synopsis. In the fresh modern age of 2026, the last thing you'd expect was to get thrown in a Back to the Future plot. You and your totally basic life go haywire during a moment of curiosity when you decide to test out a stubborn retro camera with mixed up dates. What happens when it wasn't just any old camera? What if it had taken you back to the 20th century? And what will you do when you find the chance to change his fate?
starring. multiple eras!michael jackson x time traveller!reader
content warnings. death, sexual content later in the story, tobacco, alcohol, mental and physical abuse, michael's childhood, and many more content labels yet to come! muahaha
MASTERLIST
(total episode count has not been determined yet)
—episode 1 | Say cheese!
—episode 2 | This is far out!
—episode 3 | Oh, dear child...
—episode 4 | Funky 21st century girl!
—episode 5 | ...
—episode 6 | ...
—episode 7 | ...
—episode 8 | ...
—episode 9 | ...
—episode 10 | ...
—episode 11 | ...
—episode 12 | ...
—episode 13 | ...
—episode 14 | ...
—episode 15 | ...
—episode 16 | ...
—episode 17 | ...
(Further episodes will be decided later on.)
If you would like to be tagged for this series or for my general taglist, please let me know!
hiiii!! i LOVE ur fics so mucchh and lowkey felt shy to dump my very vivid and detailed request lmao 🤣 i just thought of a random blurb bc i’m in my feels from reading angst and hurt/comfort, but can you do a fic of angst (ending happy/fluff) with ace x y/n? y/n and him are together on whitebeard’s crew and they got into an argument and stuff when they landed on an island to get supplies and chaos erupts when the marines arrive. their argument hasn’t been resolved but everyone is obviously occupied in getting back to the ship and fighting to escape. ANYWAYS y/n was actually their target and captured her bc she is actually a powerful fighter with a fruit that could be useful to them (idk u pick lol something that’s important as robin-level where it’s vital they retrieve her like idk her fruit can read any script i.e. poneglyphs yadda yadda). and then when the crew depart and do a headcount they realize one member is missing (womp womp) and ace gonna go FERAL to get her back and digging that knife of regret of saying hurtful things during their unresolved argument and cutscene to y/n getting beat tf up like how robin was beat up in water 7 from that mf spandam when imprisoned. OUHHH AND IMAGINE ACE’S REACTION WHEN HE SEES THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE ALMOST DEAD TO A PULP AND COMMITS ARSON and ends happily with y/n back and recovering and them finally resolving their arguement (cue: fluff). tl:dr basically an ace x y/n centered fic in a water 7-type scenario. IM A VERY ACTIVE MALADAPTIVE DAYDREAMER AND I NEED TO BE FED (tysm if u take on this request lmao ik it’s so detailed i hope it’s not too much i’m just itching for more one piece fics and i love ur work) 😭🫶🏼
Embers of Regret
portgas d. ace x reader
a/n: the more detailed a request is, the easier it is to write the fanfic, so don't worry—I actually appreciate it a lot! \^o^/
words count: 4.7k
tags: violence, romance, angst to fluff
masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi
“You never think, Ace!”
“And you never let things go!”
The argument has been boiling for days, maybe even weeks, but now it’s all spilling over in the middle of the town square, where the crew is supposed to be stocking up on supplies. The streets are noisy with merchants and villagers, but to you and Ace, it may as well be just the two of you standing here, tearing each other apart.
“You act like nothing matters!” you snap, glaring at him.
Ace crosses his arms, irritation flashing in his dark eyes “And you act like everything does!”
“Because it does!” You throw your hands up “This crew, the people we care about, you—none of it is guaranteed, Ace! But you just charge ahead without thinking, like you’re invincible, like nothing can touch you!”
“I can handle myself” he says, jaw tightening.
You shake your head, frustration clawing at your throat “That’s the problem! You think it’s just about you, but it’s not! We... I care about what happens to you!”
Ace scoffs “Right. Because you love worrying so damn much. Maybe you should focus on your own fights instead of wasting time on mine.”
The words cut deep as your breath catches.
You shake your head, frustration boiling over “You act like nothing can touch you... but newsflash, Ace, you’re not invincible! One day, you’re gonna get yourself killed, and—”
He scoffs, cutting you off “And what? You’ll cry about it?”
You freeze.
The air shifts.
Ace seems to realize what he just said, but his pride keeps him from taking it back. The damage is done.
You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to push down the sting “Got it,” you say flatly “You don’t need me watching your back or even care about your damn life. Noted.”
Before he can respond, you turn and walk away.
Ace watches you go, his fists clenched. He should call after you. Should apologize. But he doesn’t.
Then the Marines come fast and hard, hitting the town before anyone even realizes what’s happening.
Civilians scatter as armed soldiers flood the streets, and the Whitebeard Pirates instantly snap into battle mode. Marco takes to the skies, Thatch barks orders, and Ace ignites.
He fights like he always does, fast and reckless, flames cutting through the chaos. But his mind keeps drifting, eyes flicking toward the battlefield, searching for you.
He sees you in the distance, fighting off a wave of Marines. You’re holding your own. Of course you are.
And then someone shouts “Retreat to the ship!”
The command echoes through the town, and the crew begins pulling back toward the harbor. Ace doesn’t see you right away, but he assumes you’re moving with the others. You’re strong. You can handle yourself.
He fights. He runs. He gets to the ship.
And he doesn’t notice. Not yet.
The Moby Dick sails away from the island, the battle fading into the distance. Everyone is breathing hard, wounded but alive. The crew takes a moment to regroup, catching their breath, tending to injuries.
Then Marco speaks.
“Alright,” he says, rolling his shoulders “Let’s do a count.”
Ace leans against the railing, arms crossed. His chest is still tight with lingering anger, but he tells himself he’ll talk to you once you’ve both cooled off.
“One, two, three… is anyone missing?” Marco is counting the division commanders first, then working his way through the rest.
The atmosphere is still tense, but there’s relief too. They made it out. Everyone’s here.
Until Marco stops and looks at Ace with a frown.
Ace barely registers it at first, lost in his own thoughts.
Then Marco lifts his head “Where’s Y/N?”
Silence.
The world seems to stop.
Ace’s heart slams against his ribs. His stomach drops.
“I don't know... We had a fight, she's probably just avoiding me?” he says, too sharply.
Marco scans the deck again, his expression darkening “So... she’s not here.”
Ace laughs shortly, disbelieving “What are you talking about? She was fighting, I saw her—”
“And did you see her get on the ship?” Marco’s voice is serious now.
Ace opens his mouth, then stops.
A cold, terrible realization creeps up his spine.
No.
No, he didn’t see you board.
He assumed. He thought you were strong enough to make it back. That once you were safe on the ship you were just avoiding him. That you needed space.
But now...
His hands start shaking.
“Turn the ship around” Ace demands, voice low, dangerous.
