the weight of what you’ve done—what you’re still doing—by letting him stand this close, by letting him believe, even for a second, that you can protect him, that he can protect you, that you are safe in this tight space you have molded for yourselves.

“You’re not going to die!”

This was the first time Phainon has raised his voice at you.

It cracks through the air like a whip, raw and desperate, and you flinch like he’s struck you. His hands are fists at his sides, trembling, his knuckles white with the force of it. There’s something wild in his eyes—something terrifying, something alive—and it makes your stomach twist.

"Say it," he demands, stepping closer. His foot knocks against yours and your vision spins as you fall back into your bed, your body welcomed by the soft mattress. He hovers over you, hands caging the sides of your face: "Say I’m not going to die."

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

The silence is worse than a lie.

Phainon’s breath hitches, and for a single, horrifying moment, you think he might cry. But then his jaw sets, his shoulders squaring like he’s bracing for impact, and he laughs—a sharp, broken sound that scrapes down your spine. It dies like a record slowly breaking down and he pulls you up in his arms, cradling you close to his chest, his face buried in the crevice of your neck.

“I can never understand you at all.” His words vibrate against your neck, warm and damp with something too close to tears.

You chew the inside of your cheek until copper floods your tongue, your hands trembling by your side instead of embracing him too. You don’t offer any words of comfort but you allow him to pull you close, let him hold you—you allow this. This fragile, fractured closeness where your shadows merge into one grotesque shape on the wall, a two-headed creature bound at the ribs but never at the hands. 

Yet it is not enough, it feels like you’re still far from him, like you could easily slip away from his grasp, and it makes him scared.

“Do you want to leave?”

“But where do we go?” There’s nothing else for you out there. Perhaps there was a time, a spur-of-the-moment decision when you had run away with him, slipping through the cracks to be greeted by crimson skies, vastly different from the perfect cerulean illusion you are used to seeing. You'd run until your lungs burned, Phainon's hand welded to yours, both of you laughing like the world couldn't catch you, but that was it.

“Anywhere.”

“There’s no ‘anywhere’ for us.”

“Then the rebellion, I’ve heard—”

“And what, Phainon? What happens after that?” Your voice cracks like dry earth. "What happens after that? We trade one collar for another? Die faster?"

The words linger between you, sharp as the scent of ozone before a storm.

Phainon's fingers dig into your waist, his breath hot against your skin he begins trailing his mouth up your neck, like he’ll eventually meet god at your lips. A salvation, a small prayer.

"We could fight."

"We are fighting," you snap. "Every single day. And look where we are."

The competition looms in three days and you can hear the ringing in your ears, the humming, and you cannot ignore it. You will lose yourselves one way or another, and that is a tragedy, a certainty, that had loomed over you, that had awaited you.

The only thing you could do was to lie there, tangled in each other but impossibly separate, his heartbeat thundering against your chest where yours should be answering. 

Phainon's hand slides up your spine, pressing you closer like he can fuse your skeletons together. "Tell me to stay," he breathes.

"Why?"

"So I have a reason not to go."

Your fingers finally move—not to push him away, but to clutch the back of his shirt, twisting the fabric until your knuckles bleach white. The cotton stretches taut between you, threads straining like the last fraying ties to sanity. His warmth seeps through the thin material, burning your palms, but you hold tighter—as if you could stitch him into your skin with just your desperation alone.

"Stay," you whisper.

It's too much. It's not enough.

There’s a wet, broken sound—and suddenly his arms are crushing you against him, his face buried in your hair. You feel the exact moment his resolve shatters; the tremor that runs through him, the way his shoulders curl around you like he's trying to shield you from the world, from himself, from the inevitable.

You are so terribly, devastatingly alive together.

Alive in the way open wounds are alive—raw and pulsing and too tender to touch. Alive in the way a noose is alive when it snaps taut. Alive in the only way the world has allowed you to be: achingly, horrifyingly, beautifully alive, even as death crouches in the corner.

iii.) until the world stills, until you weave your hands into mine, until death embraces you

Inherently, every human is afraid of dying.

You’ve watched him on the big screen as he performs, as he tramples over every single person he is faced against, as his numbers rise higher and as it declares his win; his victory flashing as he smiles—that brilliant, broken smile—and bows like the good little performer they've molded him to be.

But you always see what they don't.

The way his fingers twitch at his sides when he thinks no one's looking. The barely-there tremor in his shoulders as he walks offstage. The single bead of sweat trailing down his temple that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the knife's edge he's balancing on.

He does the same for you, he watches every single one of your performances with a glimmer in his eyes, like pride and adoration, but something else also stains the hues—fear, anxiety, and everything that makes his fingers tremble and his mind muddled. It’s raw and rancid.

It's in the way his breath catches when you hold a high note a second too long. In the way his lips move silently, mirroring your lyrics like a prayer. In how he searches and reaches for you after every round of yours, his trembling fingers skimming your wrist, your jaw, the pulse at your throat—as if to remind himself that you’re still here and alive, and the knowledge sits between you like a third body in bed.

The screen glimmers, your profile and his beside each other blinks mockingly. It’s like a death sentence. No, it is a death sentence.

The air hums with static as you walk toward the stage, each step heavier than the last. Anakt Garden's constraints had been suffocating, but this is akin to drowning in open air.

You've always thought Phainon would die under these lights. That his blood would be the one to stain the stage crimson, his final note ringing through the speakers as the audience cheered his demise. You'd imagined it so often the scene played behind your eyelids every night—his blue eyes going dull, his snow-white hair matted with red, his hand slipping from yours as the life left him.

Perhaps you’ve changed by now.

The bars of your scores compete against one another, numbers flashing across the screen in a cruel mockery of choice. You’ve cut your lines short, fallen into a note lower than you’re supposed to sing; you'd practiced this for weeks in empty rehearsal rooms—how to make imperfection look accidental, how to falter just enough.

Then you feel it—something cold punching through your neck, sharp and sudden. A gasp tears from your throat as warmth spills down your skin.

Phainon's eyes widen in dawning horror as your fingers twitch in his grasp; you swear you could hear him calling your name out in panic. He sees it before you do, before you even realize what is happening—the dark bloom staining across your clothes, the way your lips part to speak but only blood spills forth. Your knees buckle, and he moves without thought, catching you as you collapse against him.

Oh, you think, distantly amused. You’re dying.

And, oh, you are dying. The realization comes with startling clarity, with something almost like relief, and it feels euphoric like warm honey flooding your veins. It makes your chest ease as if you could ever breathe again—like the time he had shown you his ridiculous art piece with pride. Because you are the one dying, because you are the one bloodied and the crimson staining the stage is yours. You are dying, desperate and violent, but it’s you.

His arms tighten around you, his breath coming in ragged bursts against your temple. The audience's cheers fade to white noise as he presses his forehead to yours, his tears mixing with the blood on your lips. "We're okay," he chokes out, the words a desperate incantation. "We're okay, we're okay."

You can feel his heartbeat where your chests press together, wild and frantic and alive. So alive. More alive than you'll ever be again. The thought should terrify you. Instead, it settles in your bones like peace.

You kiss him instead of answering. His mouth tastes like the candy he stole from the cafeteria, like the salt of your shared sweat, like last chances. And when you pull away, his sob cracks through you like gunfire. You want to tell him it's alright. You want to tell him to run. Instead, your fingers find him, twining together one final time as the world narrows to the blue of his eyes, the warmth of his hands, the sound of your name on his lips.

You and him could have done so much more if you were on earth, instead of whatever rotten, disgusting stage this is. The thought comes unbidden, sharp as the pain radiating through your chest. 

You could have had lazy mornings in sunlit kitchens, his humming drifting over sizzling pans. Could have traced the constellations on his skin without counting the scars. Could have stood before stained glass windows, vows spilling from bloodied lips not in desperation, but devotion.

Instead, you get this: his tears hot on your cheeks, his voice breaking around your name, the metallic tang of your last breath clinging to his tongue.

You don’t want to die, you never wanted to die—perhaps the feeble attempts of not caring whether you’ll end up bloodied either on stage or on dirt were simply just things to lessen the growing void of fear that gnaws at your heart, to make it painless. But it hurts, it hurts so bad, you can feel it; your body feels cold, everything feels cold, your eyes are becoming blurry, and everything around you is fading into nothing. You don’t even feel Phainon’s arms wrapped around yours, gently cradling your existence within his grasp as if you’re going to slip away—because you are.

It all dawns on you. You feel selfish, you’re being selfish. Stupid, reckless, selfish. You’re going to leave him alone in this hell, with nothing but the memory of your blood on his hands and the echo of your voice in his ears. The realization claws up your throat, bitter as bile. You want to take it back. Want to scream. Want to beg for more time—just one more second, one more breath, one more chance to tell him—

“I know,” He presses his lips to your forehead, lingering like he could imprint himself there. “You’re not being selfish, I know.”

Of course, he does. He’s always known you like the back of his own scarred hands—known the way your bravado cracks at the edges when the lights dim, how your "I don't care" always meant "I care too much." Known that beneath all your sharp edges and bitten-off words, you were always the one who would throw yourself into the fire if it meant he could stand in the light a moment longer.

“Please,” You plead for the first time in your life, and it hurts to speak but you still do, fingers tightening weakly in his shirt. “Forgive yourself.”

The both of you had made this decision knowing it won’t end well. 

And you murmur it: the three words that have caused all of this mess, the confession that started your slow descent to madness. They taste sweet as stolen sugar on your dying tongue, bittersweet as the candy he used to slip into your palm. His arms tighten around you like he could rewrite fate through the sheer force of his embrace, and he wishes he could.

PHAINON WIN.

BRO IS NOT MIZISUA

© AZULLUMI. plagiarism of any form and type, stealing, copying, translating, reposting my works on other platforms is NOT permitted.

[kaayyyys]

hii dear, can you write something with daryl x reader in a relationship where he had just gotten used to receiving physical affection from his gf and since then he cannot stop holding ou being clingy with her even in public? it could be at the prison bc i miss earlier seasons daryl😭

We love clingy relationships .

Yesss the prison era was soon memorable it's been on my mind recently

The watchtower creaked a mournful song in the wind, a constant reminder of the precariousness of their sanctuary. But tonight, in the relative quiet of the prison block, the sounds felt distant, muted. Daryl sat beside you on the edge of your cot, the thin mattress offering little comfort but enough for the two of you to huddle together. The ever-present tension that coiled tight in his shoulders seemed to ease ever so slightly as his calloused hand found yours.

It was a marvel, really, how far they'd come. Just months ago, the idea of Daryl Dixon, the gruff, solitary hunter, initiating any kind of physical contact beyond a necessary pat on the back would have been laughable. Now, he sought it out. Not with words, of course. Daryl wasn't one for grand pronouncements or flowery language. But the way his eyes followed you, the way his hand instinctively reached for yours whenever you were within reach, the almost imperceptible softening of his features when you touched him… it spoke volumes.

The change had been gradual, almost imperceptible at first. A lingering brush of his hand against yours as he passed you a knife, a shoulder bumping yours a little harder than necessary as you walked side-by-side on a scavenging run, a fleeting touch to your back as he guided you through a crowded room. Each small gesture a tentative probe, a silent question: Is this okay?

And you, understanding the vulnerability hidden beneath his rough exterior, had answered with gentle smiles, a returning squeeze, a comfortable lean. You understood that for Daryl, physical touch wasn't just a sign of affection; it was a language he was only just beginning to learn. A language of safety, of trust, of belonging.

The prison, for all its grimness, had fostered a strange kind of intimacy. Shared hardships, the constant threat of death, the necessity of relying on one another… it had stripped away the layers of pretense and forced them to confront their rawest selves. You had seen Daryl at his most vulnerable, witnessed the pain that haunted his eyes, the scars, both visible and invisible, that marked his past. And he, in turn, had seen your strength, your compassion, your unwavering hope even in the face of despair.

Tonight, the silence between you wasn't uncomfortable. It was a companionable quiet, filled with unspoken understanding. Daryl’s thumb traced circles on the back of your hand, a small, repetitive motion that was strangely soothing. The gesture grounded you, reminding you that even in this broken world, there was still tenderness to be found.

He hadn't always been so open, so… clingy, as Carol had teasingly called it the other day, earning her a glare that could curdle milk. But that was the thing, wasn't it? Daryl wasn't used to having someone to hold onto, someone who wanted to be held. He'd spent so long pushing people away, building walls around his heart, that letting someone in was a completely foreign concept.

And now that you were in, now that he had finally allowed himself to be vulnerable, he seemed almost desperate to maintain that connection. It was as if he feared that if he let go, even for a moment, you would disappear, vanish like a mirage in the harsh desert of their reality.

The hand-holding had started subtly. A brief clasp of fingers during a particularly tense moment on a supply run. A comforting squeeze when one of the younger children had a nightmare. But lately, it had become almost constant. Walking through the prison yard, waiting in line for food, sitting around the campfire at night – Daryl’s hand was invariably intertwined with yours.

At first, you had found it endearing, a sweet and awkward expression of his affection. But now, you couldn’t help but notice the subtle changes in his demeanor when your hands weren’t connected. A furrowing of his brow, a slight stiffness in his posture, a barely perceptible unease in his eyes. It was as if a part of him felt incomplete, adrift, without that physical connection.

You had noticed this most acutely on a recent scavenging run to a nearby town. The streets were eerily quiet, the silence broken only by the crunch of their boots on shattered glass and the distant moans of walkers. Daryl, as always, was in the lead, his crossbow raised, his senses on high alert. You walked close behind him, your hand hovering near his, but not quite touching.

You wanted to give him space, to avoid being a distraction. He needed to focus, to be aware of his surroundings. But as the minutes ticked by, you could feel his anxiety growing. He kept glancing back at you, his eyes searching your face, a silent question in their depths.

Finally, as they rounded a corner and encountered a small group of walkers feasting on a fallen corpse, Daryl stopped abruptly, his hand shooting out to grasp yours. His grip was tight, almost painful, but you didn't pull away. You understood. It wasn't just about physical comfort; it was about reassurance. It was about knowing that you were there, that you were safe, that he wasn't alone.

He dispatched the walkers with brutal efficiency, his movements swift and precise. But even as he reloaded his crossbow, his hand remained firmly clasped in yours. It was only when they were back inside the relative safety of the prison walls that he finally released your hand, but not before giving it a lingering squeeze, a silent thank you.

Now, sitting beside you on the cot, you knew you had to address it. You couldn't let him continue to rely on you so heavily, to use physical touch as a crutch. It wasn't healthy for either of you.

"Daryl," you began softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He tensed, his eyes darting to yours, a flicker of apprehension in their depths.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, his voice gruff, his hand tightening its grip on yours.

You took a deep breath, gathering your courage. "Everything's fine," you reassured him, "But... I've noticed you've been... needing to hold hands a lot lately."

He shifted uncomfortably, avoiding your gaze. "So?" he mumbled.

"So," you continued gently, "I love holding your hand, Daryl. I really do. But I also want to make sure you're okay. That you're not relying on it too much."

He remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on your intertwined hands. Finally, he looked up, his expression a mixture of vulnerability and defiance.

"It makes me feel better," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "Makes me feel like... like I ain't gonna lose you."

Your heart ached for him. You understood his fear, his need for reassurance. But you also knew that he needed to learn to trust, to believe that you weren't going anywhere.

"I'm not going anywhere, Daryl," you said firmly, cupping his face in your hands. "I promise. But you need to know that you're strong enough to stand on your own, even without me holding your hand. And I'll always be here for you, whether we're touching or not."

He searched your eyes, his expression searching, questioning. Then, slowly, a flicker of understanding dawned in his eyes.

He took a deep breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Okay," he said, his voice stronger now. "Okay, I'll try."

You smiled, relieved. "I know you will," you said, leaning in to kiss him softly. "And I'll be right here, every step of the way."

As you pulled away, he hesitated for a moment, then reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. It was a sign of trust, of vulnerability, of a love that was growing stronger with each passing day, even in the face of the apocalypse. And as you leaned your head against his shoulder, his arm wrapping around you in a comforting embrace, you knew that even without holding hands, they were still connected. Connected by something far deeper, far more profound. Connected by the unbreakable bond of love and trust that had been forged in the fires of their shared survival. The prison might be a cage, but within its walls, they had found freedom in each other.

[faramirsonofgondor]

Something something time travel shenanigans where Dick is de-aged to nine years old. He’s a little murder gremlin who wants nothing more than his family, and he can’t get that so settles for bloodlust and revenge. Except now he’s in the future where he does a family, even if he doesn’t them yet. He gets to know them over time, he grows particularly close with Alfred, though he loves Bruce and Tim as well. Then he hears someone mention Jason, a boy Dick has never met. Bruce won’t tell him anything and the others are frustratingly quiet, so Dick does some digging. He finds out he had another brother. The boy in the photos he finds is small and thin, but his smile is one of the brightest things Dick has ever seen. Dick doesn’t understand why Bruce would have kept this from him. Then he finds out more. He learns that Joker killed him, that another person tore his family away from him, that another person he loved was left unavenged.

And Dick gets angry. Not his usual screaming, biting tantrums kind of angry. No, this anger is much colder. He knows from experience that Batman won’t let him kill, and he knows that for whatever reason the others are probably on board with that, seeing as they haven’t killed Joker either. Dick knows he only has one shot at this, and he has to plan this carefully so he doesn’t give himself away or implicate himself more than he means to. He waits for Joker to break out Arkham, watches him as he takes sanctuary in some old decrepit warehouse, and then executes his grand plan; the last joke that Joker will ever live to see, his last laugh. Nobody really knows how he does it. They all know he did it, but there’s no way to prove it, despite the real story being hysterically implausible. There’s no way that Joker died slipping on a banana peel, right? It had to be some sort of set up, some sort of foul play or something. After all, several goons mentioned the unnerving cackles coming from all around the building even after they’d found the corpse, the laugh being identical to one they’d heard so many years ago.

Meanwhile, Red Hood is crashing out in distance, upset over the fact that a fucking banana peel managed to spoil all of his carefully laid plans. When he’s done with his fit of rage, he catches wind of the fact that people are suspecting that fucking ghost of Robin or some other magical shit is what really killed Joker. Jason has a brief moment where he wonders if there’s actually a 15 year old ghost version of himself that just murked Joker. Then he hears people talking about how the murderer’s distinctly creepy cackle, and he’s thrown back to the time he was watching footage of Dick’s time as Robin and saw him drop 20 feet onto some guys arm while cackling the whole time. He’s so fucking confused by everything that he just decides to stop with the drama and confront Bruce directly. Instead of the reaction he was expecting (tears, shock, fear, denial?) Bruce just sighs and mutters something along the lines of “Of course” (Bruce is now convinced that tiny Dick raised Jason from the dead somehow so his family can be complete again) before telling Jason that Dick is upstairs and to talk to him. Jason is more than a little annoyed at being brushed off but decides he’ll deal with it later because he wants his answers first. His answer comes in the shape of a 9 year old bloodthirsty child sprinting at him full force and latching onto him like a koala bear. After ten minutes, Jason gives up on dislodging him and resigns himself to having to live in the manor for the rest of his life or until they fix Dick’s situation (though he’s doubtful that adult Dick would be willing to let him go either).

Eventually Dick gets re-aged and does not, in fact, let go of Jason. Bruce tries to confront him multiple times about how he killed Joker but Dick just feigns amnesia. The only bad thing to come out of the situation is the amount of banana-themed items that are gifted to Dick every anniversary of Joker’s death.

[kukinkrim]

the cut that always bleed

saja boys x gn!human!reader (separate)

themes: angst, character death, mentions of blood and slight violence, disassociating (mystery)

jinu.

jinu hates the color red.

he hates it. a deep, visceral, marrow-deep loathing. red was the color of hell. it was the endless walls of their land beneath the surface covered in a fire that could never be douced. it was the color of gwi-ma’s flames. it meant suffering and endless torment. the color of his rage against mortals.

and yet…

you, a mortal, loved red.

you said it was the color of life; bright, defiant, and alive. you painted your nails cherry, wore red lipstick that stained your cups, kept a red umbrella in your bag just in case. you once told him that red was the color of love. of hearts still beating. of people who chose to feel even when it hurt.

he hated how beautiful you made it sound.

he tried to ignore the way his stomach twisted every time you smiled in that stupid red hoodie of yours. or how he memorized the way red danced in your cheeks when you laughed too hard, carving that beautiful memory of yours in his mind, forever immortalized. or how his own heart, if he still had one, might’ve been that color whenever you looked at him like he wasn’t a monster.

but jinu still hated it; the color red.

yet, no matter how much he hates it, he couldn't seem to look away when red blooms across your chest.

you staggered back, eyes wide, looking down like the blood surprised you. the pain hasn't come yet, only the feeling as if you were falling—and maybe, you were. the world seemed to be tilting as you fall, but jinu was quick to run towards you and cage you between his arms.

everything he sees is red.

from the blood that stained your clothes to the blood that clung to your lips and dripping down your chin, to the blood that covered his hands as he tried his best to press down on your wound.

he was crying.

oh god, he was crying.

"please please please–" he couldn't hear anything as his ears rang in panic. all he could hear were his own pleas. his own voice soumding so foreign to him; raw and clumsy and tumbling from his throat like prayers he never thought he’d say again. "not you. god, please, not you."

his hands pressed desperately against your chest, where red was spilling through his fingers faster than he could stop it. there was so much of it. so fucking much. too much. he's sick of it. the color he hated more than anything now covering the only thing he ever learned to love.

your breath was shallow. your lips trembled like you were trying to speak, but no sound came.

“i can fix this,” he whispered, frantic. “i can—i'll make another deal, i’ll go back, i’ll give him whatever he wants—just don’t go. please. god. gwi-ma.”

he wasn't sure who he's praying to now, only that he was. to whatever god, angel, demon, forgotten deity—whoever was bored enough, merciful enough, to listen to a pitiful demon with blood on his hands and fire in his lungs.

but no one answered.

abby.

abby never liked small things.

tiny phones. tiny children. those dainty, complicated coffee you made him try once that came in cups so fragile he accidentally crushed it trying to stir.

too delicate. too easy to break.

and he hated breaking things.

abby was all big things; big laugh, big heart, big arms that accidentally knocked you over when he's walking mindlessly. he wasn’t the sharpest in the group but he loved deeply, loudly, without fear or shame.

he didn’t know how to love in pieces, only in whole.

you, on the other hand, were small.

not just physically—though you did have to stand on tiptoe to bop him on the head when he said something dumb (which was often).

but in how you moved. you were the opposite of him. while he was loud and confident a magnet that just draws people in so easily, you were soft-spoken, always scribbling in a notebook, always in your own little world.

he used to be terrified of touching you. a human so tiny. he was afraid of holding you too tightly, that he might break you somehow.

but you weren’t afraid of him.

you told him he was your favorite bear. you said his hugs felt like home, warm and secure. you tucked wildflowers inbetween his ear and told him he was gentle and good.

and he told you he would protect you. that he’d crush anyone who tried to hurt you. he meant it. he always meant it.

but sometimes, things just don't go how they're supposed to be.

he holds you in his arms, catching you when a part of the ground crumbled and opened—paving a way for demons to enter the surface. he thought he managed to get you away in time, unharmed.

his arms wrapped around your body securely, shoulders trembling. and for a second, everything felt like it would be okay. you were in his arms, safe. his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, adrenaline laced with the quiet relief of holding you again.

and then he felt it.

something… wrong. something wet.

and he looks down to see red slowly blooming across your chest drenching the fabric of your clothes. the world behind him fades away as his eyes stared at the red that had no business being on your clothes and to your eyes that only stared at him. you were smiling, weakly.

your hands reached up to his face, but your strength quickly gives out. you only managed just enough to brush your knuckles along his jaw before they dropped again. your lips parted, but your voice was faint. abby chased the light in your eyes—those bright, impossibly human eyes he adored—that was already fading.

he pressed both hands against your wound, voice ragged and shaking. “no no no no” he muttered, again and again like a broken record. his fingers fumblimg helplessly anywhere on your body he could reach. “don't leave. don't leave please-”

when you don't respond, hands going cold and your chest finally stopped rising, something inside abby broke.

he cries. silently. tears streaming down his face without him even realizing there were. heavy, like every tear sliding down took a piece of his heart with him.

and behind that sorrow, something darker twisted. rage. he was seething. he was onlt seeing red.

it slithered in his chest, slow and simmering. a fury that didn’t shout, didn’t scream, but grew by the second. he shook as he stared at your face, trying to memorize every feature before it was too late.