Marco’s expression is grim “Ace...”
“TURN THE SHIP AROUND!”
Flames burst from his body, flickering wildly with his panic, his fury at the Marines, at himself.
He left you behind.
He left you.
And if the Marines wanted you enough to set a trap for the whole crew... Ace’s breath catches. His vision blurs with pure, unfiltered rage.
He doesn’t care if he has to burn the entire damn ocean.
He’s getting you back.
Pain.
That’s the first thing you register when you regain consciousness. A deep, searing pain spreading through your body, sharp and unrelenting.
You try to move, but your wrists are bound, shackled in heavy seastone cuffs that sap your strength. Every inch of you aches, bruises blooming across your skin, blood drying where fists and rifle butts had struck you.
The Marines didn’t go easy on you.
“You’re awake.”
A voice.
You lift your head, forcing your swollen eyes open. A high-ranking Marine stands in front of you, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You’re quite the prize,” he muses “A rare Devil Fruit ability, strong enough to stand alongside Whitebeard’s division commanders… No wonder they keep you so close.”
You glare, lips cracked, but you manage to spit out, “Go to hell.”
The Marine smirks “I think you misunderstand your situation.” He steps closer, his shadow stretching over you “The World Government has big plans for you, Y/N. You have two choices: cooperate… or break.”
You bare your teeth, eyes burning with defiance “Screw your choices.”
The Marine sighs like he expected that answer. Then his fist collides with your ribs, hard enough to make you choke on the pain.
You don’t scream. You won’t give them the satisfaction. But deep down, there’s a gnawing fear.
Where is Ace?
Does he even know you’re gone?
Or did he leave you behind without a second thought?
Aboard the Moby Dick, Ace has never felt this kind of terror before. Not when he faced death, not when he fought impossible odds.
But now that he knows you are out there, captured, hurt, alone… It’s unbearable.
The moment Marco looks everywhere on the ship and then confirms you’re missing, Ace doesn’t hesitate. His flames surge, wild and desperate, as he grips the ship’s railing “We turn back now.”
“Ace!”
“NOW!” His voice cracks, his body trembling.
Marco exhales, sharp and frustrated “You think we don’t want to?! The Marines planned this... if we storm in recklessly, we could lose more than just Y/N.”
Ace knows that. He knows.
But all he can think about is the last thing he said to you. The way your face had twisted in pain before you walked away.
The regret is suffocating.
“Then tell me where they took her,” he growls “I’ll go alone if I have to.”
A heavy pause.
Then a voice cuts through the tension “We’re not leaving her.”
Ace turns. Whitebeard stands at the helm, his expression unreadable “She’s family,” he says simply “And we don’t abandon family.”
Ace’s breath shudders.
They’re going back.
He’s getting you back and nothing in the world will stop him.
Your head throbs. Your body is battered. The seastone cuffs burn against your skin, draining your strength, making every breath feel heavier.
Time is a blur, hours, maybe days, lost between moments of pain and exhaustion. But you refuse to break. Even when they strike you. Even when they try to force your cooperation. Because if there’s one thing they’ll never take from you it’s your will.
Footsteps echo down the corridor. A different Marine this time, younger, hesitant. He kneels in front of you, his voice low “I don’t know if you can still hear me,” he mutters “But Portgas D. Ace?”
Your heart stops.
He leans in, glancing around as if afraid of being overheard “He’s coming for you.”
A weak, broken breath escapes you.
Ace.
The Marine shifts uncomfortably and mutters “Looks like he's ready to burn the world down.”
You close your eyes.
And for the first time since you were captured, hope flickers in your chest.
Ace is coming, and he’s bringing hell with him.
Later on the Marine base is eerily quiet, the dim torchlight casting long shadows against the damp stone walls. Somewhere outside, the sound of crashing waves echoes, but inside your cell, there is only the distant clatter of boots and the dull throbbing of your wounds.
You’re too exhausted to keep your head up, but you force yourself to stay conscious. Every second you stay awake is a second they don’t win.
Then the door creaks open again.
“Still alive?”
You barely react, but the voice isn’t one you recognize.
Another Marine, older this time. Not the usual guards. His uniform is crisp, and his presence carries an air of authority. He steps closer, hands behind his back, looking down at you like you’re some rare specimen.
“You’re lucky, you know,” he says casually “Most pirates we capture don’t get this much attention.”
You don’t answer. You don’t have the strength to waste on his games.
“You’re valuable,” he continues “And I’m not just talking about your affiliation with Whitebeard.” His sharp eyes scan your injuries, as if calculating how much more you can endure “Your Devil Fruit, that’s what the higher-ups are interested in.”
You don’t flinch, but inside, your stomach knots.
Of course. Your ability to manipulate minds with a single command. A fruit so rare, so dangerous, that in the wrong hands, it could change the tides of war. Or worse.
“Imagine what we could do,” the Marine muses “With just one word, you could make entire enemy fleets surrender. You could make criminals confess. You could turn Yonko commanders against their own crews.” He kneels in front of you, voice dropping lower “Or you could make Whitebeard himself bow.”
Your jaw tightens.
They don’t just want to use you.
They want to turn you into a weapon.
For a moment, you don’t say anything. Then, through cracked lips, you force out a bitter laugh.
“You think I’d help you?”
The Marine tilts his head “You will. Eventually.”
Your glare is unwavering “Never.”
“You’ll come around.” he smiles “Or I could just kill you and find the Devil Fruit later on so that I can eat it myself. One way or another. The question is how much pain you’ll endure before you give up or die. Either way we win.”
Then he turns to leave.
“Get some rest,” he says “Tomorrow, we start breaking you properly.”
The door slams shut.
You squeeze your eyes shut, swallowing down the fear creeping in your chest.
They won’t break you. They can’t.
Because Ace is coming, and when he does, this whole damn place is going to burn.
Aboard the Moby Dick, Ace is losing his patience.
It’s been a day since they turned the ship around. A day too long.
He paces the deck like a caged animal, flames flickering around his fingers, jaw clenched so tight it hurts. The crew keeps a careful distance, no one is dumb enough to try and calm him down.
No one can.
He keeps replaying it in his head. The argument. The way you walked away. How he let you.
And now you’re gone.
“Oi, Ace.”
Marco’s voice cuts through his storming thoughts.
Ace turns, his glare sharp, but Marco doesn’t flinch.
“We found the base.”
Everything inside Ace goes still.
“Where?”
Marco tosses him a map, already marked “Marine stronghold, isolated island. Not heavily fortified, but enough of a problem if we’re reckless.” He gives Ace a pointed look “We need to be smart about this.”
Ace grips the map so tightly it crumples “They have her.”
“I know,” Marco says evenly “And we will get her back. But you losing your head won’t help.”
Ace’s fists tremble. He knows Marco’s right, but all he can think about is you, locked in some cell, hurt, alone, and how he left you.
“How soon can we be there?” he demands.
“By sunrise,” Marco says “We’ve got a plan. But Ace...”
Ace looks up, and Marco’s expression is grim.
“You better be ready for what we might find.”
Ace doesn’t hesitate “I don’t care if she’s at death’s door. I’ll bring her home.”
His flames surge brighter, hotter.
He will get you back, and if the Marines think they can keep you than they’ve never seen what happens when fire goes unchecked.
The moment the Moby Dick reaches the Marine base, chaos erupts. The crew descends like a storm. Thatch, Marco, and the others carving a path through the soldiers, clearing the way for Ace.
But Ace barely registers any of it. All he knows is that you’re in there, and he needs to find you.
“Ace!” Marco calls, dodging a Marine’s sword “Stick to the plan!”
But Ace is already breaking away.
He storms through the base, his fists burning, taking out anyone who gets in his way. The halls are a maze, twisting corridors that all look the same, and with every empty cell he passes, his panic tightens like a noose.
Where are you?
His breathing is ragged, flames licking at his skin as his frustration builds. She should be here. You should be here.
He shoves a Marine against the wall, his grip searing into the man’s uniform “Where is she?” Ace growls, his voice sharp with fury.
The soldier screams, thrashing “I—I don’t know!”
Ace snarls and knocks him out cold.
Then he runs.
And runs.
And runs.
But every hallway looks the same. Every door leads to nothing. He’s not finding you.
A new kind of fear claws into his chest, but he knows he can’t think like that. He won’t.
“Ace!”
Marco’s voice.
Then hands gripping his shoulder, yanking him back.
Ace whirls around, flames flaring “What?!”
Marco doesn’t let go. His expression is firm, unwavering “You’re wasting time.”
Ace shoves his arm away “I’m finding her!”
“No, you’re panicking!”
Ace’s breath is uneven, his vision blurred with frustration “She’s not here, Marco!” His voice cracks, desperation leaking through “I don’t—I don’t know where she is!”
Marco’s gaze softens just slightly “Then we regroup.”
Ace shakes his head violently “No.” Every second he isn’t moving is a second you’re suffering, a second too long “You don’t get it—”
Marco grips his collar, dragging him close “I do get it” he says, low and fierce “But if you let yourself fall apart now, we lose her for real.”
Ace stops breathing for a second.
Lose you.
The thought is unbearable.
Marco keeps his hold steady “We will find her. But not like this.”
Ace swallows hard. His body is still shaking, fire curling around his fists but he forces himself to listen. To stop running in circles. To think.
He exhales sharply “Then tell me what to do.”
Marco nods “We need intel. And I know where to get it.”
Pain is a familiar companion now.
You don’t know how long it’s been. Hours? Days?
It doesn’t matter. You’re still here. Still breathing.
Your body is too weak to fight. Your mind too drained to resist. But you keep holding on because you know he’s coming.
Even when the Marines laugh about how the Whitebeard Pirates will never breach the base. Even when they say you’ll be locked away forever.
You know better.
Then a distant explosion. Shouting. Gunfire. And fire.
Your heart lurches.
He’s here, but the door doesn’t open, and the sounds of battle grow further away.
Your stomach twists.
Did something happen?
No. No, you won’t think like that.
You force yourself to move, just slightly, leaning against the cold stone wall. You don’t have much left in you. But if there’s even a small chance, you have to believe Ace will find you. He has to. Because you don’t know how much longer you can last.
“Alright, talk.”
Ace slams the Marine officer against the table, his fire dangerously close to igniting the man’s uniform. Marco stands behind him, arms crossed, while the rest of the Whitebeard Pirates keep the room secure.
The officer trembles, sweat dripping down his forehead “I—I don’t—”
Ace tightens his grip “Wrong answer.”
The flames grow hotter. The Marine yelps, eyes wide with terror “Okay! Okay!”
“Where is she?” Marco demands.
The officer swallows hard “She—she’s in the lower dungeons. Isolated. Special containment.”
Ace’s flames flare. Of course... Seastone.
That’s why he couldn’t find you. Why his Haki wasn’t sensing you.
Ace lets go, and the officer slumps against the chair, gasping for breath.
Then Ace turns and runs.
Your vision is swimming now.
You don’t know how much longer you can hold on.
Then an explosion. Not distant, but actually really close.
And then your cell door is ripped open.
A burst of fire floods the room, bright and blinding. And through the smoke you finally see Ace.
You think you might be dreaming.
Because his face, his expression... he looks destroyed. Like something in him has been broken ever since you disappeared.
Then he’s kneeling in front of you, hands hovering over your battered body like he doesn’t know where to start.
“Y/N.” His voice is raw, barely more than a whisper.
You try to smile “Took you long enough.”
Ace lets out a shaky breath, a laugh, but not really. More like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“Shut up,” he mutters “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
But he doesn’t sound convinced.
His fingers tremble as he undoes the seastone cuffs, his flames immediately warming your ice-cold skin. His touch is so careful, so gentle, like he’s afraid you’ll break apart in his hands.
You lean into him, too weak to do anything else.
His arms wrap around you instantly, pulling you close.
You feel him shaking.
“I thought I lost you” he chokes out.
You close your eyes.
“I knew you’d come.”
Ace swallows hard, burying his face in your hair.
Then, quietly “I’m so sorry.”
But there’s no time to say more, because the base is still burning and the fight isn’t over yet.
Ace holds you tighter, his fingers pressing against your bruised skin like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his grasp again. But you barely register it.
The exhaustion, the pain, the relief, it’s all too much.
The world tilts and then everything goes dark.
When you wake, everything seems slow and heavy, like surfacing from the depths of the ocean, your body weighed down by the bruises, the fatigue, the lingering ache of the seastone cuffs.
You shift slightly, wincing at the pain, and that’s when you realize there’s warmth. Ace.
He’s slumped over at your bedside, arms folded against the mattress, his head resting there like he’d been watching you and passed out. His face is hidden by his wild mess of black hair, but his breathing is deep and steady.
He looks exhausted.
You blink slowly, taking in the dim light of the infirmary, the distant sound of the waves outside. It’s quiet. Safe.
You made it back, and Ace never left your side.
You manage to lift a hand, your fingers brushing against his hair.
He tenses as his eyes snap open, unfocused for a second before locking onto you.
“Y/N.”
Your throat is dry, your voice barely a whisper “Hey.”
For a second, he just stares, like he’s trying to convince himself you’re real.
Then his jaw clenches, and he sits up, running a hand down his face. “Shit.” His voice is raw, hoarse, like he hasn’t spoken in hours “You—you scared the hell out of me.”
You offer a weak smile “Pretty sure you did more damage than I did.”
Ace exhales sharply, his fingers twitching against the sheets “Don’t joke about that.”
His voice is too tight. Too strained.
And when you really look at him he looks like hell.