"you're too kind, abby." he remembers you saying on a field one day, making him a crown made out of dandelions he plucked.

abby brings your body down gently, despite the growing urge to just burn the whole earth down to ashes.

he was angry. so, so angry—and they're all going to pay.

romance.

romance believes in love the way children believe in fairy tales—utterly, unapologetically, and without a shred of doubt.

it’s ridiculous, really. a demon forged in shame and regret and sin, now wears pastel suits and sings about love for so many people.

romance likes love songs. he likes beautiful things and valentine cards and stationaries and stupid, cheesy movies where people yell in the rain. he likes handwritten letters and the smell of old bookstores and slow dances in empty rooms. he likes grand gestures, the kind that make hearts race and end with someone crying; preferably in a monologue.

he was dramatic. he lives for the drama.

so of course, of course, he fell in love with someone who couldn’t be bothered.

love seemed to be the very last thing on your mind when you see him, unlike his fans who swooned with just a glance. you never liked playing along with his theatrics. when he flirts, you pretend to barf. when he winked, you rolled your eyes. when he brought you a rose, you'd give it to someone else.

it drove him insane but he adored you for it.

beneath every teasing jab and sarcastic comments, there was a sparkle in your eyes that matched his. you challenged him. you liked challenging him. he likes being challenged. you weren't easy. you didn’t fall at his feet, but you stood beside him.

you were kind in the ways he wasn’t used to; subtle. you brought him snacks when he overworked. you stitched the torn sleeve of his jacket without asking. you told him once, “you don't need to keep asking me if i like you. i'm already here, aren’t I?” kindness shown through your actions when words cannot.

"how was it?" he would always ask every after a practice and you would reply without fail, "a little pitchy."

romance liked all things beautiful, and death was not one of it.

how does a creature who’s spent his whole existence romanticizing death deal with the reality of it when death finally comes for the only person he wanted love?

death was ugly. there was no dramatic effects when your body hit the floor, limbs slack like a marionette with its strings cut. no slow-mo cut where he heroically saved you from your demise like a hero with no cloak.

perhaps, it's because he's far cry from what a hero should be. he's a demon afterall.

there was blood on your lips. your breathing was labored as you struggled to keep your eyes open as romance keeps patting your cheek. he whispers soft no's under his breath, holding your hand with his as he presses it too his cheek. you could feel it trembling while he tried to keep your hand warm as long as he possibly could.

romance liked pretty things and death was not one of them.

but, you were still so fucking beautiful.

even like this. with your hair matted to your forehead, your lips pale, your skin gone and tained with a red that does not belong ojtside your body. you were the most goddamn beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

and it made everything worse.

because if you had died ugly—if death had stolen your light and left something monstrous in its place—maybe losing you wouldn’t have hurt so much.

mystery.

most people find mystery strange.

one time, he had a weird fixation on buying clocks that he filled their dorm with it. he likes the broken ones—the warped, the cracked, the ones that tick too fast or too slow or sometimes not at all. the old ones that chime at midnight and 3:33 a.m. and wake up his members.

he says they remind him of time; how people cling to it, race against it, fear it, never realizing how meaningless it is in the hands of a demon who’s already lived through several endings.

he likes thinking deep. what people find small, he would find infinite number of possibilities. maybe, wisdom came with his age. he is, afterall, decades older than any humans on the surface.

you liked that he never quite made sense. that his words came sideways and his thoughts came in spirals. he didn’t try to be cool or charming—he simply was, orbiting in his own offbeat gravity.

he liked that you never laughed at him. that you didn’t try to translate him into something easier to digest. you let him be weird, and in return, he let you see pieces of him no one else ever did.

“mystery…” the wind carried his name gently to his ears as he holds you close, “It’s okay.”

no.

it wasn’t.

it never would be.

but he didn’t say anything.

his heart was cracking into millions of scattered pieces but he doesn't bother try picking it all up; like fine grains of sand that wouldn't on his palm, escaping between his fingers.

the noise of the fight behind him fades.

in his mind, you weren’t dying in his arms. no—you were lying with him in the old park you both used to sneak away to, the one with the crooked swing set and the wildflowers you once tried to braid into his hair. he imagined your head resting in his lap as it did now.

he ignored the warmth spreading down his legs, the red that soaked into his clothes where your wound leaked endlessly.

instead, he focused on your hair under his fingers, stroking gently like he was lulling you to sleep under the afternoon sun. he hummed a strange tune—one only you would recognize, one he made just for you.

he offered you what little peace he could before you left, even if he couldn't bring himself to accept it. not yet.

maybe not ever.

because in his mind, you were just sleeping. and he would sit here, in the middle of the end of the world, and pretend as long as he had to if it meant keeping you with him for just a little longer.

baby.

baby likes to believe he doesn’t care.

he says it all the time with his mouth twisted into that lazy smirk and arms folded across his chest. he’s not one for sweet-talking or gentle phrasing. his words are blades: quick, unfiltered, and unapologetic. he doesn’t sugarcoat the truth or dance around people’s feelings. if you look bad, he’ll tell you. if you’re being dumb, he’ll tell you even louder.

but baby cares.

he just doesn’t know what to do with that feeling.

for someone so blunt, so cuttingly straightforward, baby has never quite figured out how to say i care.

he can call out the truth in any room, but when it comes to the truth buried in his own chest, he goes quiet. you could even go far as to say he's being rather dismissive abour it. there’s a kind of clumsy avoidance to it, a hesitancy that doesn’t match the sharp-tongued confidence he wears like a second skin. it’s not that he doesn’t feel deeply—he does, so much more than he wants to admit. it’s just that those feelings terrify him.

he doesn’t know how to say that his thoughts get stuck on you like a broken playlist. that when you’re gone for too long, he catches himself listening for your footsteps and then gets annoyed with himself for it. that every time you laugh (over something he says) his entire world shrinks to the sound of it, and the panic that floods in afterward is so strong, he masks it with a scoff and a sarcastic remark.

baby doesn’t understand softness. not really. he's spent decades in hell that all his softness hardened overtime. he doesn’t have the language for vulnerability. he doesn’t know how to say you make me feel safe, or when i see you smile, i think maybe i don’t hate this world so much after all.

or—

"don’t die," his voices was broken, cracking in desperation. he was choking back his sob, his hands tremblinf where he scanned how deep the gash on your chest was. "please. don’t—don’t do this. you’re not allowed to do this to me!”

you blinked up at him tiredly. you were having a hard time breathing, feeling like there was fire in your lungs.

your hand brushed his cheek, smearing red all over his skin. you smiled, soft and small. "i'm-i'm sleepy..."

baby swallows the lump in his throat as he glares at you, not with malice but with sorrow. he grits his teeth, biting back the tears that threatened to pour. "don’t be stupid. this isn’t funny!”

when your body finally went limp in his arms, baby fell silent. he only holds you loosely as he stares at your lifeless form.

he was furious. absolutely furious; at the universe, at fate, at the demons that tore you from his hands, but mostly, sickeningly, at you for leaving him behind. his grief twisted into a rage so consuming it made him terrifying.

he wanted to take you away from him? fine then. he'll just burn the whole world until the gods decided to bring you back to him.

[womenlover0]

-ˏˋChapter Iˊˎ

Prologue

Summary: You spend the day side by side with Abby - laughing, teasing, dreaming of a future. But when news of the immune girl spreads, hope takes a darker shape. By nightfall, the hospital is in chaos, and you're pulling Abby into your arms as her world shatters in front of you. The cost of a cure? Too high.

Warnings: Character death, loss of parental figure, blood, animal distress.

Note: The story continues! I'm way too excited to post the first few chapters that have been collecting dust in my google doc, BUT you guys seemed to enjoy the prologue so here is the next chapter! Thank you for the super nice comments under the prologue i love you guys you keep me motivated. Don't be afraid to comment or send asks I love interacting with you pookies💋 HOPE Y'ALL ENJOY MUAH

Word count: 3.05k

4 years earlier

You were sitting on a low cement barrier on the rooftop of a worn down building. Cracked and weather-stained, moss cushioning your seat. In front of you the trees loom close, thick with overgrowth. Vines curl over old wrought-iron gates, the lettering above them is rusted and nearly illegible. This place doesn't feel abandoned, not really. More like forgotten. Reclaimed by nature. Just underneath your dangling feet is a slanted metal roof. Tilted downward, green and rusted by time. 

The sun's out, no clouds in sight, you bask in the sunlight warming your face. Birds chirping, gracing your ears with their songs. Calm days like this don’t come often, especially now that you’re older. Your duty as a firefly meant a constantly full schedule of sleeping, studying, patrol and repeat. Being Jerry Anderson's apprentice was not a walk in the park. Cramming information and memorising medical terms day in and day out, was not for everyone. But your burning passion for animals was your fuel through these hardships. 

Even though Jerry only had a Bachelor of Science in Biology and the fireflies lack a veterinarian, you took it upon yourself to learn everything you could about animal physiology - mostly done alone. Scavenging for half buried veterinary manuals or copying notes by hand from old books. 

Jerry might have not been a vet, but he had the next best thing; a sharp mind, a good heart and the willingness to teach you everything he knew.

“I can’t tell you how to fix a cat’s broken leg, but I can teach you how to ask the right questions” he’d say while readjusting his reading glasses. 

And that he did. He gave you access to the lab, taught you proper sterile techniques, how to log field notes, how to think in hypotheses.

That’s how Abby would often find you. Back hunched over a microscope, wrist deep into notes, sleeves rolled up and eyebrows furrowed with focus. Abby would tease you about it, calling you Dr. Smartypants with a smirk, but she was always the first to help flip through old textbooks or test you on obscure facts:

“Do snakes have gallbladders?” she asks with furrowed brows.

“Yes Abby.” you answer curtly, without raising your eyes from your notes.

“Gross.”

It was those quiet moments that meant the most - sitting shoulder to shoulder in the mess hall, sharing hushed laughter between the notes. That built something between you. Something soft. Unnamed.

You didn’t hear her at first. Too in over your head to pay attention to the heavy boots hitting the cracked concrete. Two hands digging their fingers into both sides of your waist snaps you out of your daze. You jump upwards, the sudden pinch jolting you straight out of your daydream. Your head snaps back to spot the culprit. Sporting a pair of green cargos and a brown t-shirt. Dirty blond hair braided into a singular short dutch braid - was Abby Anderson. 

“Jesus, Abs.” you gasp breathlessly. 

She’s already grinning, hands up like she’s innocent. “I called your name. Twice.”

“Bullshit” you say with an eye roll, turning your head away before she spots the smile creeping up your face. 

She takes a seat beside you on the battered concrete wall, shoulders brushing yours, a small contact that does more to you than it should. Out of the corner of your eye you see Abby lean forward to glance down at the ground beneath. A solid 3 meter drop. Knowing Abby and her fear of heights, it looks higher. 

“If you fall down you’ll die like an idiot” she says, glancing your way.

You don’t answer immediately. You don’t have to.

The breeze brushes a strand of her hair, she doesn’t brush it away. The silence between you is calm, almost something sacred. You glance at her. Without thinking you raise your hand out to her face to gently tuck the strand of hair behind her ear. As if any sudden movement would break the tranquility between you. Her eyes leave the drop and meet yours. 

“You always come up here when you’re stressed.” she quickly eyes the drop again before glancing your way “I figured I’d find you here.”

“I like the quiet,” you say “It feels far away from…everything.”

She hums in agreement. “You should be careful though.”

“With what? Gravity?” you ask with a playful grin.

“With yourself.”

You glance at her. She’s looking at the drop again, but there is something softer in her voice now, something unguarded. And the look in her eyes is not the fear of the height anymore. It’s the fear of something else.

You bump your shoulder to hers, a soft grin grazing your lips.

“Hey, I got you to keep me safe, don’t I?” you say with a playful tone, trying to lighten up the mood. 

She looks at you with an eye roll, snorting. 

“What are you doing out anyways? I thought you were training.” you ask.

“Well…dad’s run off again and I’m getting shit for it.” she sighs “Couldn’t find you either so I figured I’ll find the both of you.” 

“Well, one down, one more to go.” you shrug “C’mon, I’ll help you find him.” 

Without waiting for an answer you stand up from the concrete barrier and slide down the slanted rooftop. Roughly landing on a puddle of mud. You wipe off splashes of mud off your pants with a groan. You hear snickering from above, glancing back to see Abby laughing. You turn around and back away from the puddle to give her space to jump. 

“Quit laughing and get down her Abs.” you say with a serious look, a smile threatening to break out on your face. That seems to shut her up. Her laughing halts in a comical speed, fear and uncertainty taking over her face. 

“What? Too much of a wuss to get down here?” you say with a mocking tone.

With seemingly new determination, she stands from the barrier and takes a step onto the downturned, metal roof. It bends under her weight and before you know it her feet slip. She lands on the roof with a grunt, before she slips off and drops toward the ground. 

“Oh no – !” she yelps right before landing in the puddle of mud. You’re quick to her rescue, offering her a hand with a giggle. Her mud covered hand grips yours and is quick to pull you down with her. A yelp leaves your throat as you land on your side. You are quick to recover, sitting up hastily.

“Abby, what the fuck!” your eyes bewildered as you look at her. You glance down at your clothes, now fully covered in mud. She laughs at you, a full blown belly laugh, as if your despair is pure comedy. You squint your eyes at her, a smirk pulling at your lips. And before she knows it, you tackle her to the ground. Your hands on each of her shoulders, pushing her down to the ground. She shrieks and desperately tries to get you off her. Moments like these, not the calm and quiet ones, but the loud and playful, show a hidden side of Abby no one else has seen. Abby, the loyal and driven daughter of Jerry Anderson - fierce in the field, unshakable in her convictions - now softened by something few get to see. Playful, at ease, her edges rounded in your presence. Something not everyone gets to witness. Something for your eyes only. Something sacred. Something you hold very dear. 

“Girls?” you hear past your laughters.

You both turn your head to the source and quickly scramble off each other. It’s Jerry. Standing with his hands on his hips, a soft smirk on his face. “You done play fighting or should I come back in five?” He gets a good look at you both and chuckles. 

“You, uh, got a little mud on you there, girls.” he says teasingly. 

You grin sheepishly. 

“So do you.” Abby says with a straight face.

Jerry looks at his clothes to spot any potential stains on them. 

“Where?”

Abby is quick to splash him with mud, right in the middle of his shirt. 

“Right there.” she grunts, pushing herself off the puddle. She turns to you, offering her hand. You’re quick to grab it, mud soaking through your clothes. Her hand feels warm in yours. Familiar. Safe. 

Once standing, you both brush off as much mud off your clothes as you can. Abby glances at Jerry, sighing. “You know, everytime you run off like this they give me shit about it.” “Believe it or not, they actually care about your safety.” Abby finishes with annoyance.

Jerry exhales a half-laugh and shakes his head. “If you're done being dramatic, I could use some extra eyes. That zebra we’ve been watching? She’s run off. I’m guessing she broke from the herd to give birth. Want to make sure she and the baby are alright.”

“I thought you had people for that” Abby teases.

“I do. But one of them keeps wandering off to rooftops” he fires back, glancing at you with a hint of playfulness. 

You and Abby exchange glances, snickering quietly. Without saying anything, you follow Jerry through the woods. 

The air grows cooler the deeper you go. Abby slows her pace to match yours, bumps your shoulder with hers, pulling something out of her cargo pocket. A quarter, scratched - dulled with age. “Look what I found earlier” she holds it flat in the palm of her hand. 

You smile. “Another one for your collection?” 

She nods. “Thought about giving it to my dad to guilt him into staying in one place for once.”

“You think a coin’s gonna stop him from playing vet in the middle of nowhere?” 

“No.” she grins “Maybe he’ll think twice next time.”

She slips it back into her pocket as Jerry calls for you both to keep up. You follow, boots crunching after each step. Once the three of you slip past the tree lining, you come across a trail of blood, the afterbirth.

“She already gave birth.” you murmur “She must be close.”

A soft cry pulls you forward.

There she was, trapped and panicked, stuck in the wires of a broken fence. Her breathing is shallow, she kicks but the wires digs deeper, emitting another pained cry. Your heart clenches for the poor creature. 

Jerry starts barking orders. “We need to stay calm. Try not to spook her. Abby - take her head. Keep her calm.” 

Abby nods, wrapping her arms around the zebra's neck, whispering reassuring words. Her voice low yet soothing. 

Jerry looks at you and hands you a pair of pliers. “I’ll help Abby hold her down, you cut the wires.” 

You work quickly, hands steady despite the tension. With a final snip, the last strand gives away. “She’s free.” you whisper. The zebra bolts, limping yet mobile, disappearing into the woods where a smaller cry answers. Her foal. Relief washes over you. 

And then - 

“Doc!” a voice cuts in, sharp, breathless.

You turn as Owen barrels through the woods. His eyes land on Jerry, wide with urgency.

“Doc, that girl showed up.” he says. 

“What girl?” “The girl Marlene keeps talking about. They found her in the tunnels. She has an old bite mark on her arm. No signs of infection.” 

You and Abby glance at each other quietly. The girl, the potential cure for mankind, found in the tunnels. Could a vaccine really be created? Your head was spinning with questions until Owen interrupted them.

“They’re already running tests on her but…you gotta get down there.” he says, still breathless.

Your thoughts consume you as the four of you walk back to the hospital, steps hurried. How could a vaccine be created? Blood samples? A synthesised cure? You’ve heard whispers and theories about it in the mess halls, half-scientific, half-hopeful. Jerry was always tight-lipped. But you could see it in his eyes when he thought no one was looking. Determined. Desperate. As if he’s chasing something just within reach. But what would happen to the girl? What does saving the world cost her? A pang of sympathy hits you in the chest. You glance at Abby, just a few steps ahead, her hair ruffling in the wind. She believed in this cause wholeheartedly. She believed in her fathers work. You did too. But now, the questions start to outnumber the answers. You don’t notice Abby slowing down to match your pace. 

“You alright?” she asks, nudging your arm.

You snap out of it before saying. “Yeah, just thinking.”

“About?”

You fake a smile. “Nothing important.”

She gives you a look like she doesn’t buy it. She knows you better than anyone. She can read you like a book, but she lets it slide. For now.

—

You walk mindlessly around the halls of St. Mary’s hospital, taking a well deserved break from your notes. You can’t seem to get the girl out of your head, mind spiraling with questions. Could her blood be the key? Her brain? You have read enough to understand that vaccines aren’t magic. They require sacrifice, precision and sometimes…something irreversible. 

And then the darker thoughts creep in, the ones you’ve been pushing down since Owen said that they found her.

Would they have to kill her to create the cure?

Your stomach churns at the thought.

She’s a kid. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. A human, not a cure. But in this world, humanity and usefulness rarely go hand in hand. You glance up from the dusted and cracked floor, down the hall you see Abby enter her dad’s office, today's dinner in hand. Your pace quickens, when you reach the office you don’t show yourself. You linger, beside the door frame, back to the wall, ears sharp. Marlene, commander of the fireflies, walks through the door. She carried herself with the kind of quiet authority that didn’t need a raised voice or a drawn gun to command a room. There was always something measured in her eyes, as if she’s five steps ahead of everyone else, calculating risks you hadn’t even thought of yet. Yet when she stops to glance at you, her face is drawn with displease, shoulders tense. She doesn’t say anything, just nods at you and walks away. 

You hear shuffling from inside the office, you revert your concentration back to the conversation.

“You’re doing the right thing.” Abby says carefully. Jerry scoffs, “Yeah.” he says unsure, doubt creeping into his voice.

“If it was me…I’d want you to do the surgery.”

You freeze. The words hang in the air like smoke. Slow, suffocating. If it was me…

In a sense you understand her. You have witnessed what this world has done - how many lives it has taken, how much it has ruined. And a cure could mean something. Everything. But the other part of you, the louder part, can’t stop picturing the girl in the hospital bed. Small. Unconscious. Unaware.

You're not sure the trade is worth it. But Abby sure is. 

—

The blaring sounds of the alarm startles you. You were sitting in an abandoned doctors office, taking notes from the newest zoology book Abby found during one of her patrols. The room flashes with red lights, almost blinding you as you stand. You cringe, ears ringing from the constant shout of the alarm. What the hell is going on? You rush out of the room and down the halls of the hospital, trying to find traces of anyone. Did everyone already evacuate? Where is Abby? Your mind spins with questions as you push forward in a sprint. As you step around the corner you spot Abby in front of a red door. 

“Abs!” you yell, rushing towards her. “What the hell is going on?” you ask breathlessly once you reach her, grabbing her arm gently. She’s tense, face pinched with worry. 

“I don’t know. I looked everywhere for you, where were you?” She's quick to answer, grabbing your hand. You give her hand a reassuring squeeze, a quiet reassurance. 

“I was studying in the lab.” The alarms still blaring, lights flickering red lights. “We should get out of here.” you say as you tug at her hand towards the exit. She doesn’t move. “No, I need to find dad first.” 

Abby, with her right hand, holds her gun, ready for use, while the other slowly twists the cold doorknob. Her body follows the door's movements and her head slowly peeks through the crack. 

All you can see is her back, but whatever she spots behind that door makes her jump into action. She only manages to take one step into the room before you hear her mutter, “Is that-?”. You're quick to enter beside her. The sight in front of you makes you nauseous. There, on the cold and hard floor is Jerry. Dead. Laying in a pool of his own blood that’s seeping through his surgical gown. As if automatic, you’re quick to grab both of Abby’s shoulders. You can’t let her last memory of Jerry be this heinous. 

She fights against your grip, “Dad! Dad! No!” she yells, voice hoarse, cracked open by grief. Tears streaming down her face. Her knees buckle with the weight of the situation, body molding into yours as you embrace her. “No! No…” she sobs, completely defeated. Her fight drained from her all at once. 

You make the mistake of looking past your shoulder. Jerry is really gone. The man that taught you everything you know, your mentor, your role model, Abby’s entire world. It hits you in the chest like a hammer - sharp, splintering. Your throat tightens, breath caught somewhere between a sob and a scream. You turn your head back to Abby, who has now gone quiet. Small sobs escape her lips, her entire body trembling as she pushes herself closer to you, shaky hands gripping your shirt. Like you’re the only thing keeping her from slipping into the dark. Like if she lets go of you, she might lose you too. Your cheek rests on the crown of her head, one arm around her back, the other stroking her now messy braid. Like it will somehow keep her together.

She doesn’t let go.

And neither do you.

Taglist: @pokiiks @onyxherman @trinityobsessesovatings

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[chibi-scone]

It’s been said before and the fact that I’m an Izzy simp aside like having a character who survives the most certain death shit ever (shooting himself in the head at point blank) and literally being nicknamed by another character “indestructible” and then become a symbol of protection for a whole group of people die from a fucking bullet to the side that was established in universe to have no vital organs in order to “atone for his sins” or however you wanna spin it and have him say he wants to go after (see point one) literally trying to kill himself in the show that is literally about growth and betterment of the self in a cruel world that wants you dead and where the main (and mostly queer) characters survive the most batshit insane injuries is like COSMICALLY stupid writing like I don’t even understand how you get there and the fact that it’s supposed to be a kind/ happy/meaningful ending is beyond me

[yes-no-maybe-soo]

Okay so listing the shit Sylus has gone through from memory...

He is heavily implied to have been rejected or outright abandoned by his parents as a very young dragon

He was always an outcast. Not human enough. Not dragon enough.

He cut off his scales and his horns because he hated them so much. But they grew back no matter what he did (again as a child)

The only kin he had got slaughtered right in front of him. Leaving him as the last dragon alive.