There are dark circles under his eyes, his skin paler than usual. His hair is messier than normal, his hat discarded on the floor. His usual reckless energy is gone, replaced by something quieter.
Something heavy.
“You didn’t sleep, did you?” you murmur.
Ace scoffs, but it’s humorless “How was I supposed to sleep?” His hands curl into fists “They had you. They hurt you. And I…”
He cuts himself off, looking away, jaw clenched so tight it might shatter.
Guilt.
That’s what it is.
The weight of everything he said before. The things he didn’t say.
You swallow, shifting slightly, ignoring the way your ribs protest “Ace.”
He doesn’t look at you.
You push yourself up on weak arms, reaching for him “Ace.”
His gaze flickers to you.
“I should’ve been there.” His voice cracks “I should’ve gone after you the second you walked away. I should’ve—” He shakes his head violently “I let you go. And because of that, they took you.”
You take a slow breath “Ace...”
“You could’ve died, Y/N” His hands tremble where they grip the sheets “Because of me.”
You watch him carefully.
This isn’t just guilt.
It’s fear.
You reach for him again, your fingers curling around his wrist “But I didn’t.”
His eyes snap to yours.
“And you found me.”
Ace swallows hard “Barely.”
“But you did.” You squeeze his wrist, grounding him “Ace, I knew you’d come for me. No matter what.”
His breath is uneven, his entire body tense “What if I had been too late?”
“You weren’t.”
He shakes his head, but this time, his shoulders tremble “I can’t—” His voice lowers, raw and broken “I can’t lose you.”
Suddenly, all the anger, all the bitterness from your fight before, it feels so small. Because none of that matters now. Not when you almost lost each other.
You tug gently at his wrist, and after a second, he moves. Slowly, hesitantly, he leans forward, resting his forehead against yours.
His skin is warm. His breathing is shaky.
But he’s here and so are you.
Your fingers lift, brushing against his cheek “You won’t lose me.”
Ace lets out a shuddering breath, his hand coming up to cover yours, pressing your palm against his face like he never wants to let go.
You stay like that for a long moment, the storm inside him settling just slightly.
Then he whispers “I’m sorry... For everything.”
You smile softly, thumb brushing over his cheekbone “I know.”
He exhales, pressing his face further into your touch “I love you, Y/N.”
Your heart clenches.
Because despite everything, despite the pain, the fear, the regret, you never once doubted that.
You smile, fingers tangling in his hair.
“I love you too, hothead.”
Ace lets out a breathless laugh, wet and shaky, but real.
And when he finally kisses you it tastes like fire, and ash, and home.
He holds onto you like you’ll disappear if he lets go. His forehead is still pressed against yours, his breath uneven. You can feel the heat of his skin, the way his fingers tremble slightly against yours.
Everything feels so fragile. Like the moment could slip away if either of you move too fast. But you don’t want to move. Not yet.
Not when you can feel the way his heartbeat stutters under your touch.
Not when he’s finally here, safe, with you.
And then, quietly “You really scared me, y’know.”
You let out a breath “You scared me,” you murmur “Burning down a whole Marine base like a lunatic.”
Ace scoffs, but his grip on you tightens “Would’ve burned the whole damn world if I had to.”
You believe him. You always believed in him. Even when you were angry. Even when you walked away.
That fight. The reason you stormed off in the first place. It feels so distant now. But still, it lingers.
You take a slow breath “Ace…”
He pulls back slightly, eyes searching yours “Yeah?”
You hesitate “Before all this… before we landed on that island…”
Ace tenses. He knows what you’re talking about.
Your fight.
The argument that hadn’t been resolved before everything spiraled into chaos.
Ace shifts, running a hand through his messy hair “You were mad at me.”
You raise an eyebrow “Oh, you think?”
Ace sighs “I know.”
You look away, your fingers gripping the blanket draped over you. The memory of the fight comes rushing back. You had been reckless during a raid. You thought you had it handled. But Ace had jumped in, flames blazing, telling you to stop being so damn stubborn and let someone help you for once.
And you had snapped because it wasn’t just about the raid. It was about everything.
The way Ace always threw himself in danger, like he had to do it alone. The way he always acted like his life didn’t matter as much as everyone else’s.
And when you told him that, when you yelled at him for it, he threw it back in your face.
And now, after almost dying, after being taken, after him almost losing you, the weight of it crashes down on both of you.
Ace lets out a heavy sigh, leaning back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face.
“Guess I really was an idiot, huh?”
You cross your arms, raising an eyebrow “Oh? Now you realize?”
Ace groans, dragging his hand down his face “You’re really gonna rub it in while you’re still half-dead?”
You smirk “Absolutely.”
He exhales sharply, shaking his head, but then his expression softens. His golden eyes flicker with something raw, something real.
“You were right” he says quietly.
That makes you pause.
Ace doesn’t say things like that often.
“You were right,” he repeats, voice hoarse “I do act like that sometimes. Like it doesn’t matter what happens to me. Like…” He swallows hard, gaze dropping “Like I don’t deserve to be saved.”
Your chest tightens.
“But then you got taken,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper “And I—” He clenches his fists “I would’ve burned the whole world down to get you back. No hesitation. No second thoughts.”
He looks up at you then, something pleading in his expression.
“And that’s how you felt, isn’t it?”
You don’t answer right away, because you don’t need to. Ace already knows.
You sigh, leaning back against the pillows “You do deserve to be saved, Ace.”
Ace exhales, rubbing the back of his neck “Yeah, well. Guess I finally get it now.”
You shake your head with a small smile “Took you long enough, hothead.”
He lets out a weak laugh, then leans forward again, pressing his forehead against yours.
It’s warm. Comforting. Safe.
You close your eyes, exhaling softly “Next time we fight, can we just skip to this part?”
Ace huffs out a laugh “What, the part where I almost lose my mind looking for you?”
You nudge him weakly “No. The part where you admit I was right.”
Ace groans dramatically “Ugh, never mind. You’re insufferable.”
You smile, your fingers brushing against his. But then you feel something wet against your skin.
You pull back slightly, confused “Ace…”
He blinks, startled “What?”
You reach up, brushing a thumb under his eye.
“You’re crying.”
Ace freezes. For a second, he looks caught off guard, like he hadn’t even noticed.
Then, before you can say anything else, he lets out a choked laugh, rubbing his face with the sleeve of his shirt.
He sniffles slightly, then smirks at you through his tears.
“Look who’s the one crying at the end.”
You stare at him. Then you laugh with him. A real, genuine laugh.
Ace grins, his hand finding yours again, fingers lacing together. His grip is warm, steady, alive.
And when he squeezes your hand gently, you know neither of you will ever walk away again.
pairing: portgas d. ace x reader (no gender mentioned)
word count: 3k (i may have gotten carried away)
summary: you noticed something was wrong with the second division commander, then you make him talk about his feelings, and then you make him feel better (with cuddles, get your mind out of the gutter)
a/n: WOOO first published AND finished fanfic. Everybody cheer! of course it had to be for my boy Ace <3. the first of many lol i'm emotionally attached to this man. this fic will deal with a little mental health issues and i want everyone to know rn that you are loved, you are appreciated and you are good enough. With that being said i hope you enjoy! ~anna
tags: mental health issues, brief mention of violence, sprinkles of angst, fluff, sfw
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You had noticed it immediately, the way his usual grin lacked any real warmth and his eyes were a dulled of their usual sparkle. Today was one of those days.
You had known Ace for years, as one of the first members of the Spades and continuing to serve in the second division under his leadership. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” you had told him when your fellow Spades were finding their new places amongst the Whitebeards. You’re amongst the few who knew of his true parentage. “I know I'm supposed to be impressed that your sperm donor was the king of the pirates but, it's much more impressive that your mom carried you for 20 months. Now that’s a badass.” The way his tense body slumped in relief and the bright smile and soft eyes he gave you is seared into your memory.
Back to the present. Something was off about him today and you were gonna find out what. So you became his shadow for the day. Following him around the Moby Dick has he went through the motions of his daily routines. His chores? He mopped the same spot for 15 minutes with a faraway look. Lunch? He only had two plates and didn’t even faceplant in them. Sparring? It was less sparring and more like he had something to prove. You didn’t even think he was fully in control of his actions. He had this far away look in his eyes but that didn't stop him from fighting like his life depended on it. After numerous crewmembers started making their way to the infirmary, it was only a matter of time until Marco heard.
Marco was one of the last people you wanted to piss off. Especially if it was causing an abrupt rise in patients on a slow day. You could vaguely make out the pineapple that Marco called his head before he made a beeline for Ace. It wasn’t until Marco made physical contact that Ace seemed to snap back to reality. The second division commander seemed embarrassed and rubbed the back of his neck with a nervous smile but that seemed to ruffle the phoenix's feathers more. “What has gotten into you today?! You took it too far today. Do you know how many people I'm seeing with broken bones and burn marks? You know you're not supposed to use powers for hand to hand sparring, Ace. Get your shit together or I'll tell Pops.”
Ace instantly tensed up, a flash of guilt crossed his face before his gaze hardened. He bowed in apology before rushing off to the crew's quarters. Not even muttering a word as he passed. The deck was silent for a minute before everyone resumed what they were doing before the disaster that was sparring.
Marco frowned and locked eyes with you. With a tilt of his head, you knew his unvoiced question. ‘What crawled up his ass?’ You gave him a concerned look and shrugged. “He’s been like this all day,” was your response when you approached the first division commander. You decided to give Ace a few minutes to himself before you stormed into his room to force him to open up. Marco sighed and ran his palm down his face.
“Well would you be oh so kind, and figure it out before he goes on another rampage.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and gestured to the lingering crew. There were a few who had a slight limp or an ice pack held to their face. You gave him what you hoped was a reassuring smile and a two finger salute before you started making your way into the lion's den.
°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。°。
Ace was not having a good day. He knew from the moment he opened his eyes that today was gonna be one of those days. He could feel it in his bones. All he wanted to do was stay in bed and wallow but he knew he had to show his face sometime. The last thing he wanted or needed was people worrying about him. Especially you. You always had a knack for knowing exactly what he was thinking. It was like some superpower you had. He wondered if you had a secret devil fruit power.
He knew as soon as you got him alone that he'd become a giant puddle of vulnerability. One soft look from you and he was a goner. So his number one objective today was avoiding you. He got lucky when he was one of the last ones in for breakfast. That meant that you had already eaten and started your day. Without you to distract him, he allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts. About how he wasn't good enough. About how he didn't deserve this crew. About how he shouldn't be alive. These thoughts were always in the back of his mind. Most of the time he would just ignore the little negative voices in his mind, but today was different.
He tried, he really tried to put up a happy facade. He kept up with his chores, one spot on deck looked especially clean. Thoughts swirled around his mind all afternoon. Nothing seemed to snap him back to his usual cool guy behavior. Not even lunch. People started to notice when the daily spectacle of his food naps hadn't happened so far. Two plates of food? It looked like he was practically starving himself. Even though he really just wanted to hide away, Ace knew it wasn't going to be long before you or someone cornered him.
Conversations ended in blurs, forced smiles and laughter that were beginning to hurt his cheeks. Being on a crew as rowdy and strong as the Whitebeards meant there were usually sparring matches throughout the day. Usually these were all in good faith and more training than actual fights. One big rule for these was the prohibition of devil fruit powers. It was mainly for close combat practice after all. So that injuries were kept to a minimum. Although some used it as an excuse to go bother the nurses even for a slight scratch. (Thatch)
Everyone knew that Portgas D. Ace didn't run from a fight. That also applied to casual spars. He was strong and he knew it. However he didn't feel strong today. Especially with all the eyes on him today, your eyes. Yeah, he knew you’ve been watching him throughout the day. He could always sense when you were around. If it was a better day, he would have searched for you and gave a cheeky wink that usually made your face flush. That wasn't the case today though because he knew as soon as he locked eyes with you that he'd lose the semblance of composure that he's tried to keep all day.
As soon as his matches started it was like his body moved on autopilot. A Jab* here. ‘Come on Ace, you can do better than that,’ he thought to himself. A Cross* there. Thud! Somebody was gonna be feeling that when they woke up. The more people that went against him, the more powerful his punches became. His thoughts were getting the better of him, he didn’t even notice the heat that was emitting from his hands. ‘Is that all the Fire Fist Ace has to offer? Pathetic.’ Consumed in his thoughts, Ace didn’t notice the danger that was rapidly approaching him.
Suddenly a firm hand gripped his shoulder and whirled him around. He was met with the furious eyes of the first division commander. That seemed to snap him back to reality. An angry Marco meant that he fucked up. He looked down at his bloody fists. When did that happen? He could faintly hear Marco giving him a lecture but, as he raised his head he surveyed the scene around him. Members of his division were sporting bloody noses, black eyes or burn marks. Did he do all that?
Ace rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment and conjured up a sheepish smile. “My bad? Guess I got lost in thought and didn't pull my punches.” He tried to laugh it off but the laughter died in his throat when no one laughed with him. If anything that just pissed Marco off more.
“What has gotten into you today?! You took it too far today. Do you know how many people I’m seeing with broken bones and burn marks? You know you're not supposed to use powers for hand to hand sparring, Ace. Get your shit together or I'll tell Pops.”
His body tensed and he knew that it was his fault that so many people had injuries that could have been easily avoided. The feeling of guilt was overwhelming. ‘Why can't I get a grip?’ He couldn’t take much more from today. “I’m sorry for my actions” Ace bowed to the remaining stragglers and then his feet acted before he even realized he was moving. All he had to do was make it to his room before someone stopped him.