The same humans who slaughtered his kin but spared him because of his appearance turn on him the moment they see he is not in fact human and try to kill him. Again, this all happens when he is young.

He is then persecuted by humans until at some point, he ends up sealed in the Abyss, a greatsword lodged in his chest, preventing him from moving freely even down there. He stays like that for 1,600 years, surviving on Wanderer Protocores

He meets MC, who frees him. They fall in love, split half their souls with each other, and are happy. But due to the dragon's curse, Sylus is destined to kill her one day because she is his beloved... or she him, because she is his destined archnemesis.

MC is taken from him. Sylus goes berserk and loses his mind, his dragon instincts taking over fully.

He sacrifices himself for MC last second before he can kill her. Breaking their curse. Giving her a chance at a life free from being used and abused, and himself eternal rest

Only, MC has other plans and curses him to eternal life, essentially. Only she can kill him.

At some point in time, Sylus is reincarnated together with MC in the nebula. There they are both locked up in a gladiatorial cage as mere children, forced to kill for public entertainment. Think Hunger Games.

They successfully escape together, but at a later point in time they are separated by the Deepspace Tunnel or as Sylus says "You were quietly moved to another garden in a foreign land".

Sylus ends up in space-time prison. We don't know how long he spent there or what was done to him, but I doubt it was in any way pleasant or easy.

He escapes and space pirates through the cosmos for MC, who he can probably sense is still out there. He eventually pinpoints her location, but is unable to properly reunite with her... because she has regressed to a young child. He frees her, but walks off... effectively losing her a third time. He also learns of the horrific torture that Gaia put her through. He watches over her from a distance, but never approaches her, valuing her autonomy too much to insert himself. But he waits for her. Hopes – no, knows – that she will find her way to him, if only to seek answers about her past.

The next 12 years – as most of his existence – are spent almost entirely alone, with no one except Mephie for companionship. He has no friends. No family. No close associates. Things do improve with Luke and Kieran's arrival.

14 years after he left her, he meets MC again. But she doesn't remember him, and worse, actively hates him and blames him for the death of her family, of which he had no part.

He is told straight to his face that MC – his soulmate and prime reason for living – rejects him, fears him, and is disgusted by him. Which very visibly hurts him.

Sees the Deepspace Tunnel again and with it, memories of losing MC. Again, the pain on his face is very visible.

In Death and Rebirth, he gets a hurtful reminder that he still doesn't have MC's full trust. And – yet again – the distress is apparent. Because their trust in each other is everything to him.

So... in summary: Sylus has been used, abused, isolated, and locked away for most of his life. He is so unused to kindness and to being treated like a human being that he doesn't know how to react when people wish him happy birthday.

Any care he was shown for the first millennia of his life came exclusively from MC, the one person to actually see him as something other than a Monster. Said soulmate is taken from him twice, tortured and repeatedly killed, her memories of him erased. When they meet again in current timeline, she hates him, and it takes a long time for Sylus to undo the damage of their first meeting.

The man has not had it easy, nor has he gotten to feel much joy.

So it'd be understandable to become bitter. Cruel. Cold.

But he doesn't

Hell, he never even crashes out (as far as we know).

Instead he's compassionate, an animal and nature lover, attends and donates at charity events, takes in the two orphans that tried to kill him, is the King of Consent, very emotionally mature etc.

Sylus is so strong, man... he never lost himself. He never lost his innate kindness despite a life (or lives ig) where nearly none was ever shown him.

[norristrii]

LOVING YOU THE LOUDEST (or the quietest).

IN WHICH… who’s the yapper and who’s the listener in your relationship.

featuring. Lando Norris, Max Verstappen, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Charles Leclerc & Lewis Hamilton.

warnings. established relationship, fluff, 1k words.

LANDO NORRIS: yapper! bf x yapper! gf

You and Lando are so loud—like, Zak can hear you two entering the paddock from inside the McLaren garage. There’s never a quiet moment; you’re always yelling, play fighting, making sure the whole world knows you’ve arrived. Whether it's racing each other to the hospitality suite or cracking jokes that only the two of you find funny, the energy is always off the charts.

The paddock has learned that silence, when it comes to you two, is a rare and deeply suspicious. If you ever stop yelling, teasing, or causing a general ruckus for more than a few minutes, panic spreads. Engineers glance at each other nervously. The media starts speculating. Mechanics whisper, “Something's off. They’re too quiet.”

You two are incapable of behaving normally. The moment your eyes meet, it’s instant mischief—grinning like you’re plotting something, pulling faces, throwing middle fingers at each other like it’s a competition. There’s never a dull moment.

And then there’s Lando, who has absolutely no volume control. One second, he’s shouting across the paddock, “THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND!!” like he’s narrating a rom-com, making everyone turn their heads in confusion. The next, he’s randomly singing, mumbling nonsense, or repeating the same word over and over just because the silence between you two felt too unnatural.

There is no peace. There is no quiet. Just pure, uncontrollable chaos.

MAX VERSTAPPEN: yapper! gf x listener! bf

Max is an exceptional listener. No matter how much you talk, ramble, or go off on tangents, there’s never a moment where he makes you feel like it’s too much. He listens—fully present, fully engaged, as if every word genuinely matters to him.

But when it comes to racing, his team, his car, and strategy? That’s when the roles reverse. Suddenly, he’s the one talking nonstop—analyzing every detail, breaking down scenarios, venting frustrations, sharing insights that only someone who lives and breathes racing would notice. And sometimes, out of nowhere, he’ll drop some random fact, something entirely unrelated—just because he thought you’d find it interesting.

And then, there’s the real sign—the way he talks to you. It’s in the way his voice softens just slightly when he’s telling you something important, the way his tone shifts when the conversation is just between the two of you. It’s not loud, or dramatic—it’s quiet, effortless, genuine.

And the most telling part? He remembers everything. If someone casually asks, “Hey Max, what allergies does she have?” he answers immediately, without hesitation. Because he’s the kind of person who doesn’t just listen—he keeps everything, as if every detail about you is worth remembering.

OSCAR PIASTRI: yapper! gf x listener! bf

Oscar being the best listener? Obviously. It’s almost a personality trait at this point. He’s calm—sometimes too calm.

Like when you see a spider in the bathroom. You scream, panic, throw yourself into his arms like it’s a life-or-death situation. And him? Completely unfazed. Just a shrug, a sigh, and a casual walk toward the spider like it’s his daily routine. One swift motion, problem solved, no reaction. Meanwhile, you’re still recovering from the emotional rollercoaster.

But beyond the calm, beyond the spider-killing efficiency, there’s the real Oscar—the one who remembers everything. Your favorite color? Locked in. The exact way you like your coffee? Stored in the database. The specific meal you order at McDonald’s, every single time? He could recite it by heart.

And then, there’s racing—the one place where you’re the loudest voice in the room, the one he always hears. Your cheers cut through everything—through the noise, the crowd, the chaos—and he loves it. Loves how you talk his ear off about things, loves that you fill the silence in his head with you.

He might be quiet. He might not always say much. But if there’s one thing you can count on—he’s always listening.

CARLOS SAINZ: listener! gf x listener/yapper! bf

Carlos is the perfect balance—the rare type who can sit back and absorb everything or take charge of a conversation when needed. Some people are either talkers or listeners, stuck on one side of the spectrum. Not him. He can listen to you for hours, days even, never making you feel like you’re saying too much. He’s the kind of person who actually hears what you’re saying—not just nodding along, but really listening, remembering, understanding.

But flip the switch, and suddenly, he’s the yapper—especially when he’s passionate about something. He can break down races, debate strategies, or go on a tangent about a completely random topic, and you’d sit there listening just as easily. The flow of conversation with him never feels forced—it just happens naturally, like a perfect back-and-forth rhythm where neither of you ever feel the need to hold back.

And that’s the magic of Carlos Sainz. He listens when you need him to, and talks when it’s his turn—effortless, balanced, and always present.

CHARLES LECLERC: listener! gf x yapper! bf

Charles is such a yapper—but in the best way possible. He can jump from deep, philosophical conversations to completely random thoughts like, “Why is the sky blue instead of green?” And somehow, both feel equally important when he’s talking.

And the best part? You love listening to him. Whether he’s ranting about something serious, sharing his dreams, or just going off on one of his endless thought spirals, his energy makes every conversation captivating.

And then, there’s the fact that he talks about you—to Lewis, to the team, probably to anyone who will listen. Your date? He gives Lewis the full breakdown. Something funny you did? He’s sharing it like it’s the highlight of his week. He just loves talking about you, like every little thing is worth mentioning.

He’s the kind of person who could talk forever, and you’d never want him to stop.

LEWIS HAMILTON: listener! gf x yapper! bf

Lewis is one of those undercover yappers—people assume he’s more reserved, but once he gets going, he does not stop. He’s got opinions, insights, stories, and he’s not afraid to share them.

Silence? Not really his thing. He fills every gap with conversation—whether it’s about sports, fashion, music, racing, life, or even deep philosophical thoughts. He thrives on discussion, on exchanging ideas, on turning even the smallest detail into an interesting conversation.

And with you? Oh, he talks even more. He knows you’ll listen, knows he can tell you anything—whether it’s breaking down a race weekend, analyzing the latest streetwear trends, or just casually debating something completely random. He’s effortlessly engaging, effortlessly present, always keeping the conversation flowing.

So yes, Lewis is a yapper. Not the loudest in the room, not the most obvious—but the kind who, once he starts, pulls you into his world, word by word, thought by thought, until you never want him to stop.

© norristrii 2025

babsie radio ! My first fic that includes grid…quick headcanons as I’m trying to finish fuckboy! lando… I love doing these short headcanons, and there’s definitely coming in the futuree!! I’ll do separated masterlist for the grid<33

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Shameless

Tags: dad!Toji x fem!reader, modern!au, nsfw, mdni, breeding kink, he calls himself daddy

Synopsis: You’re Toji’s live-in nanny. He wants to breed you, and he successfully does so.

An: This is my story on ao3!! You can read it here. If you’re feeling extra nice, a kudos would be cool too.

Being a single dad was hard. Toji learned quickly after his wife's death that he in fact couldn't do this alone. The way little Megumi's big eyes looked up to him for direction... him of all people. He was not cut out for this. Megumi's mom was a wonderful mother: sweet, nurturing, and patient. Toji really didn't know if he was any of those things.

Luckily, her life insurance provided Toji with a relatively comfortable life combined with his job in construction of course. Construction might be his vice. He got away from home for 12 hours a day, and he worked so hard that his brain was mush by the time he was home. Not that he didn't love his son, he did, but every time he looked at Megumi he saw his sweet late wife. He also saw his short comings as a father.

Babysitters quit on him regularly. It was always the same excuse. "Megumi's an angel, but I can't be here 7 days a week. I have a life too." It was incredibly annoying. They'd stay for Megumi but left due to another one of his shortcomings.

Another one quit. That would be the third one this month. "Listen Mr. Fushiguro, I know a friend. She does this sort of thing on a different level. Have you ever considered having a live-in nanny?"

That stupid girl's question enlightened Toji. He had completely forgotten that live-in nannies still existed. After getting her friend's number and paying her what he owed her for her time, Toji relaxed on the couch with little Megumi tucked into his side. The three-year-old was happily babbling next to him, enamored by Toji's phone that was in his hand.

Toji looked at the number dialed into his phone, and he sighed. He was tired of making cold calls to potential babysitters like he was some desperate whore, but maybe, maybe this would be different. He wouldn't mind having a live-in nanny. His house wouldn't mind it either. Toji would be able to finally breathe. No more coming home from 12 hour shifts to pop something to eat in the microwave and wash the dishes. He wouldn't even have to see this so-called nanny often. He could pick up more hours at work with all of his new freedom of not having to worry about pissing off the babysitter.

*** *** ***

Either way, that's how you ended up in Toji's house. For the past three months you had taken care of Megumi, cleaned and deep cleaned his entire house, cooked him plenty of dinners from scratch, and even did his laundry the exact way he preferred. His house has never looked better, and Megumi had never looked so happy.

Despite being here for three months, you barely saw Toji. He seemed to avoid you like the plague and only answer with one-worded answers, which was fine. This was your job, not your actual family. There was no need for extensive communications. Though, you had gushed to your friend plenty over text about how hot "Mr. Fushiguro" was. He was conventionally attractive, yes. But you also always had a thing for the brooding types, and dammit, Toji was brooding. There was also something to be said about how he came home in the evenings. A black wifebeater clinging to his skin from a long day of working out in the sun. His jeans would be dirty from the work he was doing. His skin glistening from a thin sheen of sweat. His hair was always a mess. Goddammit. It was enough to make you feel fertile.

It was early in the morning, Toji was getting ready to go to work. Megumi had woken up, crying for his papa not to leave him. He's going through an extra clingy phase. He's usually okay once Toji's gone.

"Papa!" Megumi cried as Toji entered the living room. You had Megumi in your lap, rocking him with a sleepy look on your face. His tears were wetting your shirt, but you didn't seem to mind.

"He'll be back tonight, Gumi." You shooshed him and continued to try to rock him and pat his back.

Toji's face was unreadable. He was never one to get all upset over Megumi's crying, but hearing his son cry out for him tugged on his heartstrings extra this morning. Then, there was you. You were a godsend to Toji's life. Getting a live-in nanny was one of the best decisions he had ever made. Above that, you were excellent with Megumi. You were sweet... nurturing... patient. He hated how seeing you with his son made him feel. It almost felt like maybe 2 kids wouldn't be that big of a deal. Maybe 3. One on each of your legs and another one swelling in your belly. God. He was disgusted in himself for thinking like that.

"I love you, kiddo." Toji said quickly as he leaned down, giving Megumi's forehead a quick peck. The toddler made grabby hands for him. It was almost enough to make him stay home. Almost. Toji's eyes met yours as he was still leaned over. His face was close to yours. The tension between them were palpable. The moment felt like eternity between them.

Then, a black credit card was in view. "I need new work gloves. Get the extra thick rubber ones, will ya? Also, get whatever you and the kid want. I'll be back late tonight." He handed you the card and sauntered out of the house despite Megumi's pleas for him to stay. You looked at the Amex black card and blinked a couple of times. Only the top earners in the world had cards like this. Toji was just an average blue collar dad... It made you wonder how he got a card like this.

You still spent that shit though.

*** *** ***

Toji looked at his phone on the jobsite. No one dared to tell him to put it away. Toji was the best most competent worker out on the field. He could work circles around supervisors and project managers alike, and he was damn smart. He didn't need a pencil and paper or a calculator to make quick conversions in his head. So, most people stayed out of his way.

He smirked and chuckled at the notifications rolling in from his bank. 78.97 at Target. 21.25 at McDonald's. 43.52 at Barnes and Noble. 9.24 at Starbucks. He was happy you and Megumi were getting to have a little shopping spree.

You were also great at keeping him updated. You sent him lots of pictures and videos of Megumi. He cherished each one of them, immediately getting some of them printed and hung up in his house. There was even a picture of you and Megumi proudly displayed in the living room. In his mind, you were an integral part of the family. The "family" simply would not function if it weren't for you.

A fond smile spread across his face as he opened his messages. A picture of Megumi's little hands trying to fit into his new gloves that she had bought him. Great. She got the right ones. "I think he wants to be just like daddy :)", the message read.

Oh.

Oh.

The twitch that just occurred in his pants should be punishable in a court of law. In no way should he have gotten turned on by that. You were just being nice. It was a normal thing for people to refer to him as "daddy" in that context. It never affected him in the way it was right now.

So anyways, that's how he ended up in the port-a-potty busting a load all over a picture of you that he had on his phone. After the shock of his orgasm that came quicker than ever, he looked down, disappointed in himself. He wasn't some horny teenage boy anymore. This was just downright deplorable. Begrudgingly, he wiped his phone clean from his sins. Post-nut clarity swirled his brain. He couldn't believe he just did that.

He called your number. He had to make things right.

"Hello? Is everything okay?" You immediately asked. After living with Toji for some time now, you learned that he doesn't just call people. He will absolutely decline a call to just text and ask what's up.

"Everything is fine." He replied, trying to hide his amusement. It was cute that you seemed so worried for him. "Are you still in town?"

"Yeah, Megumi and I are about to leave Starbucks and head home. Why? What's up?" You responded back to him. He could hear Megumi happily singing a song in the background.

"You know you spent 152 dollars today?" Toji asked as he popped his back up against the port-a-potty door. He had a lazy smirk on his face.

"Oh- crap. I'm sorry. You can take whatever you see fit out of my pay-" He interrupted your nonsense quickly.

"Do you think I'm poor?" His voice was amused, not angry like you expected it to be.

"What-? No.. no, sir. I was just-"

"I told you to get whatever you and the kid want. Don't come back home until your certain that you can't carry the amount of stuff you bought in one trip." He said quickly. His stomach was already coiling from how you called him sir. He grimaced as he felt another twitch. I just took care of you dammit.

"Oh... oh, okay? Are you su-" Click. He hung up on you. One too many dumb questions. You looked at Megumi as he strapped into the backseat of your car. He looked intrigued by the conversation even though you knew he realistically had no idea what was just said. "Daddy said we have to go to the toy store." You grinned at him. He was smiling and clapping over the word "toy".

234.22 at Toys-R-Us. 122.56 at Lego. 208.38 at Aerie. 88.21 at Ulta Beauty. Another 94.48 at Barnes and Noble.

The way Toji grinned each time he felt that familiar vibration of his phone go off, meaning another notification from his bank was off-putting. Workers on the jobsite never seen him so happy. It was his penance for being such a horny freaky fuck.

*** *** ***

It was later that same evening. Megumi was in the living room surrounded by toys and crafting materials. He was currently drawing all sorts of "shadow animals" as he called them. You would of course look and nod your head, congratulating him on each terribly drawn animal. You acted like that was the best damn wolf-bear-owl hybrid you ever saw.

You were in the kitchen cooking chicken and dumplings. The clock on the stove read seven p.m. You didn't expect to see Toji at all this evening. He said he was working late this morning. Usually, that meant he was dragging his feet in through the door until well past ten p.m.

Still, you made him a serving of chicken and dumpling soup. You always did. Even when he worked late, you would put him a helping of dinner in the microwave to keep warm. You never knew, but he was always delighted by that. He ate the dinners each time.

A key jingling in the door handle caught your attention while you were getting Megumi settled at the dining room table. Three-year-olds were so hard to manage: too small to eat by themselves but too big to be locked in a high chair.

Toji stepped into the living room with a small grunt. He smirked as he looked around at his destroyed living room. Toys, crayons, and pieces of "artwork" were strewn all about the place. He glanced up towards you and Megumi in the kitchen. He took note of how your face was flushed and surprised.

"Papa!" Megumi happily shouted before the little bastard ran from your grasp to go hug on Toji's legs. His dad smiled as he looked down at Megumi, and he used his hand to mess up Megumi's hair affectionately.

"Go eat your food, kiddo." Toji said warmly to his son. Megumi happily obliged and ran right back to his seat right next to you, and you fed him a spoonful of the soup.

"You're home early." You stated the obvious.

Toji would never tell you, but he left early because he missed you two.

"Don't sound too happy to see me." He remarked in a sarcastic tone.

"What-? No, I just.. would've cleaned up more had I known you would be home so soon..." You responded. Megumi was sitting beside you whining for another bite of food. You snapped out of your surprise, and you fed him another bite of chicken and dumplings.

"Why? I don't give a damn what this place looks like." Toji said with a small nonchalant shrug. He walked through the living room, carefully stepping over the toys. Before you had become his nanny, this was how his house normally looked: messy, lived in. "I've got a bowl of dinner in the microwave. My kid's happy and fed. I couldn't care less what that living room looks like."

Your heart fluttered at the sentiment. Toji was easy to please. He really just wanted what was best for his kid, and that was you. "I like making sure you have nothing to worry about." You replied. He looked at you with an unreadable expression. It looked like he might've wanted to say something, but he had backed out last minute. He hummed and walked towards his bedroom to shower the dirt, sweat, and grime from the day.

While Toji showered, you had finished feeding Megumi and yourself. You allowed Megumi to have about an hour of TV time before bed. He really enjoyed old X-Men cartoons. You turned them on for him and parked him on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket.

You hummed softly as you worked in the kitchen. You packed meal prep containers of soup for Toji to take for lunch for the next couple of days. Then, you were washing dishes in front of the sink.

*** *** ***

"I like making sure you have nothing to worry about." Your words repeated in Toji's head over and over like a mantra. He hadn't felt so... cared for in a long, long time. It made his heart feel full, which was an unfamiliar feeling for him. A less unfamiliar feeling was his dick standing fully erect and at attention. He groaned quietly as he leaned his head back in the shower.

Something had to be in the air recently. He was a grown man with desires, sure. But this was a new record for him. Ever since you started being a live-in nanny for him, the boners were a daily thing. Hell, twice or three times a day sometimes. He's tried everything... Well, okay, maybe not everything, but he's tried cold showers and staying away from you. Neither of those things work to soothe him.

His hand was gliding up and down his length for the second time today. He was facing the shower wall with his arm propped up on it, supporting his head. Damn you for making him feel like a slave to his desires. You wanted to make sure he had nothing to worry about? Then, you should be the one in here fixing this damn mess, not him. He pitifully rutted into his hand, imaging he's plunging deep into you. Imagining the multiple ways he'd fuck the hell out of you is the only thing that soothes the ache, but this time he didn't see an end in sight.

He gritted his teeth together, and he balled up his fist, rearing back before stopping himself. He's not a teenager anymore. He can't punch walls. He took a deep breath and turned the shower off. No, this won't do. He needs to fix this at the source.

After quickly drying off and getting dressed, he walked back into the kitchen. His eyes scanned over the house. Megumi was enthralled by the TV, and you were washing dishes. Perfect.

He slowly approached you from behind. He could tell you didn't hear him as you were still softly humming. Usually, you would stop humming if he entered the kitchen. He never understood why. The sounds of your melancholic hums were beautiful and soothing to him.

He was directly behind you, and his hands gently cupped your hips. You immediately flinched and made a soft scream that was quickly silenced by one of his hands. "Shh, we don't want to disturb the little brat, do we?" Toji said into your ear. His warm breath ghosted over the shell of your ear, making you shiver.

Toji's eyes flicked over towards the living room. Megumi hadn't moved an inch. Perfect.

Toji slowly released your mouth. To his delight, you didn't make a sound. He could hear how your breath was slightly labored from him scaring you. A small chuckle rose from his throat. His hands went back to your hips, and he pressed himself against your voluptuous ass. A hum of approval escaped him. He could see your hands gripping the countertops.

"Nod your head. You like this? Want me to keep pressing myself against you?" Toji whispered into your ear. You took your bottom lip between your teeth, and you nodded your head eagerly, giving him consent.

"Dirty fucking girl." His voice was like a growl in your ear as he started to move his hips, dragging his length up and down along you. You could feel each inch of his length beckoning for you. "I knew you'd take whatever I gave you, but this? Letting me grind against you like a pathetic teenager while my son is in the living room? You're such a fucking slut." His hands were digging into your hips as he continued his controlled motions.

"Mnn.. fuck.." You softly whimpered out. Thank god the X-Men were currently in a loud fight scene.

You slightly frowned as you suddenly didn't feel Toji behind you anymore. You were about to turn around and ask what he was doing, but his fingers curling into the waistband of your leggings told you everything you needed to know. "Toji-" You managed to whisper out. No way could you two do this while Megumi was in the next room over.

"Shut up." Toji interrupted you. He had taken his throbbing length out of his sleeping pants, and he had a look of concentration on his face as he angled himself right at your entrance. "You have no fucking idea how long I've needed this. So just be a good girl, shut up, and take what I give you."

Direct orders from your boss. Who were you to deny the man who just spoiled you all day today?

It was a tight fit. Toji wasn't a gentleman. He didn't prep you with his fingers or mouth. This wasn't love making. It was hardly fucking. This was fulfilling a need.