On his way to the cabins, he passed you. No words came out of his mouth though. He’d already embarrassed himself enough today. He knew you’d seen the whole thing. The concern written across your face meant that he would be expecting a visit from you soon. Well, better that you come to check on him instead of Pops. Then he’d really wish that the sea would swallow him whole.
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You arrived at his door only a few minutes after him. You raised your hand and gently rapped against the wood. “Ace? Do you wanna talk?” you called.
Silence followed. You frowned and tried to open his door. It didn't budge and a locked door was never a good sign. You weren't leaving without a fight though.
“I’m giving you five minutes to open this door before I start trying to pick the lock.” you huffed before sliding to the ground. You brought your knees to your chest and leaned against his door before calling out again. “I’ll be right here waiting but I'm not gonna leave you alone until you talk to me, Portgas.”
About a minute passed before you heard shuffling and a thunk as another body pressed against the door from the other side. “You don’t have to waste your time, you know, I'm fine, really.” Ace stressed out.
You hated when he did this, acting like he’s fine when you know he’s far from it. He’d rather let himself drown than have someone throw him a line. “We both know that what just came out of your mouth is total bullshit. Now would you save us some time and let me in? I was serious about the five minutes and would you look at that, you have one minute left.” you started counting down from sixty.
As soon as you got to thirty, you heard the lock click. You were at twenty when the door finally opened. You looked up from your spot on the ground to see a look of despair on Ace’s face. That was not a look that belonged on his face. You got up from your spot and faced him. His hat was missing as well as his belts, shoes, and his knife. You waited for him to speak first but he was doing the same. It became a stand off to see who would make the first move. Knowing that he was as stubborn as an ass, you caved first and brought him in for a hug.
Ace didn’t move for a moment. All he could focus on were your arms around his neck. He had to stay strong. You couldn't see how weak he really was. But you brought his face into the crook of your neck and he wavered. Technically you couldn't see his face and you smelled so good, so he let his guard down. You felt him relax against you so you shuffled the both of you forward and removed one arm from around him to pull his door shut.
When he heard the door shut, he felt his remaining walls crumble down. He felt the burn as he tried to hold his tears back. If he started crying he didn’t know if he would ever stop. So instead he wrapped his arms around you and held on as if his life depended on it. Ace felt your hand move to his hair, you weaved your fingers through his dark strands and you held him as if he’d drift away. Neither of you said anything or moved for some time.
Ace finally pulled away but kept his arms firmly around you. Your hands fell to cradle his face, to keep his eyes on you and to catch any stray tears that would fall. The silence broke as you spoke first. “Do you wanna talk about it? It would probably help to not bottle it up.” You stroked his cheek as you spoke. “I promise whatever it is will stay between you and me, not even Deuce is gonna pry this from me.” That got a smile out of him. You and Deuce were like long lost twins, you told each other everything.
“Today…I’ve felt like every bad thought that has ever crossed my mind was on repeat, at max volume. It was like I was a kid again, before my brothers came into the picture. Over the years, the thoughts drifted into the back of my mind, I found people who made them all but forgotten.” He closed his eyes and put his hands over yours, leaning into your touch.
“Sometimes though, like today, they come back in full force. And I feel so alone. Like I’m not Portgas D. Ace, second division commander of the whitebeard pirates. Like I'm just the worthless child of that bastard, who doesn't even deserve to live.” With that, the dam breaks and tears flood down his face. Shoulders shaking as sobs, he buries his face back into the crook of your neck. You continue to hold him and move your hand back to his hair and continue soothing strokes that you hoped would calm him.
You move the both of you to his bed and he is all but glued to your side. He follows your movements until the both of you are in a comfortable embrace on the edge of his bed. You pull back and hold his face, leaning forward until your forehead meets his. “I need you to look at me, Ace. I need to see that you’re listening to me and hearing me.” He met your eyes and nodded.
“You absolutely deserve to live. Your mother carried you for 20 months so that you would have a chance to live. Who cares that you are the biological son of the most famous pirate? I don’t. The Spades wouldn’t. The Whitebeards mostly wouldn’t. Your brothers didn't and Pops sure as hell didn't care either. We care about you. You, Portgas D. Ace, who is one of the kindest souls that I've had the pleasure of meeting. You are so strong a-and i don’t know where I would be without you.” Now you were the one starting to get emotional. “I-People love you Ace. You don’t have to believe me now but I don't want you to forget that. Okay? You. Are. Loved”
The rest of the day went by with you muttering reassurances into his ears while you both cuddled in his bed. His head fell against your chest and you knew he had finally given into his narcolepsy. You stayed with him the entire time, not wanting him to be alone when he woke up. Besides, he was really warm. You could feel yourself grow drowsy and soon fall into a peaceful slumber.
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BONUS:
When neither of you showed up for dinner. Marco took it upon himself to fetch the both of you. Thatch also decided to tag along with a tray of food. Just because Ace caused a bit of chaos that afternoon didn't mean that the both of you needed to miss dinner. “You know, I bet that they actually get together within a month.” Thatch remarked as the duo made their way into the cabins.
“Nah, I’d give it until the end of the year. Have you met them? They’re for sure the slow burn type.”
They made it infront of Ace’s door and Marco took it upon himself to make their presence known. “Yoi! Ace, open up! We have dinner since you decided to hole yourself in here for the night.”
Thatch squinted at the blond. “Why do you know the term slow burn?”
“What? I read.” Marco shrugged and knocked on the door again but louder. Thatch made a face and made a note to bring that back up later. Who knew Marco the Phoenix liked romance books.
Deciding that it was too silent on the other side, Marco went ahead and opened the door. The scene before them made them rethink when you two would end up together. “Did I say the end of the month? I meant the end of the week.” Thatch wished he had a den den mushi camera at that moment.
You both were asleep on the bed. You were on your back with your arms wrapped around Ace, who was basically on top of you with his head on your chest and arms wrapped around your waist. It was almost too cute. Thatch quietly put the tray of food down on Ace’s desk. Meanwhile, Marco found a discarded blanket on the floor and used it to cover the both of you.
He was glad his little brother was having a better night than the no good, very bad day he had. Thatch looked on the verge of tears himself. So before Thatch could make a ruckus and wake them up, Marco dragged him out and softly closed the door behind them. He put his finger to his lips and gestured with his head to go back to the mess hall. Thatch nodded and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“So……... have you read any good romance novels lately?”
“Shut up, Thatch.”