"God... fuck. I didn't expect you to be that tight." He growled into your neck as he held your hips still against him. It felt like he was splitting you apart. You couldn't even respond to him.

He noticed how tightly you were gripping the counter and how you weren't responding to him. Your knuckles were turning white. He almost felt guilty. His hand came around the front of you, and he gently rubbed the swollen bundle of nerves. "Shhh... You can take it. I know you can." He whispered into your ear as it was taking every last shred of self-restraint not to fuck you into oblivion right on this counter. He slowly pulled back until just his tip was inside, and he pushed all the way back in. "That's it. There's my good girl." He praised in your ear. It was not lost on him that he felt you get wetter with each praise.

He hesitated, but he said it anyway, "You wanna be a good girl for daddy, don't you?" He whispered into your ear. That phrase made you tremble in his arms and nod your head. He slowly pulled back out and pushed right back in, taking you slowly. "That's right... hngh, fuck." He moaned into your ear. "You want to be fucked by daddy. You want to take his cock like a good girl. Take it." His hips started to move with more conviction.

You were already so out of it. This was like a dirty fantasy come true. You couldn't help but check the TV a few times to make sure X-Men was still playing. You were still worried that Megumi might run in here for whatever reason and see you bent over in front of his dad. You knew it was unlikely. Megumi could watch that TV like a zombie all day if you let him. Besides, you would be able to hear the small pitter-patter of his footsteps.

"Stop looking at the fucking TV. Trust me." Toji growled into your ear as he forced your hips down onto him roughly. A noiseless gasp escaped you. He wasn't small, and he knew that. He was using it to his advantage.

"Fuck." He groaned quietly as he rubbed you with a bit more fervor. You could already feel that familiar warm feeling coiling in your stomach. "I'm going to fuck a baby into you. You were fucking made for this. Made for raising my kids and taking my fucking load." He was spewing nonsense into your ear, but in the moment, you couldn't help but nod and moan. "You were made for me." He proclaimed as his hips continued harshly snapping into your backside. Somehow the sounds were masked.

"You want that, don't you?" He asked as he bit down on your neck then lapped at the bite mark with his tongue.

"Yes, daddy!" You quietly exclaimed. His thrusts only increased in power. Your eyes started to cross, getting lost in pleasure.

"Fuck. You're gonna look so perfect pregnant with my baby. I won't let you have a break. As soon as one comes out; I'm puttin' another one in you." He continued on yapping about how many kids he was going to pump into you. "I'll breed you again and again." His thrusts were heavy and brutal. You couldn't take it anymore.

He moaned as he felt you clenching around him, finishing all over his cock. It was enough to drive him overboard. He pumped you full of cum until you were sure some of it was seeping out.

There was a peaceful moment of dizzy highness for you two. Toji panted against your back. For the first time in while, he's felt satisfied. A soft amused laugh escaped him as he heard the iconic X-Men episode coming to an end. He swiftly pulled out of you, and he tried to ignore that little whimper of protest you let out. He tucked himself back into his pants, and he pulled your leggings and panties back up for you since you were still a trembling mess over the counter.

"Alright Kiddo, c'mon. Time for bed." Toji said as he sauntered off into the living room as if he didn't just rearrange your guts. He put Megumi to bed that night, and he cleaned up the living room for you, allowing for you to recover in his bed for round two. He was much more of a gentleman for round two.

*** *** ***

"Hey... I know I ain't been to see you in a while. I'm sorry." Toji said as he sat down on the grassy ground. "I was letting life pass me by for too damn long." He said as he took a wet washcloth and began to wash up his late wife's gravestone. "I'm doing better now, so don't worry about me."

"Megumi's growing like a weed. I'm sorry I didn't bring him to see you... I just don't know how to explain it to him." Toji's voice was full of guilt as he dragged the wet washcloth against the stone. "He's a good kid though. He looks just like you, damn bastard." He softly laughed, knowing his wife would've struck him over the side of the head for calling Megumi a damn bastard.

"Listen... I met a girl." He leaned his head over the gravestone. It had been close to three months since you and Toji started sleeping together. There wasn't a formal label to your relationship, but it didn't feel necessary. You two both knew you were sleeping exclusively with each other. "I think you'd like her, or maybe you wouldn't since she's fucking your husband. But either way... I-" He choked up a bit as he held onto the cold stone. "I feel so fucking guilty... I know you're not coming home anytime soon, but I just... I need your blessing. If you can somehow hear me, please... I never asked you for anything until I asked you to marry me. Now, I'm asking... please somehow show me you approve of this."

"She's good for me... She takes good care of Megumi. He's so damn attached to her somedays." Toji softly laughed as he remembered how a few nights ago Megumi crawled into bed with you and him because he had a nightmare. Instead of taking to Toji like he normally does, he crawled into your arms. Toji had never felt so damn proud and slighted at the same time.

"I should get going. Give me a sign though.. Something that tells me you approve." He finished his visit with his wife, and he went home.

*** *** ***

That night at dinner, Megumi sped into the kitchen with an action figure in his hand. He was pretending to be Batman. "Gumi, I've told you three times. Stop running." You said as you gave the small child a look. Toji smirked as he knew that look good and well. It was the look a mom gave as a warning. Megumi was on his last warning.

"I'm sorry, mama." Megumi apologized, causing for both you and Toji to freeze right in your tracks. Megumi had never called you mama before. He always said your name.

Your heart swelled in your chest. It was a feeling of affection and guilt. "Oh no... baby.." You said softly as you took his hand. You lead him into the living room, and you crouched down, showing him a picture of his mom to him. "That's mama." You gently corrected him.

Toji watched the scene like a hawk from the dinner table. His heart was pounding in his chest. He had never been shy about telling Megumi who his mom was, but he hadn't exactly been forthcoming about how his mom passed away when he was a small baby.

Megumi pointed at the picture. "Mama." He said quietly. You nodded and patted his head.

"That's right." You praised affectionately. He then turned his attention to you. and he poked your chest with his tiny finger.

"Mama." He said, pointing at you.

"No-"

"It's alright." Toji spoke up from his seat at the dinner table.

"I don't want him to be confused..." You replied as you slowly stood back up, looking at Toji.

"He doesn't sound confused to me." He retorted with a small grin. You turned your attention back to Megumi, and Toji looked up towards the ceiling. "Thank you." He muttered so quietly before kissing the necklace that hung around his neck. He had his wife's blessing. This proved it.

After finishing his dinner, Toji joined you two in the living room. You and Megumi were curled up on each side of his while watching that old X-Men cartoon. Suddenly, Megumi rose from the couch. You and Toji watched him with a hint of confusion.

"What is he doing?" You softly asked Toji as Megumi bent over, and he looked between his legs at both you and Toji.

"I have no fucking id-" He was about to respond, but then, it hit him. "Get up." He said as he stood up from the couch. He quickly grabbed his phone, keys, and wallet like a madman.

"What? What? Is something wrong?" You asked as you had never seen Toji move this fast. You quickly got up too.

"Nothing's wrong. Come on. We're going to the store." He grunted as he swooped Megumi into his arms.

You were confused and in denial when Toji bought a pregnancy test and made you take it. Now, both of you were waiting outside of the bathroom for the five minutes to be over. "This is crazy, Toji. I'm not pregnant."

"It's an old wives' tale. When babies do that, it's supposed to mean their looking for their sibling." Toji said with a nonchalant shrug as if what he said was matter-of-fact. "My mother told me that's how she knew she was pregnant with me."

The timer went off on his phone, and both of you fought to get into the bathroom first. He eventually overpowered you and snatched the pregnancy test off the counter quickly. "Oh." He said quietly. The room went still.

Suddenly, your heart was racing. "What is it? Is it negative?" You asked a hint of disappointment hit you. You didn't know why, but a small part of you hoped for it to be positive.

"Oh, you're fucking getting it tonight." Toji smirked as he turned the pregnancy test over. Two pink lines were clear as day on the test. You're pregnant.

Tags: @lemonlimecrystal-blog @theuniversesnepobaby

[colouredbyd]

'Til All That's Left Is Glorious Bone—

brother!sirius black x fem!sister!reader x brother!regulus black , james potter x reader

synopsis: being a Black means braiding silence into everything soft — childhood, love, even the ache in your bones. Sirius runs from it, Regulus folds beneath it, but you carry it still, tight at the nape of your neck. and when James offers his hands, his heart, you flinch — not because you don’t want it, but because you were never taught how to take what doesn’t hurt.

cw: Chronic illness, suicidal ideation, suicide attempt, self-isolation, emotional breakdowns, grief, physical pain, mental deterioration, identity loss, emotional neglect, unrequited love, hospital scenes, overdose, allusions to death, trauma responses, unfiltered intrusive thoughts, self-hatred, references to childhood neglect, emotional repression. read with caution!!!!

w/c: 9.8k

based on: this request!!

a/n: this turned out much longer than i thought. very very very much inspired by the song Wiseman by Frank Ocean

part two part three dalia analyses of this!! masterlist

The hospital wing smells like damp stone and boiled nettle, and you have come to know its scent the way some children know their lullabies.

You’ve spent more of your life in this narrow bed than you have in classrooms, in common rooms, on sunlit grounds. 

Time moves differently here—slower, heavier—as though the hours have forgotten how to pass. The light through the tall window is always cold, a winter that presses its face to the glass but never steps inside. The sheets are tucked too tightly, the kind of tightness that makes it hard to breathe.

You don’t remember when it started, the pain behind your ribs, the illness that stole your breath and strength in careful, measured doses. It didn’t come all at once. It crept in slowly, like ivy through a cracked wall, quiet and persistent. 

You grew with it, around it, until it became part of you—a silent companion curled inside your chest. Some days it flares like a wildfire, other days it lingers like smoke, but it’s always there. You’ve learned to live beneath it. Learned how to stay still so it doesn’t notice you. Learned how to hold your own hand when no one else does.

Other students come and go with the ease of tide pools—quick stays for broken arms, for potions gone wrong, for fevers that leave as fast as they arrive. They arrive with fuss and laughter, and they leave just as quickly. But you? You stay. 

You are a fixture here, like the spare cots and rusting potion trays, like the chipped basin and the curtain hooks. Madam Pomfrey no longer asks what hurts. She knows by now that the answer is everything, and also nothing she can fix. 

Your childhood was a careful thing, sharp at the edges, ruled more by silence than softness. You were born into a house where expectation walked the halls louder than any footsteps. Obedience was mistaken for love, and love was always conditional. 

You were the youngest, but not alone. You came into the world with another heartbeat beside your own, a twin—your mirror, your shadow, your tether. And above you, Sirius. Older, brighter, always just out of reach. 

He was too loud, too fast, too full of fire. He tore through rooms like a comet, leaving heat and chaos in his wake. You admired him the way you might admire the storm outside the window—distant, thrilling, a little bit dangerous.

Your twin was the opposite. He was stillness, softness, observation. He watched the world carefully, his words chosen like rare coins he refused to spend unless he must. He was always listening. Always understanding more than he said. And between the two of them, you—caught in the current, too much and not enough, the daughter who was supposed to shine but learned instead how to fold herself small. 

You were expected to be precise. Polished. Perfect. The daughter of Walburga Black was not allowed to unravel.

Your hair was never your own. Your mother braided it herself, every morning, every ceremony, every photograph. The braid was too tight—always too tight—and it made your scalp sting and your neck ache, but you never flinched. You sat still while her fingers pulled and wove and twisted, like she was binding you into a shape more acceptable. Your fingers trembled in your lap, pressed together like a prayer you knew would not be answered. 

She said the braid meant order. Discipline. Dignity. But it felt like a chain. A silent way of saying: this is what you are meant to be. Tidy. Controlled. Pretty in the right ways. Never wild.

You wore that braid like a chain for years. A beautiful little cage. You wondered if anyone could see past it—if anyone ever looked hard enough to see how much of you was trying not to scream.

Your mother expected perfection. You were her daughter, after all. Hair always braided, posture always straight, lips always closed unless spoken to. She braided it herself most days — too tight, too harsh — and you would sit still while your scalp screamed and your fingers trembled in your lap. At nine years old, silence had already been braided into your spine.

The stool beneath you was stiff and velvet-lined, a throne made for suffering. In the mirror’s reflection, your posture held like porcelain. Every inch of you was composed, but only just — knuckles pale from tension, lips pressed in defiance.

 Behind you, your mother worked her fingers into your scalp with the practiced cruelty of a woman who believed beauty came from pain. Her voice matched the rhythm of her hands, each word tightening the braid, each tug a sermon.

“A daughter of this house doesn’t squirm,” she murmured, her grip unrelenting. “She doesn’t cry. She doesn’t disgrace herself over something as small as a hairstyle.”

The parting comb scraped harshly against your scalp, drawing a wince you were too proud to voice. Still, the sting prickled behind your eyes, a warning. When the sharp tug at your temple became unbearable, a breathy sob slipped out despite all effort to swallow it.

She froze.

Then, softly — far too softly — “What was that?”

Silence trembled between you.

“I said,” her voice clipped now, “what was that sound?”

A hand twisted at the nape of your neck, anchoring you like a hook. The braid tightened, harder now, punishment laced into every motion.

“Noble girls do not weep like peasants,” she snapped. “From now on, your hair stays up or braided. No more running wild. No more playing outside with your brothers. A lady must always be presentable — do you understand me?”

A nod. Barely a motion, but enough to release her grip.

She tied off the braid with a silver ribbon and smoothed a hand down your shoulder. In the mirror, your reflection stared back — hollowed eyes, flushed cheeks, a child sculpted into something smaller than herself. Her voice followed you as you stood.

“You’ll be grateful for this one day.”

Outside the room, Regulus stood waiting. He looked down at your braid and didn’t say a word. His tie was loose, lopsided in that way he never could fix. 

Your fingers moved on instinct, straightening it carefully, eyes never meeting his. He let you. The silence between twins had its own language — and right now, it said enough.

The hallway stretched long and heavy, lined with portraits that watched like judges. You didn’t stop walking. The destination had always been the same.

Sirius’s door creaked as it opened. He was lying on the bed, book propped open across his chest, thumb tapping absently against the page. 

His hair was a little too long, his shirt untucked. Eleven years old and already a constellation too bright for the house that tried to dim him.

He looked up — and the second his gaze met yours, his expression softened.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he breathed, sitting up straight. “Come here.”

You moved without thinking. As soon as the door closed behind you, the first tears broke free. Quiet, controlled — not sobs, not yet. Just the kind of weeping that clung to your throat and curled your shoulders inward.

“She did it again?” His voice was low, careful. “Too tight, yeah?”

A nod. You climbed onto the bed beside him, pressing your face into his sleeve.

“I tried not to cry,” the words came out muffled. “I really tried.”

Sirius tucked a lock of hair behind your ear, then gently reached for the braid.

“‘Course you did. You're the bravest girl I know.”

He began to undo it — not rushed, not rough. His fingers worked slowly, reverently, like unthreading something sacred. With each loosened twist, the tension in your body unwound too, your breath coming easier, softer.

“She says I’m not allowed to run anymore,” you whispered. “Says I have to look like a proper lady.”

“Well,” Sirius said, a hint of a smile in his voice, “I think she’s full of it.”

You let out a tiny, hiccupping laugh.

“There she is.” He brushed his fingers lightly over your scalp. “That’s better.”

The braid came undone, strand by strand, until your hair pooled over your shoulders — a curtain of softness, no longer a cage. Sirius shifted, lying back against the pillows, and opened his arms wide.

“Come here. Sleep it off. We’ll steal some scones from the kitchen tomorrow and pretend we’re pirates.”

You tucked yourself beneath his arm, the scent of parchment and peppermint wrapping around you like a secret. In the soft hush of the room, it was easy to pretend the house didn’t exist beyond these four walls.

By morning, you woke to find him sitting cross-legged on the floor, fingers gently working through your hair again. But this time, the braid was loose. Gentle. It didn’t pull. It didn’t sting.

“There,” he said, tying it off with a ribbon he pulled from his own shirt. “Just so it doesn’t get in your eyes when we go looking for treasure.”

And you smiled, because in that moment, you believed him.

The memory fades like breath on glass, slipping away into the sterile hush of the hospital wing.

You come back slowly. First to the faint scent of antiseptic and lavender balm. Then to the stiffness in your limbs, the press of cotton sheets against your legs, the dim ache nestled just beneath your ribs like something familiar.

“Easy now,” comes a voice, gentle and no-nonsense all at once.

Madam Pomfrey stands over you with her hands already at work, adjusting the blankets, feeling for fever along your temple. Her expression is set in that signature look — concern wrapped in mild exasperation, the kind of care she offers not with softness but with steady hands.

“You’ve been out for nearly a day,” she says, eyes scanning your face as if checking for signs of rebellion. “Stubborn girl. I told you to come in the moment you felt lightheaded.”

You blink at the ceiling. “Didn’t want to miss class.”

She snorts softly. “You think I haven’t heard that one before? You students would rather collapse in the corridors than admit your bodies are mortal.”

Her hands are cool against your wrist as she checks your pulse. You glance down at the thin bandage near your elbow — the usual spot, now tender. You don’t ask how long the spell took to stabilize you this time. You don’t need to.

She sighs and straightens. “Your fever’s broken, but you’ll stay here today. No arguments. I want fluids, rest, and absolutely no dramatic exits.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Her gaze softens, just a little. “You don’t always have to carry it alone, dear.”

Before you can answer, the curtain snaps open with a flourish — a burst of too much energy, too much brightness.

“There you are!”

James Potter.

“Sweetheart,” James breathes, as if you’ve just risen from the dead. “My poor, wounded love.”

You barely lift your head before groaning. “Merlin’s teeth. I’m hallucinating.”

“Don’t be cruel. I came all this way.”

He plops into the chair beside you without invitation, sprawled in that casual way that only someone like James Potter could manage — legs too long, posture too confident, as if the universe has never once told him no. 

His tie is missing entirely. His sleeves are rolled up in that infuriating way that shows off ink stains and forearms he doesn’t deserve to know are attractive.

You squint at him. “You didn’t come from the warfront, Potter. You came from Transfiguration.”

“And still,” he says dramatically, “the journey was perilous. I had to fight off three Hufflepuffs who claimed they had dibs on the last chocolate pudding. I bled for you.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he counters, placing a hand over his chest like he might actually burst into song. “With a girl who is rude and ungrateful and far too pretty when she’s annoyed.”

“Then un-love me,” you mutter. “For your own good.”

“Can’t. Tragic, really.”

You shoot him a glare. He beams back like you’re the sunrise and he’s been waiting all night to see you again.

“I should hex you.”

“But you won’t.” He winks. “Because deep, deep down, under that armor made of sarcasm and resentment, you adore me.”

“I deeply, deeply don’t.”

“And yet,” he leans in, “you haven’t told me to leave.”

You stare at him. He stares right back.

Finally, you sigh. “Potter?”

“Yes, my heart?”

“If you don’t shut up, I will scream.”

He laughs, bright and boyish and utterly maddening. “Scream all you want, darling. Just don’t stop looking at me like that.”

James doesn’t leave. Of course he doesn’t. He lounges like he was born to irritate you — the embodiment of Gryffindor persistence, or maybe just pure male audacity. 

He props his elbow on the bedside table and peers at you like you're the eighth wonder of the world. Or an exhibit in a very dramatic museum: Girl, Mildly Injured, Attempting Peace.

“You know,” he says, casually adjusting his collar, “if you’d let me walk you to class yesterday, none of this would’ve happened. Fate doesn’t like it when you reject me. Tries to punish you.”

“Fate had nothing to do with it,” you snap. “I tripped over Black’s ego.”

He blinks, then grins. “Which one?”

You throw your head back against the pillow. “Get. Out.”

“But you look so lonely,” he pouts. “All this sterile lighting and medicinal smell — what you need is warmth. Charm. Emotional support.”

“What I need is silence,” you mutter. “Preferably wrapped in an Invisibility Cloak with your name on it.”

James leans closer. “But then you’d miss me.”

You sit up slightly, brows knitting. “Potter. For the last time — I am not in love with you!”

He looks wounded. “Yet.”

You glare. “Never.”

“Harsh,” he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. “Do you say that to all the boys who deliver their soul on a silver platter for your approval, or am I just special?”

“Neither. You’re just insufferable.”

“And you,” he says, looking at you like he’s just uncovered some hidden constellation, “are poetry with teeth.”

You blink. “Are you trying to flirt with me or describe a very weird animal?”

“Both, probably.”

There’s a silence then — or what should be a silence. It’s really more of a stretched pause, heavy with the weight of all the things you haven’t said and refuse to say. You busy yourself with fluffing the pillow behind you, more aggressive than necessary. 

James watches, unbothered, as if every second in your company is a privilege. He does that. Looks at you like you’re more than you know what to do with. Like if he stared hard enough, he could untangle the knots in your spine and the ones you keep hidden in your heart, too.

It pisses you off.

“Why are you like this?” you ask suddenly, exasperated.

James looks genuinely confused. “Like what?”

“Like a golden retriever who’s been hexed into a boy.”

He gasps. “You think I’m loyal and adorable?”

“I think you’re loud and impossible to get rid of.”

“That’s practically a compliment coming from you.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “Did you break into the hospital wing just to bother me?”

“No,” he says, stretching. “I also came for the adrenaline rush. Madam Pomfrey tried to hex me.”

“She should’ve aimed higher.”

“She said the same thing.” He tilts his head, eyes softening a little. “Seriously though. You okay?”

You glance away.

It’s a simple question. An honest one. And it cracks something in you, just for a second — a flash of how tired you really are, how the weight in your chest hasn’t gone away since the moment you woke up here. But you’re not about to tell him that.

“I was fine,” you say flatly, “until you arrived.”

James laughs, not buying a word of it. And you hate him a little, for seeing through your armor so easily. For still showing up anyway.

“Well,” he says, standing up and slinging his bag over his shoulder, “I’ll go. But only because I know you’ll miss me more that way.”

“In your dreams, Potter.”

“You’re always in mine.”

He tosses you a wink before heading for the door — whistling as he walks, bright and ridiculous and inescapable.

You throw the other pillow at his back.

You miss.And you hate that you're smiling. 

The door clicks shut behind him, and silence rushes in too fast. It settles over you like dust, soft but suffocating. 

You just sit there, perched on the edge of the infirmary cot, hands still curled in the blanket, knuckles pale. For a moment, there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the ward and the slow, measured ache blooming low in your back.

Then, you hear it.

James's laughter, bright and stupid and golden, spilling through the corridor like it doesn’t know how to stop. It chases itself down the stone hallway, reckless and echoing, as if it has never once had to apologize for being loud. 

He laughs like he’s never been told not to. Like the world is still something worth laughing in.

And then—his voice.

Sirius.

You’d recognize it anywhere. Cooler than James’s, more precise, threaded through with a sort of effortless arrogance he doesn't have to earn. Sirius doesn’t speak to be heard. He speaks because the world always listens. He laughs like the sun doesn't blind him anymore. Like he’s been here before, and already survived it.

Their voices blur together, warm and sharp and unbearably distant. A private world outside the thin curtain, a place you’re never fully let into, even when you're part of it.

You swallow hard. The taste of metal still lingers.

Madam Pomfrey told you to rest. Strict orders, she said. Full bedrest. You nodded then. Promised. But your body’s never listened to promises, and your mind is already slipping away from the cot, already pressing you forward with a kind of restless urgency.

The ache in your ribs flares when you move, but you ignore it. You swing your legs over the side and reach for your shoes with slow, shaking hands. Each movement tugs at the bruises hidden beneath your skin, the tender places no one else can see. You wince. You keep going.

It isn’t the pain that drives you. It’s something worse. Something quieter. That feeling, deep in your chest, like a hand gripping your lungs too tightly. Like something in you has started to rot from the inside out. You don’t want to hear them laughing. You don’t want to be the one in the bed anymore, weak and broken and watched over like a child.

You want to run until your lungs scream. You want to scream until your throat splits.

Instead, you walk.

The corridor outside is too bright. You blink against it, but don’t slow your pace. Your limbs feel like they’re moving through water, but you don’t stop. The voices are gone now, swallowed by stone and space, but they echo anyway. You hear the ghosts of their laughter in every footstep.

And it stings, because Sirius never laughed like that with you anymore. Not since you learned how to flinch without being touched. Not since the world cracked open and swallowed the parts of you that still believed he would choose you first.

You keep walking. Not because you know where you're going.

Only because you know you can't stay.

You don’t go far. You don’t have the strength.

Instead, you slip into the back corner of the library, the one with the high windows and the dust-lined shelves no one bothers to reach for anymore. It’s always too quiet there, always a little too cold — and that suits you just fine. You drop your bag and sit without grace, shoulders curling inward like you’re trying to take up less space in the world.

Your books are open, but your eyes keep blurring the words. The light from the window stripes your page in gold, but your fingers tremble as you hold the quill. 

There’s a pain blooming slow beneath your ribcage now, deeper than before, as if something inside you is tugging out of place. You press your palm to your side, hoping the pressure will settle it, but all it does is remind you that it’s real.

It gets worse the longer you sit. The burning in your spine, the throb in your joints. Your whole body pulses like a bruise someone won’t stop pressing. You grit your teeth and write anyway, like if you just get through one more page, one more hour, one more breath—you’ll be okay.

But you’re not. Not really. And every breath tastes a little more like defeat.

The days fold over themselves like tired parchment.

You wake. You ache. You drift from bed to class to hospital wing to silence. You ignore James when he finds you in the corridor and calls you sunshine with a grin too wide for the way your heart is breaking. 

You tell him off with a glare you don’t mean. He calls you cruel and laughs anyway. You walk away before he can see the way your hands are shaking.

The world goes on.

And then one afternoon, when the sun slips low and casts everything in amber, you see him.

Regulus.

Your twin. Your mirror, once.

He’s seated beneath the black lake window, where the light is darker and more still. His robes are sharp and his posture straighter than you remember. 

There’s a boy beside him — fair hair, eyes too bright. You’ve seen him before. Barty Crouch Jr. A Slytherin, like Regulus. Arrogant. Sharp-tongued. Always smiling like he knows something you don’t.

They’re laughing. Low and conspiratorial. Something shared between them that you’ll never be invited into.

And Regulus is smiling, real and rare and soft in the way you used to think only you could draw from him. His face is unguarded. His shoulders are relaxed. He looks... content. Not loud like James, not wild like Sirius. But happy. In that quiet, unreachable way.

It guts you.

Because both your brothers have found something. Sirius, with the way he flings himself into everything—light, reckless, loved. And Regulus, with his quiet victories and his perfect tie and his smiles saved for someone else. They’ve carved out slivers of peace in this cold castle, let someone in enough to ease the weight they both carry.

And you—you can’t even let James brush your sleeve without recoiling.

You can’t even let yourself believe someone might stay.

You sit there, tangled in your own silence, staring at a boy who you used to fix his tie after your mother left the room, because he never could quite center it himself.

And now—he doesn’t need you.

Now, he looks like the last untouched part of what your family once was. The only grace left. 

He sits with his back straight, his collar crisp, his shoes polished to a soft gleam that catches even in the low light. His tie is knotted with precision. His hair, always tidy, always parted just right, never unruly the way yours has always been. 

Everything about him is exact — not stiff, but composed. He is elegance without effort, and you don’t know whether to feel proud or bitter, watching him hold himself together like the portrait of what you were both meant to be.

He is the son your mother wanted, the child she could show off. He never had to be told twice to stand straight or speak softer or smile with his mouth closed. Where you burned, he silenced the flame. Where you ran wild with leaves tangled in your curls, he walked beside her, polished and obedient and clean.

If she saw you now — slouched, hair unbound and wild, dirt smudged along your hem — she would scream. 

First, for your hair. Always your hair. too messy, too alive. 

Second, for sitting on the ground like some gutter child, as if you weren’t born from the ancient bloodline she tattooed onto your skin with every rule she taught you to fear.

And third — oh, third, for the thing she wouldn’t name. For the thing she’d feel in her bones before she saw it. Something’s wrong with you. Has always been wrong with you. Even when you’re still, you’re too much.

There’s no winning in a house like that.

But Regulus — Regulus still wins. Somehow. He balances the weight she gave him and never once lets it show on his face. And maybe it should make you feel less alone, seeing him there. Maybe it should comfort you, to know one of you managed to survive the storm with their softness intact.

You blink hard, but the sting in your eyes doesn’t go away.

Because Regulus sits like he belongs.

The light in the library has thinned to bruised blue and rusted gold. Outside, the sun has collapsed behind the tree line, dragging the warmth with it. Shadows stretch long and quiet across the stone, draped between the shelves like forgotten coats.

Your hand closes around the edge of the desk. Wood under skin. You push yourself up, gently, carefully, like you’ve been taught to do. Your body protests with a dull, familiar ache — hips locking, spine stiff. You’ve sat too long. That’s all, you tell yourself. You always do.

But then it comes.

A pull, not sharp — not at first. It begins low, behind the ribs, like a wire drawn tight through your center. It pulses once. And then again. And then all at once.

The pain does not scream. It settles.

It climbs into your body like it has lived there before — like it knows you. It sinks its teeth deep into the marrow, not the muscles, not the skin. The pain lives in your bones. It nestles into the hollow of your hips, winds around your spine, hammers deep into your shins. Not a wound. Not an injury. Something older. Hungrier.

You stagger, palm flying to the wall to catch yourself. Stone greets your skin, cold and indifferent. You can’t tell if your breath is leaving you too fast or not coming at all. It feels like both. Your ribs refuse to expand. Your lungs ache. Your throat is tight, raw, thick with air that won’t go down.

Still, it’s the bones that scream the loudest.

They carry it. Not just the pain, but the weight of it. Like your skeleton has begun to collapse inward — folding under a pressure no one else can see. Your joints feel carved from glass. Every movement, even a tremble, sends flares of heat spiraling down your limbs. You press a hand to your chest, to your side, to your shoulder — seeking the source — but there’s nothing on the surface. Nothing bleeding. Nothing broken.

And still, you are breaking.

Your ears ring. Not a pitch, but a pressure — like the air itself is narrowing. Like the world is folding in. You blink, and the shelves blur, the light bends, the corners of your vision curl inward like paper catching flame. You think, I should sit down.

But it’s already too late.

Your knees buckle. There’s that terrible moment — the heartbeat of weightlessness — before the fall. Before the floor claims you. Your shoulder catches the edge of a shelf. Books crash down around you in protest. You feel the noise in your ribs, but not in your ears. Everything else is too loud — your body, your body, your body.

And then you’re on the floor.

The stone beneath you is merciless. It doesn’t take the pain. It holds it. Reflects it. You press your cheek to it, eyes wide and wet and burning, and feel the tremors racing through your legs. Your hands are claws. Your spine is fire. Your ribs rattle in their cage like something dying to escape.

It’s not just pain. It’s possession.

Your bones do not feel like yours. They are occupied. Inhabited by something brutal and nameless. You are no longer a girl on a floor. You are a vessel for suffering, hollowed and used.

White fogs the edges of your sight.

And then — darkness, cool and absolute.

The only thing you know as it takes you is this: the pain does not leave with you. It goes where you go. It follows you into the dark. It belongs to you.

Like your bones always have.

-

Waking feels like sinking—an uneven descent through layers of fog and silence that settle deep in your bones before the world sharpens into focus.

The scent of disinfectant stings your nostrils like a cold warning. Beneath your fingertips, the hospital sheets whisper against your skin, thin and taut, a reminder that you are here—pinned, fragile, contained. The narrow bed presses into your back, a quiet cage, and pale light spills weakly through the infirmary windows, too muted to warm you. Somewhere far away, a curtain flutters, its soft murmur a ghostly breath you can’t quite reach.

You’re not ready to open your eyes—not yet.

Because the silence is broken by a voice, raw and electric, sparking through the stillness like a flame licking dry wood. 

It’s James.

But this James isn’t the one you know. The James who calls you “sunshine” just to hear you argue back, or the one who struts beside you in the hallways with that infuriating grin, as if the world bends beneath his feet. No. This voice is cracked and frayed, unraveling with worry and something heavier — the weight of helplessness.

“You should’ve sent word sooner,” he says, and every syllable feels like a shard caught in his throat.

“She fainted,” he repeats, as if saying it out loud might make it less real. “In the bloody library. She collapsed. Do you understand what that means?”

The sound of footsteps shuffles nearby, followed by Madam Pomfrey’s steady voice, calm but firm, trying to thread together the broken edges of panic.

“She’s resting now. Safe. That’s what matters.”

James laughs, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a brittle sound, half breath, half crack.

“Safe? You call this safe? She was lying there—cold—and I thought—” His voice breaks, a jagged exhale caught between frustration and fear. 

“She doesn’t say anything, you know. Never says a damn thing. Always brushing me off, like I’m just some idiot who’s in the way. But I see it. I see it. The way she winces when she stands too fast. And none of you—none of you bloody do anything.”

Your chest tightens like a fist around your heart.

You hadn’t expected this.

This raw, aching desperation beneath his words—the way his concern flickers through the cracks of his usual arrogance and shields. The way he’s caught between anger and helplessness, trying so desperately to fix something that isn’t easily fixed.

You lie still, listening to him, feeling the swell of something close to hope and something just as close to despair.

James Potter — sun-drunk boy, full of fire and foolish heart, standing now like a storm about to break. He paces the edge of your infirmary bed as if motion alone might hold back the tide. He looks unmade, undone: his tie hangs crooked, his hair is more chaos than crown, his sleeves rolled unevenly as if he dressed without thought — or too much of it — only the frantic instinct to get to you.

“I should’ve walked her to the library,” he murmurs, and his voice is smaller now, like a flame flickering at the end of its wick. 

Madam Pomfrey, ever the calm in the storm, offers a gentle but resolute reply. “Mr. Potter, she’ll wake soon. She needs rest, not your guilt.”

But guilt has already laid roots in his chest — you can hear it in the way his breath hitches, in the soft exhale that seems to carry the weight of an entire world. His hands press to his face like he’s trying to hold it together, knuckles pale, fingertips trembling slightly at the edges. 

You blink. Just once.

The light slices through the shadows behind your eyes like a blade — too sharp, too clean. But you blink again, slowly, eyelashes sticky with sleep. 

The ceiling swims into shape above you, white stone carved with faint veins and a hairline crack running like a map across its arch. It feels strange, being awake again. Like stepping through a door and finding the air different on the other side.

You shift your head — careful, slow — not because you’re afraid of waking anyone, but because you know the pain is still there, sleeping under your skin like an old god. Waiting. You feel it stretch along your spine, an ache carved into your marrow. Your body is quieter than before, but not calm. Just… biding time.

He doesn’t notice you yet — too consumed by whatever promise he’s making to himself. You catch only pieces of it: something about making sure you eat next time, and sleep, and sit when your knees go soft. His voice is hoarse, edged with something too raw to name.

And though your throat burns and your bones still hum with the echo of collapse, you find yourself watching him.

Because this boy — foolish, golden, infuriating — is breaking himself open at your bedside, and he doesn’t even know you’re watching.

It’s strange.

This boy who never stops grinning. Who fills every hallway like he’s afraid of silence — like stillness might swallow him whole. Who flirts just to irritate you, calls you cruel with a wink when you roll your eyes at his jokes. 

This boy who you’ve shoved away a hundred times with cold stares and tired sarcasm — he’s here.

And he looks like he’s breaking.

Because of you.

You swallow against the dryness in your throat. There’s a weight lodged just beneath your ribs, sharp and unfamiliar, twisting like a question you don’t want to answer. 

You never asked him to care. Never asked anyone to look too closely. In fact, you’ve spent so long building walls from half-smiles and quiet lies, you almost believed no one would ever bother to scale them.

But somehow — somewhere along the way — James Potter learned to read you anyway.

Learned to translate silence into worry. To see the way your shoulders fold inward when you think no one’s watching. The way your laugh fades too fast. The way you don’t flinch from pain because you’ve been carrying it for so long it’s become part of you.

And for the first time — it doesn’t feel annoying.

It feels terrifying.

Because if he sees it, really sees it… the frayed edges, the heaviness in your bones, the way you’ve started to drift so far inward it sometimes feels easier not to come back — what then?

What happens when someone finds the truth you’ve hidden even from yourself?

You wonder how long he’s been carrying this fear. How long he’s noticed the signs you’ve worked so hard to bury.

And quietly — achingly — you wonder how long you’ve been hoping no one ever would.

You’ve pushed him away a hundred times. Maybe more. With cold eyes and sharper words, with silence that says stay away. You made yourself invisible. Not because you wanted to be alone—but because you thought it was easier that way. Easier than asking for help. Easier than letting anyone get close enough to see what’s really breaking inside.

Because the truth is: you don’t want to be here much longer.

Not in some dramatic way, not yet. 

But the thought is always there, quiet and persistent—like a shadow that never leaves your side. You’ve made plans, small and silent. Things you think about when the ache inside your bones is too heavy to carry. The nights when you lie awake and imagine what it would be like if you simply stopped trying. If you slipped away and no one had to watch you fall apart.

You’ve counted the moments it might take, rehearsed the words you’d leave behind—or maybe decided silence would say enough.

You wondered if anyone would notice. If anyone would come looking.

And yet here is James.

Pacing by your bedside like he’s carrying the weight of your pain on his shoulders. His voice trembles with worry you didn’t invite. Worry you thought you’d hidden too well.

But for now, you lie still, tangled in the ache beneath your skin. Wondering if leaving would hurt more than staying. Wondering if anyone really knows the parts of you that are already gone.

Wondering if you can find the strength to let him in—before it’s too late.

You don't mean to make a sound. You don’t even know that you have, until Madam Pomfrey draws a sudden breath, sharp and startled.

“She’s—James—she’s awake.”

There’s a rustle of movement. A chair scraping. A breath hitching.

And then James is at your side like he’d been waiting his whole life to be called to you.

But none of that matters.

Because you are crying.

Not politely. Not the soft, well-behaved kind they show in portraits. No. You're shaking. Wracked. The sob rises from somewhere too deep to name and breaks in your chest like a wave crashing through glass. Your shoulders curl, but your arms don’t lift. You don't even try to wipe your face. There's no use pretending anymore.

The tears fall hot and endless down your cheeks, soaking into your pillow, your collar, the edge of your sheets. It’s not one thing. It’s everything. It’s the ache in your bones. 

The thunder in your chest. The way Regulus smiled at someone else. The way Sirius ran. The way James calls you sunshine like it’s not a lie.

The way you’ve spent your whole life trying to be good and perfect and silent and still ended up wrong.

And the worst part — the cruelest part — is that no one has ever seen you like this. Not really. You were always the composed one. The strong one. The one who shrugged everything off with a tilt of her head and a mouth full of thorns. The one who glared at James when he flirted and scoffed at softness and made everyone believe you didn’t need saving.

But you do. You do.

You just never learned how to ask for it.

And now—now your chest is heaving, and the room is spinning, and you can’t breathe through the noise in your head that says:

What if this never ends? What if I never get better? What if I disappear and no one misses me? What if I’m already gone and they just don’t know it yet?

You hear your name. Once. Twice.

Gentle, then firmer.

James.

You flinch like it’s a wound.

“Hey, hey—” His voice is careful now, as if you’ve become something sacred and fragile. “Hey, look at me. It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But you shake your head violently, because no, you are not safe, not from yourself, not from the sickness that has wrapped its hands around your ribs and pulled and pulled until you forgot what breathing without pain felt like. 

Your throat burns. Your fingers curl helplessly into the blanket. You want to tear your skin off just to escape it. You want to go somewhere so far no one can ask you to come back.

Madam Pomfrey stands frozen in place, her eyes wide, her hand half-lifted. She has known you for years and never—not once—has she seen a crack in your porcelain mask.

And now here you are. Crumbling in front of them both.

“Black—please—” James tries again, voice breaking in the middle. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what to do, I’ll do anything, I swear—”

“I can’t,” you gasp, the words torn from you like confession. “I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to— I don’t—”

You don’t say it. The rest of it. You don’t have to. It’s in your eyes, wide and soaked and terrified. In your hands, trembling like the last leaves of autumn. In the hollow behind your ribs that’s been growing for months.

James sits carefully on the edge of your bed. His eyes are wet. You’ve never seen him cry before.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he whispers. “Not now. Not alone. You don’t have to be strong for anyone anymore.”

You sob harder. Because that’s the thing you never believed. That someone could see your weakness and not run from it. That someone could love you for the parts you try to hide.

James doesn't flinch. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t call you cruel or cold or impossible to love. He just reaches out with one hand and lays it on yours, feather-light, as if you’re made of smoke.

“I’m here,” he says. “I’m right here.”

  -

A week passes.

It drips by slowly, like honey left too long in the cold — thick and sticky, every hour clinging to the next. The pain in your body doesn't ease. It deepens. It threads itself into your bones like ivy curling around old stone, slow but suffocating. 

Some mornings it takes everything just to sit up. Some nights you lie awake listening to your heartbeat stutter behind your ribs, wondering if it will give out before you do.

James has not left you.

Not once, not really. He’s still insufferable — that much hasn’t changed — but it’s quieter now. 

The jokes catch in his throat more often than they land. He hovers too long in doorways. He watches you like he’s memorizing the way you breathe. And his eyes — the ones that used to be full of flirt and fire and mischief — are wide and rimmed in worry.

It makes you furious.

Because you don’t want his pity. You don’t want anyone’s pity. You don’t want to be a burden strapped to someone else’s shoulder. You don’t want to see that shift in his face — the softening, the sadness, the silent fear that you might vanish right in front of him.

It’s worse than pain. It’s exposure.

Still, he meets you after class every day, waiting by the corridor with two cups of tea, like it’s some unspoken ritual. He never says you look tired, but he walks slower. He never asks if you’re in pain, but his hand always twitches like he wants to reach out and steady you.

Except today.

Today, he isn’t there.

And you know why before you even ask.

Because today is Sirius’s birthday.

You try not to be bitter. You try to let it go, to let him have this — his brother, his celebration, his joy. But bitterness has a way of curling around grief like smoke. It stings just the same.

You walk alone to the Great Hall, half-hoping, half-dreading, and then you see them.

All of them.

There at the Gryffindor table, the loudest cluster in the room, bursting with laughter and light like a constellation too bright to look at directly. Sirius sits in the center, crown of charmed glitter and floating stars hovering just above his head. He’s grinning — wide and wild and untouched by the quiet rot eating through your days.

Regulus used to crown him, once.

You remember it like it happened this morning — the three of you, tangled in sun-drenched grass, scraps of daisies in your hair, Sirius demanding to be called “King of the Forest,” Regulus rolling his eyes and obliging anyway, and you balancing a crooked wooden crown on his head like he was the only boy who ever mattered.

You loved him then. You love him now.

But everything has changed.

Now Sirius is surrounded by friends and light and cake that glitters. Regulus is far away, still sharp, still polished, still untouchable. And you — you pass by like a ghost with a too-slow gait and a storm in your chest, unnoticed.

No one looks up.

Not even James.

Not even him.

You keep walking.

And you try not to think about how much it hurts that he isn’t waiting for you today. How much it feels like being forgotten.

How much it feels like disappearing.

You sit in the Great Hall, untouched plate before you, the silver spoon resting against the rim like even it’s too tired to try. There’s food, you think. Warm and plentiful, enough to satisfy kingdoms — but none of it ever looks like it belongs to you.

Your stomach turns at the scent.

You haven't eaten properly in days, if not longer. You don't bother counting anymore. Hunger doesn’t feel like hunger now. It feels like grief in your throat, like something alive trying to claw its way up and out of you. So you just sit there, alone at the far end of the table where no one comes, where there’s room enough for a silence no one wants to join.

You have no friends. Not anymore. Illness has a way of peeling people away from you like fruit from its skin. They stop asking. Stop waiting. Stop noticing. You can’t blame them, really — what’s the use in trying to be close to a body always fraying at the seams?

Across the hall, Sirius is the sun incarnate. He always is on his birthday.

He’s laughing with James now, something too loud and full of warmth. His cheeks are flushed with joy, hair glittering with the shimmer of charmed confetti, mouth parted mid-story as if the world waits to hear him speak. 

The Marauders hang around him like moons caught in his orbit, throwing wrappers and spells and terrible puns into the air like fireworks. It’s messy and golden and warm. And for a moment, you forget how to breathe.

You used to be part of that. Didn’t you?

Used to sit beside him and Regulus in the gardens with hands sticky from treacle tart and lips red from laughter. Used to have a seat at the table. A place. A life.

Now even Regulus is far away — his corner of the Slytherin table colder, quieter. But still not alone. He’s flanked by Barty, Evan, and Pandora. All sharp edges and shining eyes. All seemingly untouched by the rot that follows you. Regulus leans in, listens, offers a rare smirk that you remember from childhood, one he used to save just for you.

He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

The ache in your chest blooms sudden and vicious. You press your knuckles into your side beneath the table — a small, private act of violence — as if you can convince your body to shut up, to behave, to let you just exist for one more hour. But the pain lurches anyway. Slow at first, then sharper. Stabbing between your ribs like something snapping loose.

You can’t do this.

You stand — too fast, too rough — and the edges of the room ripple like heat rising off pavement. No one notices. No one calls after you. Not even James.

Especially not James.

You walk out of the Hall without tasting a single bite.

And then you’re in the corridor, then on the stairs, and then climbing the towers toward your room. Step by step. Breath by breath. It should be easy — you’ve made this walk a hundred times. But your legs tremble beneath you. The pain isn't where it usually is. It's everywhere now. Your spine, your stomach, the backs of your eyes. Every inch of you buzzes like a broken wire. You clutch the banister like a lifeline, but even that’s not enough.

This is the third time this week.

It’s never been three times.

You should go to Pomfrey. Tell someone. Let someone help.

But your throat stays closed. You keep walking.

Some part of you wonders if this is what dying feels like — this slow crumbling, this breathlessness, this fatigue that eats your name and your shadow and your will to keep standing. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it? To stop. Just for a little while. Just until the pain quiets. Just until the storm passes.

Except you know the storm is you.

You reach your dorm and shut the door behind you with the quiet finality of a girl preparing to vanish. The walls are too still. The windows don’t let in enough light. 

What if I just didn’t wake up tomorrow?

You let your bag fall to the floor. It lands with a dull, tired thud.

And then you see it.

Resting on the pillow — a single folded letter. Pale parchment. Tidy handwriting. Sealed not with wax but with duty. You don’t need to open it to know who it’s from. You don’t need to guess the weight of its words.

Still, you pick it up.

Your fingers tremble as you unfold it. Each crease feels like a wound reopening.

Darling, Christmas is nearly upon us. I expect you and Regulus home promptly this year — no delays. You’ve missed enough holidays already. No excuses will be accepted. — Mother

That’s it.

That’s all.

Twelve words from the woman who hasn’t written in months. No inquiry into your health. No mention of your letters, the ones she never answered. No softness. No warmth. Just expectation carved into command, as if your body isn't breaking open like wet paper. As if you’re still someone who can just show up — smiling, polished, whole.

You stare at the page until the words blur. Until they bleed.

And then something inside you slips.

The tears come without warning. No build, no warning breath. Just the kind of sob that erupts straight from the gut — ragged, cracked, feral. You sink to your knees beside the bed, hands still clinging to the letter like it might fight back, like it might tear through your skin and finish what your body started.

The pain blooms fast and ruthless. It surges from your spine to your chest, flooding every inch of you like fire caught beneath your ribs. You curl in on yourself, nails digging into your arms, into your thighs, into the fragile curve of your ribs. You clutch at your bones like you can hold them together — like you can stop them from collapsing.

But nothing stops it.

Nothing stops the sound that tears from your throat. A scream muffled into the sheets. A cry swallowed by solitude.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. All you can feel is this white-hot ache that eats at your joints, your heart, your hope.

You don’t want to go home.

You don’t want to keep going.