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another a/n: thank you so much for making it this far! my writing is a little rusty so if there's any mistakes please let me know! and if anyone is ooc thennnnn ignore that. I'm still getting used to writing for one piece. I hope you all enjoyed! stay tuned for more! ~anna
*Jab - A quick and straight punch thrown with the lead hand
*Cross - A powerful straight punch thrown with the rear hand
pairing: portgas d. ace x reader
summary: After inheriting your grandmother's house, you find a seemingly normal mirror in the attic. When night falls however, the mirror becomes a portal into your favorite fictional world and who better to greet you than your favorite character. Can you change his fate or see him to his doom?
wc: 15.6k
tags: isekai!reader, no gender specified/gn!reader, SFW, not a slow burn but also not quite a fast burn, found family, slow updates, mentions of grief, minor character death, swearing, Teach is his own warning, one bed trope, reader has pre-timeskip knowledge and limited post-timeskip knowledge, Ace is whipped
✦ Part One
✦ Part Two
✦ Part Three
✦ Part Four
✦ Part Five
pairing: portgas d. ace x isekai!reader
summary: After inheriting your grandmother's house, you find a seemingly normal mirror in the attic. When night falls however, the mirror becomes a portal into your favorite fictional world and who better to greet you than your favorite character. Can you change his fate or see him to his doom?
wc: 4.7k
̗̀➛ enchanted masterlist
Dishware clanked as you washed the dishes from today. Granny sat at the dining table nursing a cup of tea. You could tell something was on her mind as you turned the water off. "I can tell when you have something to say. You wanna fill me in on whats going on in that head of yours?" You threw a glance over your shoulder to see her looking out the window.
She sighed as she glanced down at her cup. "You know I appreciate your help around here, dear. It's just…you're either here or working and you should be going out and having fun with friends at your age."
You stopped drying a plate and sat it gently on the drying rack to turn towards her. "Granny, we've been through this before. I'm perfectly happy staying here and taking care of you. You know, I don't have many friends around here and besides….you're the only friend I've ever needed." You spoke softly as you joined her at the table.
A sad smile graced her lips as she grabbed your hand and squeezed. "That's the thing, honey. I can't be the only person in your life when I won't be around much longer. I don't want you to be all alone when I go."
"You're right. I know you're right but…" You closed your eyes as you exhaled. "I'll be alright, I always am. I'd rather spend as much time with you before the inevitable happens. There's no way I could live with myself if I was out partying and something happened to you. I have no regrets."
"I suppose there's no convincing you otherwise." She pat your hand before releasing it. "Now, go finish drying the dishes and I'll go bring out Scrabble."
With a nod, you resumed your previous task. You couldn't help but dwell on her words though. With work and taking care of her, you'd barely made time for yourself. When the time came where she was no longer around, you weren't sure what you would do.
When you woke up the next morning, the first thing you became aware of was that you were awfully warm. You nuzzled back into your pillow, refusing to fully wake up just yet. The second and third things you became aware of was the weight around your waist and that your pillow wasn’t actually a pillow.
Finally blinking away the remnants of sleep, you found yourself nestled into Ace's side. He was still snoozing away, but one arm was wrapped snugly around you. Your cheeks warmed as you realized that the both of you must have instinctively cuddled up sometime in the night. It certainly wasn't the worst way to wake up. And if it wasn't for your full bladder then you probably would have been content to fall back asleep.
Not wanting to wake him, you tried to pry his arm off you gently, but his grip was unrelenting. With a huff, you pulled at his stupidly beefy arm and tried to squeeze your way out only for him to grumble and roll over with you in tow. Your eyebrow twitched as you realized that you were the equivalent of a stuffed animal in the arms of a clingy child. Screw letting him sleep in, you had to go to the bathroom. You pulled at his cheek. "Ace if you don't let me go then I am going to piss myself……and by default, I'm going to pee on you too."
At the feeling of a tugging sensation on his face, Ace's eyes fluttered open. He let out a yawn as he blinked away the remaining fog of sleep. His brows furrowed as he looked at you and faintly recalled what he heard when waking up. "Did- Did you say you were gonna pee on me? I'm not into that stuff."
Your face probably could rival his flames in terms of heat. Spluttering, you slapped at his arm. "I'm not- I just have to go to the bathroom and you wouldn't let me go, you freaking beefcake."
Realizing that he did in fact have an arm wrapped around you, he blushed quickly and pulled away from you. "Oh, well this isn't embarrassing at all. I'm so sorry."
A sigh of relief left you as you were finally able to get up. Before you left the room, you looked over your shoulder. "I mean, for all intents and purposes…..it really wasn't the worst way to wake up." With that, you shut the door behind you as you finally made your way towards a bathroom.
Meanwhile, Ace pulled a pillow over his face and let out a muffled yell. Sometimes you knew just what to say to turn his usually charismatic self into a flustered mess. It wasn't enough for him to wake up literally clinging onto you. No, you had to go and tell him that 'It wasn't the worst way to wake up.' Did that mean that you liked waking up with him?!
Sitting up, he let his pillow fall into his lap as he rubbed his reddened face. No, no. He was not gonna go down that train of thought. This was most certainly going to be a one time thing. Ace dragged himself out of bed to pull on some fresh clothes, just another set of black cargo shorts with a shirt that he left unbuttoned. Then, he slipped on his boots and plopped his hat onto his head.
His thoughts drifted back to you and how you'd also probably like some fresh clothes. So he raided his dresser for items that he'd think would fit you. There wasn't much, but it'd have to do until they stopped on an island. As he was laying clothes on the bed, you finally returned.
"Okay, I did not get as lost as I thought I would. I ran into the most beautiful man who pointed me in the right direction. Oh! By the way-wait, you're actually wearing a shirt?" You quirked an eyebrow as you eyed his attire.
"Uh…yeah?"
"I did not know you owned any shirts….huh, I guess you learn something new everyday."
Ace huffed as he put his hands on his hips. "Of course, I own shirts. Is it really that much of a surprise? Also, you're literally wearing one of mine right now"
Your mouth opened to retort before you reluctantly nodded. "Fair point. Still, you're like notorious for being shirtless like ninety percent of the time."
He only shrugged in response. "What can I say, it's a preference. Plus, it let's me show off Pop's mark on my back."
Moving past the subject of his shirtlessness, you looked over the clothes he laid out. You picked whatever you thought would fit you best and turned toward Ace expectantly. His brows furrowed. "What? Do you need me to find you something else?"
Shaking your head, you pointed at the door. "No, I need you to get out so I can change."
"Oh….I could just turn around-"
"Out!"
"Fine, fine! I'll be just outside." He threw his hands up as he made is way out of the room so you could change in peace.
After a few minutes, you exited his room in the new clothes. "I meant to ask if you had an extra toothbrush so I could brush my teeth."
"A toothbrush?"
You deadpanned. "Yes, a toothbrush. Don't tell me you don't have those here."
"I mean, yeah, but don't forget you're on a pirate ship. We aren't exactly known for excellent hygiene. Though, Marco or the nurses probably know where some are."
"Ace……when was the last time you brushed your teeth?"
He sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh like a few days ago I guess. Sometimes I forget."