You want it to stop. All of it. The pain, the pretending, the loneliness of being expected to survive in a world that only ever sees the surface of you.

You press your forehead to the floor. Cold. Unmoving. Solid.

And you cry — truly cry — not in anger or silence, but in the voice of someone who has held it in too long, who has no more space left inside for grief.

And still, the letter stays crumpled in your fist, a ghost of a girl who once believed her mother might write something kind.

You move like your bones aren’t breaking.

You move like the letter from your mother isn’t still open on the desk, edges trembling in the breeze from the cracked window, her careful handwriting slicing you open with its simplicity. Christmas is coming. You and Regulus are expected home. No excuses.

You move because if you stop, you will shatter. Because the only thing worse than pain is stillness. Stillness makes it real.

So you go to the mirror.

The room is too quiet, too full of the breath you can barely draw. The walls feel too close, like they’re pressing in, trying to crush the last sliver of strength you’ve kept hidden beneath your ribs. Your legs are unsteady beneath you, every step forward a question you don’t want the answer to.

Your reflection barely looks like you anymore.

There is a hollowness in your eyes that no amount of light can touch. Your skin is pale and stretched thin, the corners of your mouth pulled in defeat. Your hair is a wild mess—matted from where you clutched at it in pain, tangled from nights curled on cold floors instead of in beds, from days where brushing it felt like too much of a luxury.

You reach for the comb. It clatters in your hands, and for a moment, you just stare at it.

Then you begin.

Each pull through your hair is a distraction from the agony blooming in your bones—sharp, raw, endless. You comb as if each knot you work through might undo a knot inside your chest. It doesn’t. But still, you comb.

You need to. You have to.

Because Sirius is downstairs. Laughing. Shining. Surrounded by love and warmth and them. You should be there. It’s his birthday. You remember the way he used to leap into your bed at sunrise, dragging you and Regulus by the wrists, shouting, “Coronation time!” and demanding to be crowned king of everything. You always made him a crown out of daisies and broken twigs. Regulus would scowl but help you braid it anyway.

He loved those crowns. He kept every one.

You remember how the three of you used to sit on the rooftop ledge, legs dangling, hands sticky with cake, Sirius declaring himself “the prettiest monarch of them all,” and Regulus pretending to hate it, even as he leaned against you, quiet and content.

Now Sirius is laughing without you. And Regulus is nowhere near your side.

You press the comb harder into your scalp. You need to focus.

Because Regulus—he should be here. You need him. Desperately. With a bone-deep ache that feels like hunger. But you haven’t spoken in days. He doesn’t look at you anymore. Not really. And you can’t ask. You don’t know how.

And James—bloody James—you almost wish he was here. As much as he drives you insane, with his constant chatter and shameless flirting, at least it means someone is trying to stay. At least it means you’re not entirely alone. But he isn’t here. He’s down there with Sirius, and you're alone in this echoing silence, braiding your hair like it might save you from yourself.

You divide it into three sections.

One for Sirius. One for Regulus. One for yourself.

You twist the first strand with shaking fingers, tight enough that it pulls your scalp taut. Then the second, even tighter. Your arms ache. Your chest tightens. The pain is good—it makes everything else fade. Not vanish, but blur around the edges.

By the third strand, your eyes are burning again.

You begin to braid.

Over, under, over.

You focus on the motion. The discipline. The illusion of control. Each loop is a scream you don’t let out. Each pull is an ache you refuse to voice. You braid like your life depends on it. Like if it’s tight enough, neat enough, maybe you’ll stop falling apart. Maybe you’ll be someone your mother could stand to look at. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to walk past Sirius without dying inside. Maybe you won’t feel so abandoned by Regulus. Maybe you’ll stop wondering what would happen if you simply stopped waking up.

Over. Under. Pull.

You want someone to notice. Just once. That you're not okay. That you haven’t been for a very long time. But you also want to disappear.

The braid is so tight it lifts the corners of your face, gives the illusion of composure. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe.

But at least now, you look fine.

You stare at your reflection. The girl in the mirror doesn’t cry. She doesn’t break. She’s polished, composed, hair perfect, pain tucked behind the curve of her spine. Just like Mother taught her.

But you can still feel it.

Inside.

Worse than ever.

The kind of ache that doesn’t come from sickness. The kind that whispers, What if you just stopped trying?

And for a heartbeat too long, you wonder what it would be like to let go.

But you blink. You blink and you turn and you reach for your school bag like the world hasn’t ended, and you prepare to go sit through another class, braid perfect, bones screaming, heart bleeding.

Because no one can save you if they don’t know you’re drowning.

And no one is looking.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. 

It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

Your fingers move almost mechanically as you smooth the fabric of your robe, the weight of it heavy with memories and expectation. Each fold you press flat feels like an attempt to iron out the wrinkles of your fractured soul, to shape yourself into something orderly, something that fits into the world your mother demands. 

The knot of your tie is next—tight and precise, a cold reminder of the control you’re expected to hold, even as everything inside you threatens to unravel.

Turning away from the mirror, you move to your bed, your hands carefully pulling the covers taut. The fabric is smooth under your fingertips, but your heart feels anything but. 

You straighten the pillows, tuck in the sheets, as if by arranging this small corner of your world perfectly, you can bring some order to the chaos swirling inside your mind.

Books come next. You stack them neatly on your desk, aligning every corner and spine as if the act itself could contain the chaos you feel. 

You run your fingers over the worn covers and flip through the pages, lingering on the words one last time. Your homework lies finished—no undone tasks, no loose ends to catch you. Everything is set, ready.

Your hands tremble slightly as you set your quill back in its holder. The quiet click in the stillness of your room feels loud, a reminder of the fragile balance you hold. In this small, solemn ritual, you prepare not just your things, but yourself—gathering the last threads of control, the last remnants of order before you let go.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

You stand in front of the mirror, eyes tracing the braided strands that crown your head—a braid so tight and perfect, the first since you were thirteen. 

For once, the wildness that usually clings to your hair has been subdued, pulled into neat, unforgiving lines. It feels like a fragile kind of victory, as if this braid is a quiet rebellion against the chaos inside you, a way to tame not just your hair but the storm roiling beneath your skin.

The silence wraps around you, waiting.

The halls are half-empty, half-asleep in golden mid-afternoon hush, and your footsteps echo too loudly against the stone, like your bones are protesting with every step.

 The books in your arms weigh more than they should, tugging your spine downward, but you hold them like a shield. Like maybe the act of carrying knowledge — of submitting things, of finishing things — will be enough to make you feel real again.

You don’t notice James at first. Not until he steps out from where he must’ve been waiting by the staircase — leaning against the bannister with the kind of bored posture that usually precedes some ridiculous joke. 

But he doesn't speak right away this time. His eyes move to your braids, then down the neat lines of your uniform, and there’s a strange stillness in him. No grin. Just… surprise.

“Bloody hell,” he says finally, voice light but too soft to be teasing. “You’ve got your hair up.”

You blink at him. Say nothing. Your arms tighten slightly around your books, like you’re bracing yourself.

He lifts a hand, gestures vaguely. “Not that it’s any of my business — I mean, you always look like you just fought off a banshee in a thunderstorm, and now you look like you’ve… fought it and survived.” A smile tries to form, wobbly. “It suits you. You look really cute.”

You stop.

Not just physically, but inside too — something halting in your breath, like a skipped beat. Your gaze meets his, dull and quiet.

“Not today, James.”

Your voice is hoarse. Frayed silk over gravel. There’s no snap to it, no snarl or bite. You just say it like a truth. Like you’re too tired for anything else.

James straightens slowly. He doesn’t speak for a moment, just watches you like he’s trying to read through all the space between your words. Your name sits on his tongue, but he doesn’t use it. Instead, his brows lift — not in arrogance this time, but in something like confusion. Or worry.

“You—” He swallows. “You called me James.”

You shift your books in your arms, not meeting his eyes this time. “I just want to get through the day.”

He takes a step toward you, but something in your posture keeps him from reaching farther. “Hey, I can carry those—”

“I said not today.” you repeat, softer. Final.

And for once, he listens.

There’s a beat. Then he gives a small nod, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool even though you can see the concern crawling up his throat like ivy.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “But if you need anything, I— I’m around.”

You nod once — not in agreement, just acknowledgment. Then turn.

You don’t see how long he watches you walk away.

Your steps are heavier now, the ache blooming behind your knees and up your spine. It shouldn't be this bad — not again, not so soon. You already fell apart days ago. But the fire’s back in your ribs, licking up the side of your lungs, and you press your lips into a thin line, determined not to let it show.

You pass the Great Hall on your way. You don’t look in.

But Sirius sees you.

He’s mid-laugh, one of those rare carefree ones that sounds like summer. Remus has just handed him a small box wrapped in gold, and his crown — handmade from parchment, ink-smudged and jagged — sits slightly askew on his head. He freezes. The smile falters. His brows draw in. Something in his chest clenches.

“Was that—?” he begins, turning toward Remus.

“She didn’t see us,” Remus murmurs, already watching you too.

Your shoulders are too tight. Your spine too stiff. You don’t notice the silence left behind you. You don’t hear how the laughter quiets. You’re already up the next stairwell, already telling yourself you just need the potions. Just need to breathe. Just need to finish submitting your homework. Then maybe—maybe—

You won’t have to feel this anymore.

The infirmary is warm when you step inside, too warm. It clings to your skin like a fever, like the ache in your bones has grown teeth and is sinking in deeper the longer you stand.

You hug your books closer to your chest, as if they might anchor you here, hold you steady, keep you from unraveling.

Madam Pomfrey doesn’t look up. She’s bent over a boy laid out on the nearest cot—mud streaked across his face, quidditch robes still soaked in grass and sweat. 

Normally, she’d have noticed you by now. Normally, she would have called you over, already tsk-ing and summoning your chart. But she’s too absorbed today, too busy, and for the first time in a long time, no one’s watching you.

Your eyes drift to the far side of the room—to her desk. A tray sits just behind it, lined with small glass vials. Labels scrawled in Pomfrey’s sharp handwriting. Pale blue, golden amber, deep crimson—every kind of potion she’s ever poured down your throat. You know their names better than your own.

And there, at the back, barely touched, is the strongest pain reliever in her stores. Veridomirine. 

Dark and glinting in the soft light, like it already knows it’s too much for most. You remember it burning a hole in your stomach the last time she gave it to you. The way your limbs went numb. The way your mind stilled. The silence of it.

Your grip tightens on your books.

The decision happens slowly and all at once. You glance at Madam Pomfrey—her back still turned, wand still stitching, voice low as she murmurs reassurance to the boy on the bed. 

You step forward, quiet, deliberate. Like you’ve done this before. Like your body already knows the path.

The desk is closer than you expect. You set your books down gently, hands shaking just enough to notice, and reach for the bottle. The glass is cool. Heavier than you remember. It fits into your palm like it was made for you.

You don’t hesitate. You don’t think.

You slide it into the fold of your robe, between the fabric and your ribs, right where the pain always begins.

And then you lift your books again, turn on your heel, and walk out as if you’ve only come for a quick word, as if nothing is different. As if your hands aren’t burning from what you’ve just done.

The corridor is quiet outside. Brisk. The chill hits your cheeks and you let it. Let it bite and sharpen and bring you back into your body.

But something is different now.

Because inside your robe, glass clinks softly with every step.

And for the first time, you feel like you’re holding your way out.

All you can hear is your heartbeat, dull and heavy, and the quiet clink of glass from the bottle nestled beneath your sleeve.

You push open the infirmary doors, and the hallway blooms before you, empty at first glance. But he’s there.

Sirius.

Leaning against the stone wall, one foot pressed behind him for balance, arms crossed in a way that looks casual—effortlessly disheveled—but you don’t see the way his jaw keeps tightening, or the way he’s been picking at the edge of his sleeve, over and over again.

He straightens when he hears the door creak open. His head lifts, eyes scanning quickly—and softening, melting, when he sees you. You, with your too-tight braid, your hollow stare, the way you walk like you’re already halfway gone.

He doesn’t recognize you at first.

Not because you’ve changed on the outside—though you have—but because something’s missing. Something small. Something vital.

And Sirius Black has never known how to say delicate things, not with words. Not with you. So he does what he always does—he opens his mouth and hopes something human will fall out.

“Hey—”

But you’re already passing.

You don’t see the way he steps forward, the way his fingers twitch like he might reach for your arm. You don’t hear the “Can we talk?” die in his throat. You don’t even look at him. Not once.

You’re already turning away.

The braid down your back is tight, almost punishing. A line of control in a world unraveling thread by thread. Your robes are neat, too neat. Tie straight. Steps calculated. As if by holding the pieces together on the outside, you might silence the ruin inside. 

As if you can braid back the shadows trying to tear themselves loose.

Sirius opens his mouth. Wants to say your name. Just your name. Softly, like a tether, like a reminder. But the syllables die on his tongue. You’re already walking away, and the space between you feels suddenly endless. Like galaxies expanding between breaths.

And still—he doesn’t call after you.

He watches. That’s all he can do. 

Watches you walk with the quiet defiance of someone who has learned how to disappear in full view. Someone who was born under a cursed name and carved their own silence from it. He knows that silence. 

He’s worn it too. It’s in his name—in Black. Not just a surname but a legacy of storms. A bloodline that confuses cruelty for strength, silence for survival.

He told himself he had outrun it. That the name couldn’t touch him anymore. But now he watches you, and he realizes: Black isn’t just his burden—it’s yours too. You carry the same weight in your eyes. That same quiet grief. That same ache for something better.

You were the one who never bent. Never cried. Even when the pain took your bones, you met the world with cold fire in your gaze. But now he sees something else. Something crumbling. Something gone.

And it hits him like a curse spoken in the dark: he doesn’t know how to reach you. Not really. He was too late to ask the right questions. Too loud to hear the ones you never spoke aloud. Too proud to admit that sometimes, the ones who look strongest are the ones who are breaking quietly, piece by piece.

You vanish down the corridor, and Sirius stands there, the silence echoing louder than any spell. He leans back against the wall again, like if he presses hard enough, it might hold him together.

 His name is Black. And for the first time in a long while, it feels like a mirror—cold, cracked, and full of all the things he was too afraid to see.

You were light once. Maybe not the kind that burned—but the kind that steadied. Quiet, firm, constant. And now, he wonders if you’ve let go of the edge entirely. If you’ve stepped too far into that old name, into the dark.

And Sirius Black—brave, loud, impossible Sirius—does not know how to follow you there.

The bottle is cold in your hand, colder than it should be. 

You don’t know if it’s the glass or your fingers or something deeper, something in the marrow, in the blood. You sit on the edge of your bed like you’re balancing on a cliff, and everything around you holds its breath. 

The walls. The books. The light. Even the ghosts seem to pause, like they know something sacred and shattering is about to unfold.

You set the bottle down on your nightstand, watching the liquid shimmer inside. It’s a strange shade—amber gold, like honey and fire, like something that should soothe, should heal. But you know what it’ll do. 

You’ve read the labels. You’ve stolen the dosage. You’ve done the math. And for once in your life, the numbers give you certainty. This will be enough.

You glance around your room as if memorizing it, not the way it is, but the way it’s always been. The books stacked with uneven spines. The worn corner of your blanket where you’d twist the fabric between your fingers when the pain got too much. The chipped edge of the mirror where you once slammed a brush out of frustration. It’s a museum now. A mausoleum in waiting.

Your hands tremble as you reach for a parchment scrap—just a torn piece, nothing grand. You fold it carefully, slow and deliberate, your fingers aching as they crease the paper into small peaks. It’s clumsy, uneven. A paper crown no bigger than your palm. 

You think of Sirius, of sun-kissed afternoons when he used to run ahead and shout that he was king of the forest, the common room, the world. 

You and Regulus would laugh, always crown him, always believe him. You were never royalty, not really. Just children trying to carve a kingdom out of cracked stone and quiet grief.

You place the tiny crown on the edge of the desk. An offering. A prayer. A goodbye that won’t speak its name.

It’s his birthday.

You whisper it aloud like it means something. Like he’ll hear it. “Happy birthday, Sirius.”

And then, silence again. The kind of silence that screams.

Your fingers reach for the bottle. You uncork it slowly, and the scent rises—bitter, sharp, familiar. You think of your bones. Of how they’ve been singing a song of surrender for weeks. Months. Maybe years. Of how it’s taken everything in you just to exist in this body, in this name, in this world.

You think of Regulus. Of how his back was always straight even when everything else was falling. Of how you used to braid flowers into your hair for him, and he’d pretend not to care, but he’d look at you like you were magic. You think of James and the way his voice is always too loud but his concern is real, is warm, and how he didn’t call you a single name today. You think of how you almost wanted him to follow you.

You think of Sirius.

And it hurts so much you almost change your mind.

But the pain doesn’t leave. It never does. 

It sinks deeper, folds into your joints, nests behind your ribs. It becomes you. You can’t keep holding it. You can’t keep waking up in a body that feels like betrayal, in a mind that won’t stop screaming, in a life that forgot how to soften.

There is a kind of pain that does not bleed. It settles deep — in marrow, in memory. It builds altars in your bones, asking worship of a body already breaking. You've worn this ache longer than you've worn your name, longer than your brothers stayed.

You were born into the house of Black — where silence is survival and suffering is an inheritance. Regulus moved like shadow. Sirius, like fire. But you? You learned to stay. To endure. To carry the weight of a name no one asked if you wanted. And you did it well. Too well. Long enough for the world to mistake your endurance for ease.

Because strength was never the crown you wanted. It was the chain.

You bring it to your lips.

There is no fear, not anymore. Just the hush beneath your ribs loosening for the first time. Not with hope — never with hope — but with rest. The kind no one can take from you. The kind that doesn’t hurt to hold. That doesn’t ask for your smile in exchange for survival.

You close your eyes.

And then — a crack of wood. A bang loud enough to split the night wide open. Like the universe itself couldn’t bear to be quiet a second longer. 

The door crashes against the wall, unhinging the moment from its silence.

Wind howls through the space between now and never. Curtains billow like ghosts startled from sleep. You flinch before you mean to. Before you can stop yourself. The bottle slips from your hands.

It falls. A slow, glassy descent. And when it hits the floor — the shatter is almost gentle. A soft, final sound. Like the last breath of something sacred. Potion and silence spill together, staining the rug in pale, merciful ruin.

And there — Sirius.

Standing in the doorway like someone who’s already read the ending. Like someone who sprinted through every corridor of this house just to be too late. 

His chest is rising like he’s run miles through storm and stone. His eyes — wild, wet, unblinking. The kind of stare that begs the world to lie.

There’s mud on his boots. A tremble in his fists. Panic stretched tight across his shoulders, brittle and loud. And something in his face — something jagged and unspoken — slices right through the stillness.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do you.

The room holds its breath. Around you, time stands uncertain. The glass glitters between you like a warning, like a map of everything broken. The smell of the potion hangs in the air — soft, floral, almost sweet. A lullaby for leaving.

Your hands stay curled in your lap, still shaped around the ghost of what almost was. Still cradling the moment you thought you could disappear, undisturbed.

You were supposed to be gone by now.

Supposed to leave like snowfall, like mist at morning — soft, unseen, unremembered. You had rehearsed the silence. Folded your goodbyes into creases no one would find. You had made peace with the vanishing.

But he’s here. Sirius. And he is looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s known all along.

Not just the pieces you performed — the smirk, the sarcasm, the deflection sharp enough to draw blood. But the marrow of it. The hurting. The leaving. The way you’d been slipping away for years in small, invisible ways.

And you can’t take it back.

Not the uncorked bottle. Not the weight in your chest you were ready to lay down. Not the choice you almost made — not out of weakness, but weariness. The kind no one ever sees until you’ve already left.

And still. Even now.

Something uncoils in your chest. Not like hope but like release. Like exhale. Like gravity loosening its grip. The ache begins to lift, slow and smoke-soft, drifting out of your lungs, out of your spine, out of the quiet place where you’d kept it curled for so long.

And for the first time — the ache goes with you.

‘Til all that’s left is glorious bone.

[mercvry-glow]

you, me, and empty space between us

parings. jack abbot x doctor!reader

warnings. widower!jack, age gap as always (jack late 40s, reader late 20s early 30s), jack literally talks reader off the ledge, undefined relationship but they're clearly in love and going through something, unspecified mental health issues, panic attacks, possible suicidal ideation, talks of losing people, bittersweet ending though.

notes. ever since we learned jack was a widower i've been cursed with angsty thoughts. I think this one is really hard as we see both the reader and jack struggle with each other. I love them your honor, and I'm really in my noah kahan loneliness era for this man. as always any feedback is appreciated and I love all of you!

wc. 2700+

You don’t know when it had become so hard to breathe.

It wasn’t after the first patient death, or even the fourth or fifth. That was just life in the Pitt, and you had grown accustomed to it long ago… at least that’s what you thought.

It certainly wasn’t when he had walked in—Jack Abbot, all swagger and scruff, fresh on shift while you were finishing yours. You truly don’t know when you came to love him as more than a mentor. Maybe it was in the quiet, exhausted nights on his couch, or the rare mornings when your coffee mugs clinked in place of words.

Never open, always tucked away.

And maybe that’s why it hits you like a punch to the chest—because it’s something so small, something that you have no business caring about.

A glint of gold as he reaches for his first chart of the night.

His wedding band.

Still there. Still shining. Still hers.

And your breath just… goes. Like someone pulled the air from your lungs and replaced it with something heavy and wet and cruel.

You don’t even remember walking to the lockers. Just the click of the door behind you, the fluorescent lights buzzing too loud, and the burn behind your eyes as your hands shook, held tight against your sides. Everything became too much all at once. 

God, you're so tired.

Tired of the codes and the screaming and the silence that follows. Tired of watching children and parents die and pretending you’re not breaking a little more each time. Tired of watching your friends break each and every day more and more as this job steals their youth like it’s doing to yours. Tired of giving your heart to a man who, no matter how gently he touches you, will never touch you like you’re loved by him.

Not like he touched her.

You don't even cry. Not at first. You just run up the stairs, heart hammering like it's trying to escape, destination both known and unknown to your frazzled brain. Then you do cry—loud, ugly, shoulder-shaking sobs that don't stop. Not even when someone passes. Not even when your pager buzzes again.

You make it up to the roof before anyone sees you.

The cold Pittsburgh wind bites at your cheeks, but at least here, you can breathe again. 

Kind of.

 You wrap your arms around yourself, eyes burning as you stare out over the city like it's supposed to give you some kind of answer.

But it doesn't.

It never does.

You’re not even sure how long you’ve been up here.

The city stretches out below, distant and indifferent—cars moving like blood cells in some great, uncaring artery. You’ve spent your whole life trying to keep things alive, and now, standing here, arms wrapped around yourself in the wind, you’re not sure how to keep yourself going.

It’s not just Jack.

 It’s everything.

You’re tired in your bones. In your soul, if that’s a thing people really have.

Tired of the endless codes that ring like alarms in your dreams. Tired of holding hands that go cold while families scream down the hall. Tired of smiling when you’re empty. Laughing when your throat aches from swallowing everything you can’t say.

Tired of being second. 

To a memory. 

To a career.

 To a system that chews you up and spits you back out with new scars and fewer tears left to give.

You love your job. God, you do. But lately it feels like it’s eating you alive. And no one sees it. No one wants to see it.  Because you're the one who keeps it together. The calm in the storm. The smile at the desk. The one who always says, “I’m fine. Go. I’ve got this.”

But you don’t.

You don’t got this. Not anymore

You’re drowning.

And Jack—Jack is just the wound you thought you could bandage, only to realize it was deeper than you ever let yourself admit.

You see the way he softens when he talks about her, the few times you got to hear. 

The weight in his voice when he says her name.

And you? You’re the comfort. The quiet. The body he falls into when his ghosts get too loud, too much to handle alone.

But not the one he chooses.

Never the one he chooses.

A sob claws its way up your throat, and this time you don’t stop it. You sink, knees scraped by the roof's edge, standing past the metal railing and let it all go—the grief, the love, the years of being almost enough in every aspect of your life.

You cry until you’re raw. Until your breath hitches like a broken record.

Until you feel like there’s nothing left inside you. 

And still, the world keeps turning. The city lights don’t flicker. The wind doesn’t pause.

You are so deeply, achingly alone.

And in this moment, you don't even want to be saved. You just want to rest. 

To be done. 

“You know,” comes a familiar voice behind you, easy and low, “if you wanted to get me alone on the rooftop , all you had to do was ask. I would’ve brought you coffee.”

You flinch. Just barely. But he sees it.

Jack steps closer, hands tucked in his cargo pockets like he’s just wandered up here on a whim, not after checking every paitent room and hallway trying to find you. There’s that half-smile tugging at his mouth, the one he uses like armor—dry wit and soft hazel eyes, his whole coping mechanism wrapped in a single expression.

But the smile falters when you don’t answer.

When he really looks at you.

You’re standing with your hands pulled to your chest, fingers white-knuckled in your scrubs, eyes red and swollen. Shoulders shaking just enough to make him stop in his tracks after realizing you’re past the guard rail. 

“Hey,” he says again, quieter this time. “What happened?”

You shake your head. A tiny, useless motion. You can't even bring yourself to look at him, back still turned.

He steps toward you, trying to search your face. “Talk to me. Did something happen with a patient? Was it that kid from earlier? Or—”

“No,” you whisper, barely audible. “It’s nothing.”

“That,” he says, voice a touch sharper, “is a lie. And a bad one, kid.”

You let out a bitter little laugh that turns into another sob. “Everything’s just… too much.”

Jack doesn’t speak right away. Just watches you, the tension in his jaw building slowly. “You’re scaring me,” he admits, quietly.

“Fuck,” you snap through the tears. “Now you actually see me?.”

That stuns him. You can sense it—how his shoulders tighten, how his eyes scanning like they’ve missed something right in front of them.

You wobble, or try to move—your knees tremble under you, and Jack moves instantly, hands ready to grab you. 

You pull away.

“I’m tired, Jack,” you say, voice breaking. “So goddamn tired. Of being here. Of being overworked. Of watching people die. Of pretending I don’t care that you still wear her ring when you’re in my bed.”

Silence slams between you.

He swallows hard, words clearly stuck in his throat.

“I know she meant everything to you,” you say, softer now. “And I would never try to take her place. But it’s killing me. Being your person… Being the one you come to… but never for.”

His mouth opens, then closes again.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And look, now I’m making my issues about you again. God, I’m tired of that too.”

Jack steps forward, hesitant, like he’s approaching something fragile. Or dangerous. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“I didn’t want to make it real,” you whisper. “Because if I said it out loud, I’d have to admit that I’m not okay. That this job—this place—you—are breaking me.”

He’s quiet for a long time. The wind whistles around you both, cold and uncaring.

“I didn’t know,” he finally says. “I should’ve. But I didn’t. And I’m sorry.”

You look up at him, exhausted and open and completely undone. “I don’t want you to say sorry. I just… I wanted to matter.”

“You do,” he says, quick and firm. “You matter to me,”

You shake your head again, biting back another sob.

He doesn’t try to touch you this time. He just stands there in the silence you’ve created, eyes on yours like they’re the only thing he sees now.

And maybe—for the first time—they are.

Jack exhales slowly, like he’s trying to steady his own heart before he reaches for yours.

“You wanna know something?” he says, his voice rough but quiet. “First week I met you, I thought you weren’t cut out for this. All business, too rigid, straight spine, soft. Honestly? Scared the hell out of me, I thought you’d be gone by the end of the week.”

You huff, tired, but something like a breath of a laugh escapes you.

“But then you stayed two hours after your shift because a twelve-year-old was afraid of needles,” he continues. “And I saw it. That heart of yours—the one you hide behind clipped words and all that damn competence. You care so much it hurts you.”

He pauses, lets that sink in. You turn your face slightly toward him, just enough for him to see your profile in the wind.

“I know you think nobody sees you,” Jack says. “That you’re just some extra in other people’s stories. But I see you. I always see you.”

Your lips part, but no words come.

“You’re the one holding the line when everyone else is cracking. You’re the one who stays up on nights like this, falling apart where no one can find you. But I found you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

He steps forward again, slowly, cautiously. Like he’s giving you every chance to step back under the rails and hoping you don’t choose the other way down.

“I don’t wear this ring because I’m not over her,” he says, tugging at the band absently. “I wear it because she made me better. And you… you keep me better.”

That stops your breath cold.

“I never meant to make you feel like you were just something temporary,” he says. “You’re not. Not to me.”

“Then why not just say it?” you choke, voice trembling.

He looks at you like he wants to. Like the words are right there on his tongue—but something stops him. Not fear. Not doubt. Just the weight of everything this moment holds.

“I’m saying what I can,” he says instead. “Until I can say it all.”

He steps closer, right in front of you now, eyes searching yours.

“You matter, okay? Not just as my best resident. Not just as a damn good doctor. You matter to me. You’re not alone in this. Even if you feel like you are.”

Silence again. Heavy, but different this time.

“I don’t know what happens next,” he adds, quieter now. “But I know I don’t want to face it without you.”

You feel something give inside you—something that’s been clinging to the edge for weeks, maybe months. You don’t fall apart again, not this time. But you do lean forward. Just a little. Just enough.

Jack reaches out to touch you, wanting to pull you in. Standing right there on the other side of the guard rails, steady as gravity.

 Letting you decide.

You stand there for a second, barely breathing. His words echo in your chest, ringing against all the places that have been cracked and hollowed out.

You matter to me.

It shouldn't be enough. Not after all this. But somehow, it is. Or maybe it’s just enough to stop the bleeding.

Your shoulders slump as the tension you’ve carried finally starts to unwind. You don’t fall into him, not dramatically. You just… lean. Your forehead comes to rest against his chest, tentative, uncertain. But you stay there.

And Jack? He doesn’t hesitate.

His arms move around you with a kind of quiet reverence—gentle but solid, like he’s anchoring you to the hospital roof. One hand settles between your shoulder blades, the other against the back of your head, cradling you like he’s afraid you’ll break again.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he murmurs against your hair.

“I scared myself,” you whisper back, voice hoarse.

“You could’ve told me,” he says, not accusing—just brokenhearted.

“I didn’t know how,” you admit. “I thought if I said it out loud, I’d lose everything and never come back together.”

Jack pulls back just enough to look at you. His thumb brushes gently along your wind bitten cheeks, catching a stray tear you didn’t even feel fall.

“You are coming back together,” he says, firm but soft. “Right now. Piece by piece. You’re still here. That’s what matters.”

You nod, barely, like you’re still trying to believe him.

“I don’t need you to be okay all the time,” he continues. “You don’t have to be strong for anyone. You get to fall apart. You get to feel this.”

“But what if it doesn’t stop?” you whisper, voice cracking. “What if it just keeps coming?”

“Then we’ll face it together,” he says, without missing a beat. “Shift by shift. day by day. As long as it takes.”

Your eyes search his, and for once, there’s no hiding behind sarcasm or guarded silences. Just truth. And maybe something deeper behind it—something he’s still not quite ready to name, but it’s there. Burning steady like a soft fire.

You close your eyes, letting yourself rest in the warmth of him, in the safety of this rooftop moment.

And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—you take a full, deep breath.

You both stand like that for a long time—no words, just breath and heartbeat and wind. The hum of the city below feels miles away, like a different world. Up here, it's just the two of you.

Eventually, Jack shifts a little, his arms still around you. His voice is soft, barely above the wind.

“Hey,” he says gently. “How about we get back on the safer side of the rail, yeah?”

You realize, with a sudden twist in your stomach, that you’re still on the wrong side. Still too close to the edge, with nothing but cold air and steel keeping you tethered.

You don’t move right away. Your fingers grip the rail, not because you want to jump—God, no—but because the world still feels unsteady. Like if you let go, you might float off into something you can't control.

Jack doesn’t rush you.

He stays with you, warm and steady at your side, hands never leaving you. “One step,” he says softly. “Just one. I’ve got you.”

You look at him, and there’s nothing performative in his expression. No pity. No fear. Just calm, unwavering care.

You nod once. Then slowly, carefully, you swing your leg over the first bar. He helps you the rest of the way, hands guiding you gently, like you’re something precious. When both feet land solidly on the rooftop again, you don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it finally releases in a shaky exhale.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Safe and sound. Mostly.”

You laugh, barely. “I must look like a mess.”

“You look like someone who’s been through hell,” Jack says. “And is still standing. That’s not a mess. That’s a goddamn miracle.”

You look up at him, eyes glassy, and something flickers between you. Quiet. Heavy. Unspoken.

His hand lifts slowly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, then lingering—fingertips grazing your jaw, gentle as rain. He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

“Can I…” he starts, then stops, catching himself. “I’m not asking to fix it. I just—”

You answer by leaning in.

It’s not rushed. Not desperate. Just soft. Slow. Like an exhale. Like the kind of kiss that says I’m still here. I still want this.

His lips meet yours, warm and steady, one hand still at your waist, the other against your cheek. There’s no fire in it—not tonight. Just light. Just steady comfort.

When you pull back, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing a little easier now.

“You sure about this?” you whisper.

Jack doesn’t even blink. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m sure.”

You nod. You believe him. And for the first time in what feels like forever, you believe in yourself again, too.

mercvry-glow 2025

[quarterlifekitty]

weaknesses: your cooking

König was on watch with you late one night, and you insisted upon filling the air with a bit of conversation– said you needed it to stay awake. You end up asking him lots of questions that night, including all of his favorite foods and drinks. He has trouble answering, he’s never had to come up with this much information about himself, but you don’t mind.

“Do you have a favorite dessert? Mine is lemon meringue pie,” you say with a sweet little smile. It makes him realize how cute you are. That, outside of your uniforms, a cute girl is talking to him. It makes him panic a little, such that he can only bring himself to respond with a quiet me too. 

He had no idea what his favorite dessert was when you asked. He wasn’t even sure he particularly enjoyed desserts at all, honestly. He’s hoping you forget about this embarrassing exchange, really. But you don’t.

You’re stationed in Switzerland when next it comes up. You proudly come back to your accommodations with a little box from a bakery. “I saw this in town today and remembered that you liked meringue too! So I got one, if you wanted to share it with me?”

He just nods. And it’s the best fucking dessert he’s ever had. Which has little to do with how the desert itself tastes. It becomes the first dessert he learns how to make at home, and he makes his best yet when you’re celebrating moving in together. It’s when he’s feeding it to you that he finally comes clean– when you’d asked him his favorite dessert, he’d never even eaten lemon meringue pie before.

Gaz takes incredibly good care of himself. He detests getting sick, maybe more than anything else. It’s just so annoying, and it totally ruins his momentum– throws him off his groove. So he very very rarely gets sick, and is in fact often disgustingly bright, healthy, and energetic. 

Gaz also comes from a home that had amazing food. His standards are, understandably, quite high. A piece of his soul leaves with every MRE he consumes. Which is why his favorite food from you is such a surprise.

It’s during the infancy of your relationship. You’ve been on a few dates. Exploratory, probing, trying to deduce if this is love or just the symptoms of it. He’s on the fence about telling you he’s fallen ill– it’s a little awkward, isn’t it? Partners are supposed to take care of each other in times like that, but he’s not sure you’re ready to be called his partner, much less be around him when he’s a germ factory. But he ends up telling you, if only not to look like he’s ignoring you if he slips into another death-nap while you’re texting.

You do end up coming over, despite all his warnings, all of the easy outs he provides you with. Get him a fresh gatorade before busying yourself in his kitchen.

You come back with a steaming mug that he doesn’t recognize. You say you brought it from home– that it’s your special mug you like to use when you feel icky. It’s got wisteria painted on the side with the scientific name in script next to it, and a little silver spoon with a teddy bear on the end is sticking out of it.

He takes the mug gratefully but still a little cautious– he doesn’t really know all that much about your cooking, and he’ll readily admit that his parents ruined the standard.

He looks down in it to see oatmeal. A bit of cinnamon dusted on, a golden swirl of honey going through it. Just a little bit of cardamom. 

He used to hate oatmeal when he was a kid, but he finishes the mug in record time and asks if you’ll make more. It’s just so soft and hot– gentle on his aching stomach and sore throat, the heat and cinnamon spice clearing up his sinuses a little bit. The sweetness is perfect and comforting as it sticks to the roof of his mouth.

Nowadays he keeps up the same wellness regimen, but he does almost look forward to getting sick, because it means you’ll make oatmeal for him.

When sharing a safehouse with Soap, there’s one inevitable constant: the whining. He always finds something to whinge about, just to ease his own boredom. It’s never about the conditions, having to sleep on shitty mattresses on floors, having to trek 10 miles through the dark and fog to even get there– it’s always about something stupid.

Girl who hasn’t texted him back. His deployment making him miss out on a limited edition thing he would’ve wanted to buy. That during his last leave a girl ghosted him after he barked during sex. Come to think of it, it was usually about his girl problems.

But this time, it was that he happened to be deployed on his birthday. Not that he’s sore about spending time with the taskforce, you’re his best mates in the world– but there’s not much celebration to be had out here.

“Could do with a fockin’ cake, ye ken?”

You were taken onto this squad for your adaptability. You’re brilliant when it comes to improvisation. And there’s a couple of shelf stable things left around in the cabinets here, although dubious.

So what are you able to bang together with flour, sugar, and the liquid from a can of chickpeas in some tin cups on top of a butane stove on its last legs?

That’s right. A fockin’ cake. Is it good? God no. The texture is weird as hell and it’s somehow dry on the outside but completely raw in the middle. But Soap smiles the entire time he’s eating it, and god knows he’s finishing the whole damned thing.

He was always of the mind that it’s rude not to finish your wife’s cooking.

It’s Price’s first holiday with you, and his expectations are low. Not as in he doesn’t think you’ll be lovely and amazing, he most certainly does, but his whole squad is coming over and preparing for that is a pretty big undertaking. So if it’s something a little more casual, maybe a bit of potluck, he’ll be perfectly fine with that. His ex used to order catering and tell the guests that she’d cooked it all herself, so anything is a step up from that in his book.

You stun him absolutely stupid when you not only plan a spectacular, full holiday dinner, but you make his boys help out– commanding them in the kitchen the same way he does in the field. Well, maybe a bit less forgiving. You’re less tender-hearted than him when the moistness of the roast in the oven is on the line. Everything is delicious, full of love, and satisfying beyond belief.

But his true fulfillment comes about a year later when his soldiers are awkwardly talking around their plans for the holidays, trying to nudge him into inviting them over again to make dinner with his missus. Muppets, the lot of them.

A lot of Ghost’s concept of vegetables come from army food, school cafeterias, and all-you-can-eat buffets. Typically frozen, only to be thawed and overcooked to an ungodly degree. On the rare occasion he had a half-decent meal with a vegetable side, it was typically covered in butter, cheese, or finely chopped bacon. Sometimes a combination of the three.

You’re a hookup he falls back on a lot when he’s on leave. Keeps him away from his empty apartments and crowded mind. This time, he comes straight to your place when he lands, wanting to lose himself in your cunt more than anything else. And you’re accommodating, you don’t have anything better to do and he doesn’t leave you wanting.

Usually he makes himself scarce pretty quickly, but this time he finds that maybe he was still running on adrenaline when he came in, and now that it’s wearing off with his post-orgasm high, his entire body is killing him. He feels like lead. And he hates that his struggle is plain to see.

“You can just stay, y’know. S’not like I’ll be expecting a wedding ring in the morning or anything. I’m just gonna go make dinner.”

He’s too tired to protest. Falls asleep just about as soon as you’re out of the room, despite very much intending to get the hell up and pass out somewhere that isn’t your apartment. He wakes up to an amazing smell.

Your dinner isn’t complicated. You’d just planned to have dinner by yourself, so it wasn’t fancy or anything. Grilled some salmon, put it over rice with some unagi sauce, steamed some fresh veggies for the side. Simon just barely has the energy to amble over to your kitchen table when it’s clear he won’t be leaving the premises any time soon.

When he’s not eating food that’s mass produced and shitty, he expects to be eating the kind of battered and fried pub faire that sits like a stone and ravages the digestive tract.

This may very well be the first time he’s eaten a meal that was genuinely good that didn’t make him feel at least a little bit disgusting afterwards. And god– it’s like it’s his first time tasting a vegetable for real. Why didn’t anyone tell him they could be this way?

You’re quite frankly shocked when you wake up in the morning and Simon is not only still there– he wants to take you out to breakfast. 

The truth is that he got a pretty remarkably good night’s rest, but in the wee hours while he was waiting for you to wake up? He was planning. The jump from friends with benefits to marriage won’t really be so difficult if he can play his cards right.

[prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue]

DIE YOUNG

summary : batfam enjoy each other's presence while Alfred and Bruce silently mourns your death.

part 2 of die young

in another universe

Dick sit's down and eyes his family with a warm smile as he looks at his siblings with a loving look - they've all came so far and they all deserved this moment of blissful peace . He observes Tim and Damian engrossed in some random videogame , duke was painting steph's nails while she shows him random memes on her phone while jason and cass are talking about the latest anime they watched .

Everyone is happy , including himself because he's back home , surrounded with the people he holds so dear to his heart. Alfred approaches him with a fresh pan of brownies . Dick quickly snatches three portions and flash Alfred a smile , " Thanks Alfie !!" he exclaims . Alfred nods and rest the pan on a nearby table . " Hey Alfred when is Bruce coming back ?" Jason randomly asks . Alfred glances at his watch , " In approximatly one hour Master " . Jason groans. " That's so longggg besides why is he always disappearing off these days ?"

Alfred takes a moment to compose himself - he desperately tries to swallow the underlying pain he feels bubbling inside before he answers , " He always has board meetings around this time Master " , his tone wavering in the slightest yet unnoticeable. Jason rolls his eyes - annoyed but understanding and was about to retort but gets distracted when Cass shows him something on her phone.

Alfred excuses himself and makes a beeline escape to the outside patio . In the quiet stillness of the manor , when the eloquent halls are empty , when the kids are enveloped in their own innocent warmth , Alfred takes his time to shed a silent lone tear as he grieves . God knows , knows that every night when his worn palms are intertwined as he mutters a silent pray - that he's praying that your soul is safe and happy wherever it is - that your watching over him and this family with your silly smile and wrapping them in your soft , delicate hugs as you shield them away from the evil that tore you apart from them.

Meanwhile Bruce sits in his office chair - the room dark and quiet save for the occasional hum of the AC . His workers long since left hours ago , his work long finished and laid discarded on his desk . Bruce was a man that planned for everything , whether he was doing business or simply being Batman , he had plans and preparations for everything but parenting - he swears no matter what he does he can never ever fully plan .

He never planned on adopting Tim , Jason , Dick and Cass , never planned on being Steph or Duke guardians or hell never plans on having his son, Damian. None of it mattered because he would never ever regret having them in his life . He has read so many parenting books over his years , learning how to carter to each one of them but none of them prepared him to bury a child.

There is no feeling in this world that comes as gut retching , as tragic , as painful as the feeling of a parent burring their child . The memory is fresh in his head - the view of your small body - mangled beyond recognition - save for the pretty pink princess dress he dressed you in to go to preschool - your own blood covered you - like a blanket - a last ditch attempt to protect you from the harshness of the world .

Your once glowing big eyes that always looked at him with excitement now stare at him with a dull , blank look . He remembers cradling your small frame into his chest as the world around him crumble apart , as it slips through like sand slipping away to the ocean whenever the tides crash onto the shore . He remembers crying when he felt the bullet holes in your chest against his own. He holds your cold body close , cradling your head into his neck like he always do when he tucks you in to sleep . He lips memorized the way it kept muttering " it's okay baby daddy's got you , it's okay " .

He held your body until the police arrived and had to confiscate it . For the first and last time - Bruce lashed out at them - where were they when the school called in an active school shooter - where were they ? What was more important than saving his daughter's life ? He remembers screaming at them and Alfred having to hold him back . Alfred had to make the difficult decision to shove Bruce into the car to stop him from attacking the officers even though he himself wanted to confront them.

That night the manor for the first time was silent - Alfred was opening his fifth bottle of whisky in his room as he drowns himself in his own misery - he misses his grandbaby so much - he knows you hate seeing grandpa so sad and miserable - would always climb up on his bed and offer him your plushie as you gave him a big old kiss but you aren't here to do that anymore so he downs another after another.

Bruce sat on the floor of your room that night , the pastel walls filled with polaroid pictures of all three of you , his eye caught one - you were sitting on his shoulders , you wore a wide grin on your face , arms outstretched as you held a cone of ice cream he got you . He looked so happy there , hair tousled from your antics but he wore a smile . That day you were offering him your ice cream because you claimed " ice cream is the bestest thing in the entire world !".

He sobbed into his hands - why - why must the world be so cruel to him ? Why must the world take away his parents ? Why must the world take you away ? Does he not deserve happiness ? Does he not deserve to have hope ? Why must only he suffer ? Why out of all the children in that preschool the shooter chose to shot you ?

Was it because you were a small kind thing and had pushed your classmate out of harms way and took that hit ? Was it because you were too caring for your own good so you cradled your classmate's crying form into yours while you bled out ? Was it because you were you ? Did anyone ever thought in that moment to help you when the shooter yanked you away from your classmate and began to beat your small frame with his gun ? Did no one stop him from mangling your form ?

Did anyone care to step in before he shot you in your stomach a few times and left your body to be ensnared by death's cold fangs? Did anyone care to listen to your last words ? Did anyone catch the way you softly whimpered papa and grandpa - too scared , confused , too engulfed in pain to understand what was happening - just a small child searching for her family because that's all you knew ?

He curses that blasted teacher everyday - how could she let a child face that ? How could she huddle the other kids closer to her - leaving you to face that monster alone ? He wants to grab her and brutally rip the life out of her lungs - he doesn't care that she was pregnant and stressed and was doing 'her best' - what makes her unborn child and those other children more important than you ?

Another anguished sob leaves him and he remains there , crying his eyes out til the dawn breaks upon the world again. He hated that moment the most - of course that morning the sky had to shower upon them all a strong storm - strong winds that destroyed rickety rooves - practically plucking them from their houses like it was nothing . Strong , heavy rains that flooded the earth , a desperate rebuttal to wash away the scum of the world.

Alfred and Bruce stood together side by side as they watch a small casket descend into the depths of the earth . The priest practically choked on his tears during his prayer - Bruce feels himself going numb all over again - just life when his parents left him - he feels himself succumbing to the darkness and emptiness that reside inside him.

He shovels dirt onto your grave , each movement engraves a knife deeper in his chest - further solidifying the fact that you were gone and never ever coming back . He will never get back the sound of your cute giggles , never receive your colorful doodles of Alfred and himself , never get the opportunity to carry you on his shoulders , never get to experience you going to high school , you getting to experience you bring home your first boyfriend , the feeling of being overbearing and overprotective of his little girl going out with some guy , never get to experience watching you graduate high school , never get to experience you going to university and hear you complain about how annoying your professor is , never get to experience being happy and celebrating you getting your dream job and he would never ever get to experience watching you get married to the love of your life .

He would never get to experience any of this because you were never coming back home to Alfred or him . Bruce pulls up to the drive way of his home . His hand falls to his side as he watches out of the window and glances at the shrubbery. He misses you so much - he wonders all the time if you would love your adopted siblings - if you'd doodle all of them with your scented crayons and hang them up on the fridge , he wonders if you'd love petting Titus with Damian , if you'd play tea party with the girls , if you'd chase Jason down the halls with Tim and Dick because he stole your plushy -

He wonders if you'd love them , wonders if your watching over them - if you are proud that after you died he became the Bat ? Wonders if you would be proud that Alfred stopped drinking for you because he didn't want his little girl to be sad . He exits his car , his hands clutches the stuffed white bear in his hand and the other holds the bouquet of tulips and sunflowers.

He takes the long walk to the family cemetery , recalls all the funny conversations you both had - like how you thought the sun followed you in the car - maybe it did because whenever he was with you things were brighter . Even now , as he stands in front of your grave , the sun set behind you like a golden crown , its soft orange and pink hues , your favorite colors , paint the sky . Bruce sits near your grave and begins to talk to you ,

" Hey sweet girl how are you ? ......Daddy and Grandpa misses you alot sweet girl ...we miss you alot .....did you know grandpa made your favorite brownies today ? He made your own pan because he knows you loved them ....Daddy brought you a new stuffie and your favorite flowers ? You can name him whatever you want sweet girl .....I see grandpa left you a princess crown - I bet you love the pink glitters don't you sweet girl ? Daddy knows your still the prettiest princess no matter where you are . I miss you so much sweet girl - I wish you were here hunny - wish I could get more of your warm hugs - Wish you were still here with me - with us "

Everything goes silent for a long time , Bruce stays , embracing your comfort . Bruce watches as the sun full set behind the distant trees , the world now engulfed in darkness . He gets up , wiping away the lone stray tears on his face as he prepares to face his family.

He gathers himself and looks at your grave one last time , " Daddy loves you sweet girl stay safe for me okay ?" and with that Bruce leaves , heart heavy and longing .

[deadsetobsessions]

He’s existed for an eternity. He will exist for longer than that. Danny Fenton’s ruled the Zone longer than he’s been fully alive, by a long shot. Still half alive.

Immortal. He can’t die- not when he’s already half dead- and his age stays and stays stagnated. Un-aging. True immortality, unlike the claims of those newborn gods who borrow power from a deeper force than even they could comprehend.

A god dies when there are none left to venerate them. Danny dies when death ceases to be reality, which in itself is death…

It’s easy, once his mortal life had faded far away. He slips into roles- protection, of course, never forgotten- and traipses around to live in universes even as he kills them by simply existing. One day, a little fairy catches his eyes. It fluttered about meaninglessly, gathering dew drops and sap. It taught him two lessons.

“Why do you work yourself so?” Death had asked the little fairy.

The little fairy, only seeing the facade of a placid young boy that Death had donned to imitate the days where he was fully alive, had answered fearlessly. “I enjoy the work! My court needs those supplies, and I’m happy being able to help while doing something I love.”

“Oh.” Danny remembered being like that once. It was why his essence thrummed with Protection, even in Death. He had forgotten, even as a halfa, how to be alive. He knew how to be living, but he’d forgotten how to be alive.

Still, the boy had another question.

“Are you not afraid of me?” He’d met people like these before, on the rare occasions he personally guided souls, and they were unflinching in his presence.

“No, you are just a child. Say… won’t you tell me your name?”

“Danny,” Death answered truthfully. Death doesn’t like to lie. “Danny Fenton.”

“Danny-” the little fae freezes, malicious grin falling from its face as it trembled like the blades of grass it stole dew from. “No- no, no! Why- why can’t I take your name?!”

“I am also known as Death,” Danny admitted, watching as the fairy’s magic imploded on itself. One could not own death. He learns a lesson that day too. If he disguises himself, if death is disguised as harmlessness, as just ‘one more’, as an object of greed, those living would happily run towards Death himself.

As the little buzzing fae backed away, the flowers on its extremities withered. Danny caught its wrist before it could dart away.

“Tell the ruler of your court to come,” Danny said gently, ectoplasm easing away from the trembling little thing.

“Yes, yes, please, I will.” Danny released the fluttering thing and bid it leave.

----

"That's how you met Oberon?"

Danny laughed, plucking the little Robin from a jump and shadowing to the ledge two buildings ahead.

"Not so, little sparrow. That was how I met Tatiana."

"The queen?!"

"The queen. Remember this, if nothing else, when you play with Royalty, there is very little they wouldn't stoop to in order to ensure their wants."

"Okay. Does that include you too?"

See? Danny knew the little sparrow was smart, somewhere beneath that fanboy-driven dumbassery.

"Yes."

"Soooo... what do you want, Danny?"

"To know what it is to live again. Death tends to be cold, you see."

"...Can I help?"

A flash of fangs, a slow, meaningful smile. "You are already helping, little sparrow. Even your Bats are helping. I have not felt joy in centuries."

"Oh."

Robin's comms buzzed. "Ask him about how he met Oberon, Timsy!" Jason's voice came through loud and clear to Danny.

"Oberon?" Danny cut in, enjoying the vibrant activity his chosen nightlife observed. "Oh, I beat him at poker. Actually, I own a quarter of his palace."

[pedroscurls]

in every lifetime

summary: you lost logan in this universe. logan lost you in his. what happens when you both see each other again, but realize that you're both from different worlds? pairing: logan howlett x fem!reader warnings: post deadpool & wolverine ("worst" logan!variant), angst (mentions of death, loss from both reader and logan), no use of y/n. word count: 2.1k a/n: this is my first logan fic, so if anything is ooc, i'm sorry in advanced! just like everyone else, i've been obsessed with hugh jackman / logan after watching deadpool & wolverine (if it isn't obvious lol)... i had the song 'unchained melody' in mind when writing this story because whenever i hear it, i think of logan for some reason lol (tried to embed it but it didn't work, but i'd highly recommend listening to the song while reading this!) anyway, hope you enjoy! next part.

“I’ll be back.”

“But what if–”

“I always come back, bub.” Logan’s looking down at you, hand cupping your cheek. In moments like this, you can see the age in his features. The crows feet at the corners of his eyes. The gray in his hair and beard. 

“Logan…” Tears sting your eyes. You know he has to leave, has to go help Charles, but there’s a feeling deep in your gut that knows that if he goes, he isn't coming back. 

“Wait for me, then.” He says, dipping down to gently peck your lips. “Okay? Wait for me.” 

“Logan,” you repeat. “What do I do if I– if I lose you?” 

There’s a feeling in the pit of Logan’s stomach, a sense of dread and fear that he’s only ever felt when you were concerned. This feels a lot like a goodbye… That maybe if he does go, he won’t come back. And the thought alone scares him. He never used to have to think about the possibility of dying, his regenerative powers always healing him in record time, but he knows that he doesn’t heal as quickly as before. He feels more pain now than he ever had. And he knows he’s sick, knows that the adamantium that once gave him strength is now slowly making him weaker.

But now, the thought of dying… It fucking scared him. It scared him to think that he’d leave you here, all alone, grieving him. He had never thought he’d be deserving of someone like you, to be loved and taken care of so gently, so sweetly, so patiently. Even with all of the baggage he carried, you never pushed. He knew, right off the bat, that you deserved someone so much better than him, but you stayed. 

Through it all, you stayed. 

And Logan would forever be grateful. After everything he’s been through, the things he’s seen, the things he had to do, the people he’s lost, you gave him a life that was finally worth living. 

“Then, you move on, darlin’.” Logan finally answers. 

“And if I can’t?” 

“You’ll have to.” 

“I don’t… I don’t want you to go, but I know that you have to. Charles needs you and–”

“I love you with every fiber of my being, baby,” Logan interjects. “And I will love you in every lifetime.” 

And that was almost a year ago. The moment he stopped calling, you knew that was it. That he either got into some real trouble or… Or that he was no longer here. It wasn’t until a young girl named Laura showed up on your doorstep, holding his dog tags that your assumptions were correct. 

You had fallen to your knees, a sob escaping your lips, as you felt your world come crashing down. Logan’s death had left a gaping hole in your heart, in your life, and everywhere you looked and everywhere you went, all you could see was him. 

You learned from Laura that during his last moments, he had told her to come and find you, that you would take care of her and give her a good life. Whenever you were around her, you tried to be strong, tried to put on a brave front, but behind closed doors, you were a complete mess. There were days where you didn’t want to get out of bed, didn’t want to eat; you just wanted the pain to stop. Every night, whenever you closed your eyes, you forced yourself to sleep because that was the only place where you could be with him. 

In your dreams, he was alive. 

In your dreams, he had made it back home.

In your dreams, he was here with you, helping raise Laura. 

And every time you woke up, you were welcomed with the sudden reality that he wasn’t alive. He wasn’t coming back home. He wasn’t ever going to be here with you to help raise Laura. 

Logan was dead and now, you had to try and learn how to move on. 

For yourself.

For Laura.

For Logan. 

—

He didn’t know what he was doing here, why he agreed to stay with Wade because it was driving him crazy. This wasn’t even his timeline; he wasn’t even meant to be here. Despite saving Wade’s timeline, Logan still found it hard to fit in. He tried to keep Wade and every single one of his friends at an arm's distance because he knows what happens to people he cares about. 

But the more time he spent around them, the more he felt at ease. Logan would be lying if he said he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, but when Laura mentioned your name at one of Wade’s family dinners, his heart skipped a beat. When he realized he would be able to stay in this timeline, you were all he could think about. 

Logan wondered if you existed in this world and what he would do if you did. So, when Laura casually said your name, his head turned around so quickly that he felt dizzy. There were so many things he regretted in his own timeline, but you were his biggest regret. 

Just like he failed the other X-men, Logan had failed you too. You had been there with the other X-men, trying to warn them of a planned attack and ended up getting caught in the crossfire. You had called out for him, just like Scott, like Charles, like Storm. 

He managed to get to you before you had taken your last breath, holding you in his arms. Logan begged and begged for you to fight, that he’d do things right from now on as long as you just held on, but you were losing so much blood and Logan couldn’t stop it. 

Even then, when you had every right to be angry with him, you gazed up at him with an understanding look on your face. You had always been so patient and kind, so sweet and considerate. You had made him so happy and it scared him, which ultimately ended in pushing you away because he didn’t think he was deserving of it. Of you. 

“I love you, Logan,” you had said, wincing at the pain. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m–” Logan felt a sob catch in his throat, tears stinging his eyes as he looked down at you. “Please, baby, please please please, don’t–”

“I–” you coughed, eyes fluttering as you felt the pain overcome your entire body. “I will love you in every lifetime, Logan.” And then, you took your last breath, eyes falling shut and body falling limp in his arms. 

Since then, Logan drank himself day after day, from dawn to dusk. The alcohol never truly helped, his regenerative powers sobering him so fast, but with every swig of liquor, it burned. And he spent years bringing pain unto others, including himself. 

That was, until he met Wade who had given him a chance, a reason to fight for something… To not turn his back on someone who relied on him. A chance for redemption, to finally make things right. 

“So, will you meet her?” Laura asks, holding Dogpool in her arms as she gazes up at Logan. “She– She used to be with this universe’s Logan and…”

“No chance, kid.” Logan interrupts, shaking his head. “I’m not him.” 

“Did you have someone like her in yours?” she asks. “She’s always put me first, always made sure I was taken care of even when she didn’t have to, when she was grieving. And I think–” Laura sighs. “I think if she knows that some version of you is alive, it would make her real happy.”

“I’m not him,” Logan growls, feeling his irritation spike. “‘Sides, she’s better off without me.” He stands from the table and walks out into Wade’s balcony to get some fresh air, shutting the door behind him as he leans against the railing.

“But she’s coming tonight,” Laura finally says, long after Logan’s walked away.

Throughout the rest of the dinner, Logan remains outside. He can hear the muffled laughter coming from inside and it only angered him because it was just another confirmation that he didn’t belong here. He’s already on his fourth bottle of beer when he hears a familiar voice, smells a recognizable scent. He turns slightly and catches you stepping into Wade’s apartment, an arm slinging over Laura’s shoulders so casually, so maternally. 

He feels his heart rate pick up. Your smile still lights up a room and he can’t help but his lips turning upwards at the sight. With his enhanced hearing, Logan can hear your voice and he shuts his eyes for a moment, tuning all of his attention on you until you’re the only one he hears. 

Then, he hears your laugh and he lets out a sigh. He never thought he’d be able to hear that again, but his eyes shoot open when he hears you say his name. There’s a shocked tone in your voice, laced with sadness and hope. It all but crushes him because he knows that you’re probably expecting someone else, expecting this world’s Logan and he doesn’t want to disappoint you. Not again. He doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it if he were to hurt you again. 

But when he looks at you, his breath catches in his throat when your eyes meet his. Logan notices the surprise look on your face, but before he could try and escape, you’re already walking towards him. When you open the door and step out with him, your scent fills his senses and it makes him dizzy, like he can’t fully concentrate. 

“You…” he hears you say, voice unsteady. “You’re not… I’m–” you sigh and shake your head. 

“I know who you are,” Logan finally says, his own voice shaky. 

Your hands reach out for him, but stopping halfway when you realize this isn’t your Logan. This is not the same man who died all those years ago. This is some version of him – much younger, less wrinkles and gray hairs in his hair and beard, but he still has that same look on his face. The scowl. 

“From Laura?” you ask hesitantly. 

“From my universe,” Logan answers. 

“There– There’s a version of me in your universe?” 

“There was.”

“And what happened to me?” 

Logan’s jaw tightens. “The same thing that happened to your Logan in this universe.”

“Oh.” Your face drops, eyes softening. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. 

Logan wants to run far from here, far from you because he feels himself yearning for more. He almost forgot how it felt like to be near you, to be inches away that he can just reach out and pull you into his arms. Your eyes captivate him, the kindness it expresses makes him feel like he matters. You had always made him feel that way that even through all of his anger, through all of the walls he put up, you showed him that he was deserving of something good. Even if he didn’t believe it himself. 

And you… You were the best thing to ever happen to him.

“Don’t know why you’re apologizin’,” Logan mutters. 

There’s an uncomfortable silence that engulfs the both of you. He can see the tears threatening to spill over, can see the way your lower lip is beginning to tremble and he has this sudden urge to console you, to wipe away the tears that have now fallen down your cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” you repeat, bringing your hands up to wipe away the tears that seem to be trickling down your face nonstop. “I just– Losing my Logan just crushed me and I don’t think I’ve ever recovered.” 

My Logan. 

Logan can practically feel his heart beating in his chest. This isn’t a conversation that he thought he would be having and certainly not with someone he loved and died because of him. 

“That’s okay,” Logan responds quietly, his tone softening. “I don’t think it’s easy to recover from losing someone you love.”

“Did you– Did you love me in your universe?” 

Logan nods slowly, tightening his jaw as he gazes down at you. “With every fiber of my being.” 

Your eyes widen and stare up at him. This might be a different Logan, but hearing those words again just brings you back to the moment you last saw your Logan before he left to go take care of Charles. 

“Did you love me in yours?” Logan asks hesitantly.

You nod instantly, tears trickling down your cheek as you stare up at him. “I’d love you in every lifetime.” 

Logan feels his own set of tears pool at the corners of his eyes and he moves a hand to rest on the railing, fingers lightly brushing against yours as he stares into your eyes. 

“I’m not him,” he whispers. 

“I know,” you say quietly. “And I’m not her.” 

[sailornymph]

is there any way you could please do the founders with a wife from the other clan? (Madara with a Senju wife, Hashirama and Tobirama with an uchiha wife) Is like it to be smutty but if not I completely get it

closer; founders

synopsis — hashirama and tobirama with a uchiha wife & madara with a senju wife

content warning — exhibitionism, edging, tobirama lowkey being prejudice

♡︎ hashirama senju

— you’re very involved with the uchiha children when you catch his attention, you spend your time helping them learn how to properly use their sharingan and jutsu

— many have questions for him about the new village and his position as hokage, but you caught his attention, amongst all the men, being worried about the well-being of the uchiha children

— despite the dirty looks the men give you, you ignore them, waiting for hashirama to answer

— he can’t deny his gravitation to you, your intelligence, your love and hope for a better future for the children, you were like him

— you end up working very closely with him to make sure the uchiha aren’t excluded, he promised repeatedly he wouldn’t allow it to happen, but you didn’t trust his words

— before izuna’s death, a relationship bloomed between the two of you. it becomes important to you to integrate the uchiha clan with the others, to become one village

— however, with izuna dead and tobirama to be the blame, madara advises that you stay away from the clan, if you are choosing to love a senju

— shortly after, konoha is established and you have an extravagant wedding, only a few uchiha showing up secretly

— although you become an outcast to your clan, when madara disappears, they embrace you again, due to your constant activism for the people

— hashirama is the most doting husband and is completely in love with everything about you, your beauty, brains, body, and personality, you were a complete catch

— so in love that you will have more than four children because he can’t get off of you and he has a lot of love to give

— he will not only leave a legacy of being the god of shinobi, but many will remember him for his beautiful marriage and how he and his wife were constantly advocating for a change

“hashi, are you not exhausted?” you moaned, as he traced his hand down your back arch.

“how could i be? you promised we would have all night, the boys will be back in the morning and we agreed to try for a girl,” he said, leaning down, kissing along your spine. he had an unnatural libido, he could keep going all night and still wake up, energized.

“are you really sure you want another kid, i mean four boys aren't enough?”

“i want an army of children, if i’m having them with you”

“after all those rounds, you don't think it worked,” you asked, as he moaned lowly in your ear.

“do you want to stop? we can stop, if you're tired,” his smile dropped.

“just one more, i can only take one more,” you said, as he nodded, kissing your neck.

“one more,” he repeated, pushing his cock deeper into your pussy.

moaning loudly, you pressed your face into your shared futon. lifting your hips, he slightly pushed down on your back, deepening your arch. moving your dark hair, he groaned, at the clear view of your body.

“look at me, fuck, you're so beautiful,” he moaned, as you looked back, slowly fucking him back.

“it feels so good, hashi, feeling me up with your seed,” you panted, gripping the fluffy blanket, as he held your hips, bringing you back onto his cock over and over.

“yeah, you want this last load, take it sunshine, it's yours,” he groaned, throwing his head back, a lazy smile on his face. you were taking his cock like a good girl, the determination mixed with lust in those dark eyes, biting your soft bottom lip, as you repeatedly brought your hips back onto him. he wanted to make this round last, but you were fucking him too good, he didn't know how much more he could take.

clenching around his cock, you bit the pillow, muffling your moans, as he kept thrusting, before he grunted, cumming inside.

“how was that?” you asked, tiredly smiling.

“perfect, absolutely perfect, come closer, let me hold you before our children steal you away in the morning,” he grinned, pulling you into his arms, and kissing your lips.

♡︎ madara uchiha

— along with hashirama, you are one of the only senju clan members who isn’t treating the uchiha people like monsters

— as your older cousin, hashirama shares his plans to make a village and allow everyone to integrate, you take it upon yourself to begin to teach others your jutsu, it didn’t matter where they were from

— which is how you met, defending one of your uchiha students from a man, madara happened to be passing by, and while he intended to intervene. he didn’t expect to see you kick the man to the point where he would fly

— he finds himself sitting afar, watching as you trained the group of inexperienced people. people walked past speaking to him, but his eyes were focused on you

— too many people are becoming distracted, some scared, some amazed, seeing madara uchiha sitting in the grass, you stump over, asking him what he is doing and he’ll say something annoyingly sweet like, watching you, you’re a beautifully strong woman

— this becomes a part of his routine, squeezing in activities like getting lunch together, or walking you home before he boldly asks you to be his girlfriend. he is a man who knows what he wants, so it won’t be long before an engagement.

— during the planning of your wedding, you manage to convince both clans to get along for the wedding, since you have are very kind to both clans and likable to nearly everyone, you end up having a large wedding

— however, after the death of izuna, you become isolated. hashirama wants you to continue being the face of integration, tobirama hates you for ruining your bloodline, and madara is hot and cold, worried that you will betray him for the senju clan and you can't take the stress

— you only have one child, and madara only becomes more power hungry with time, before he is suddenly gone, said to be dead, leaving you to raise your son alone

— you are reanimated alongside hashirama and tobirama and when madara is defeated, he apologizes for how he treated you in your final year together and reassures you that he has always loved you and constantly watched you and your shared son, from the shadows, up until then both of you passed away

“oh my god, madara,” you cried, as he pounded into your pussy.

“keep your leg up, angel,” he kissed your ankle, as it sat on his shoulder

“oh my-it’s so big,” you arched your back on the soft grass. you were supposed to only have a picnic, but you didn’t expect him to look so handsome today.

“do you like this cock, don’t you?”

“yes, you’re fucking me so good,” you whined

“you want me to cum in this pretty pussy, use your words?” he asked, increasing his speeding of thrusts.

“yesyes- wait, madara, i think i need to pe-

“no you don’t,” he interrupted, grabbing your hands, stopping you from pushing him away, while he continued his thrusting.

with your legs shaking, you moaned louder, your legs spreading as you squirted all over his cock. before you could apologize, he was hungrily slipping back into your eager hole.

“you’re such a slutty girl, i love you,” madara said, his hands tracing down your body, you were perfect.

“i’m cumming,” you whined, as he kept a steady pace, until he finally let out a grunt, filling you up with his cum.

“i didn’t expect you to be so wild this time, you must have really missed me,” you teased.

“come closer, you’re too far away, tell me why hashirama needed my wife for nearly three days,” he said, nearly sitting you in his lap.

“it was so stupid, madara, it started with him using wood release in his house, he’s such an idiot-

you began to explain to madara, he had a small grin on his face, his hands caressing your back. you could see in his eyes alone just how in love he was.

♡︎ tobirama senju

— you met when he was being rude to a uchiha, leading to you screaming at him

— he stared with wide eyes, confused by who dared to talk to him in such a disrespectful way and he was surprised to see a beautiful woman

— from this moment forward, he noticed you much more than ever, you were a decent shinobi, but an excellent voice for the clan, oftentimes speaking against the injustices they'd felt

— he eventually asks you for to be brought to his office, he thinks you're beautiful, but he will not allow another madara to arise from the clan

— you are more intelligent than he gave you credit for, degrading him with grace, he couldn't deny your words cut like a knife. although, once you start to share your ideas, he stops listening, observing you, you're rather pretty to be fully uchiha, the dark hair and nice eyes, and your figure

— he straightforwardly asks you to join him for dinner, under the pretense of you sharing more of your beliefs and ideas

— this becomes regular and soon enough you find yourself accepting his advances because you can't deny the second hokage is a bit charming and handsome

— drama will occur during the wedding when you want to incorporate your clan, but he doesn't. he ends up having to swallow his pride when you threaten to end your engagement if he doesn't welcome the uchiha with open arms

— he doesn't see you as a uchiha, you're a senju now after all, but he kind of blocks out where you come from and looks at you as an individual

— despite his dislike for the clan, he is a very attentive husband and amazing father, having two children with you

— while you don't give up on your clan, or the entirety of your marriage, tobirama doesn't lessen his dislike for the clan, he just doesn't see his family as a part of those people

“y/n, stop with the games,” he grumbled. sitting in his chair, his legs spread as you stroked his cock. every time he was close to finally releasing, you stopped.

“games? i’m being unfair, like you, how you're being strict on those uchiha boys, how are you such a hypocrite? you hate them, but you have no problem fucking one, so cruel,” you spat, spitting on your hand, before continuing to pump. feeling his cock twitch, you slowed down, stopping.

“oh? you need to cum? that's too bad, isn't it?”

“please, y/n, baby, let me c-

“if only you could release those boys to their families, can't you do it for me? i would reward you so much, you could fuck me as much as you wanted, i might even think about another child, like you've been asking,” you said, slowly massaging his shaft.

“okay, okay, anything, just please, suck it, anything,” he begged, this was nice for a change to see him being so vocal, sweat beads dripping down his neck as he groaned and whimpered.

“you're getting closer, i feel how stiff your poor cock is, but if you promise to keep your word, then i will make it go away”

“i promise,” he nodded, groaning as you stroked his base, your tongue going to twirl around his pink tip. his semen squirted all over your tongue, as you swallowed it all.

once the high came down, he helped you into his lap, his large hand caressing your ass, holding you close.

“will you please keep your promise?” you asked, making him roll his eyes.

“only for you, i don't get why you insist on helping them, you are no longer a uchiha-

“mom, we were only playing and tashi fell and now her eyes are red,” your son, suzuki knocked on the door worriedly.

“i’m coming,” you answered, getting dressed.

“i may be a senju by marriage, but your children are half uchiha, it is time you act like it,” you continued, rushing out of the room.