"Well, we're gonna change that. It's a miracle that you have nice teeth. C'mon let's go find Marco." You sighed as you grabbed his arm to pull him toward the deck.
'They think I have nice teeth' Ace thought to himself as he allowed himself to be pulled.
You were lucky enough to run into a few nurses who were more than happy to help. Ace stood sheepishly to the side as you all discussed the dental hygiene on the ship. And yes, you did end up dragging Ace back to the bathroom to brush his teeth. After that whole debacle, your stomach let out a growl.
Taking the hint, Ace led you back to the mess hall. "Will you be okay eating in here? I know you were a bit…overwhelmed, yesterday." He held the door open as you stood in the entryway.
From where you were, you didn't see any sign of Teach so you gave him a nod. "Yeah, I'll be okay this time. I can't exactly hide away forever."
"That's the spirit! Now, lets grab a plate and join that table. I'll introduce you." He pointed towards a table towards the middle that a few men were sitting at. One had blue hair and a mask over his eyes while the other seemingly had a mask of a skull. Laying at the end of the table, was a giant lynx. Somehow they were familiar to you, but you couldn't recall any names.
Once you both had full plates, you followed Ace to the table he had pointed at. He had an easy smile as he greeted the occupants. The lynx raised his head and headbutt the hand that Ace offered. You had a timid smile as Ace introduced you first.
"As for these guys, they used to part of my crew. I did tell you about how I used to be a captain of my own crew, right? Anyways, this is Deuce and Skull , former officers of the Spade pirates." They both greeted you with nods. Both of them shared a look as Deuce's lip twitched.
"So, uh, you wouldn't happen to be the reason why Ace has been so scatterbrained lately, would you? I mean it's a little weird how you only just got here and yet he's totally whipped- OW!" Deuce was interrupted by Ace, who had kicked him under the table while still retaining his smile. Even if it seemed more threatening than before.
"And last but not least, the furball is Kotatsu. I rescued him from a poaching trap and now he's a pampered ship-cat." The lynx licked his paw in response. You fought the urge to reach over and pet him, you had such a soft spot for animals.
Skull tilted his head as he observed you. Everyone had heard about the mysterious person who had shown up, seemingly out of thin air, the other night. Though looking at you now, Skull instantly noticed a few things. One, you looked more like a civilian than a pirate. Two, your eyes would constantly flicker around the room. And finally, how those were definitely Ace's clothes that you were wearing and the two of you were sitting awfully close without even realizing it.
"If you don't mind me asking, what exactly brings you to the Moby Dick? I mean, no offense and all, but you don't seem like a pirate to me." Skull asked curiously.
You thought to yourself for a moment and glanced over at Ace, who gave a small shrug. "Oh, well that'd be because I'm not a pirate." You chose to ignore the muttered 'Not yet' from Ace and continued. "Whitebeard knew my grandmother and is helping me out by letting my stay aboard for a few weeks. So any pointers for surviving a month at sea among the crew of an Emperor would be greatly appreciated."
The rest of breakfast was spent listening to Skull indulge you with his pirate knowledge. Deuce would chime in every so often, as would Ace. However, Deuce was much more interested in how effortlessly you captured the attention of his former captain. You weren't even talking to him and yet he was hanging off your every word. The blue haired man took a sip of his drink and smirked. Yeah, Ace was so whipped.
After breakfast, Ace had asked you about any strengths that you thought could prove useful during your time here. For a second, you had drawn a blank. You lacked any skills that could make you a decent pirate. You didn't know how to fight, you didn't know how to read a map and you didn't know a thing about how to upkeep a pirate ship. What skills you did have were: limited medical knowledge, basic cooking knowledge, and your knowledge of future events. That's really all you had going for you at the moment.
He wasn't really surprised, but you needed to start somewhere and no matter how much Ace wished he could stay by your side for the entire month, he had his own responsibilities. So, that's how to both of you found yourselves in the kitchen sometime after lunch.
The second that the both you entered the kitchen, a chorus of displeased cooks made it known that Ace was not welcome in here. He spluttered as you quirked an eyebrow at him. Ace looked between you and them before he held both of his hands up in defense. "I'm not going to touch anything, we're just looking for Thatch."
"I'm over here!" A voice called out from the other side of the kitchen.
Ignoring the side-eyes, Ace ushered you over to the 4th Division commander. Thatch looked up from the pot that he was stirring. His eyes squinted at Ace. "Didn't I ban you from the kitchen?"
Ace shrugged. "Maybe, maybe not. Anyways, my friend here is trying to find something they can do to help around here and we were hoping they could shadow you for a few days?"
Thatch eyed you and then picked up a tasting spoon and held it out for you. "If they can tell me what this soup needs."
You took the spoon and stepped up to his side to taste the soup. 'Oh my god this is so good.' You thought as the taste of Broccoli Cheddar Soup stayed on your tongue. Thinking for a second, you nodded and looked at Thatch. "I'd add some finely chopped carrots and maybe just a bit more pepper."
It must have been the right thing to say as Thatch hummed in approval. "Alright, they can stay. But you cannot. Out of my kitchen, Portgas." He pointed to the door.
Ace's mouth dropped. "You're so mean to me. Can't I at least try the soup before I go." His hand reached out to grab another spoon before you lightly smacked his hand away with your own spoon.
"You heard the man. Out!" You couldn't conceal the grin at his look of betrayal.
"Is that like your favorite word today- wait don't point it at me, I'm going." He held his hands up in mock surrender as he took a few steps back. "And just remember who you're sharing a room with this month."
Your cheeks burned as you watched him exit the kitchen. Looking back at Thatch, he raised an eyebrow. "You're staying in his room?"
"It's not like that! Can you just show me around the kitchen please."
"Of course……so are you guys sharing a bed?"
"No comment."
Over the next couple of days you settled into a bit of a routine. You'd wake up on your side of the bed - which a pillow barrier had been agreed upon due to Ace's tendency to cuddle- and Ace would share some clothes with you. Then, breakfast together in the mess hall -which during meal times, you would make sure to sit far from Teach- and then you would part ways with Ace to shadow Thatch until dinner. So far, you've decided that Thatch is probably your favorite person on this ship. Sorry Ace. Not only was he a fantastic cook but he was also fun to be around.
Most of the time.
It just so happened that Thatch loved to tease. He especially loved to tease you about Ace; you had repeatedly told him that you guys were just friends but that didn't deter him one bit. In fact, it only encouraged him.
Right now, you were whisking batter for dessert. Thatch was peering over your shoulder and nodding to himself. "You know, you're pretty good at whisking. Especially whisking Ace off his feet. I think he talks about you just as much as he does his little brother."
You groaned as you turned to face him, a faint blush gathered on your cheeks. "Did you seriously put me on whisking duty just to make that pun. Nobody whisked anyone off their feet."
"Hm. The crew seems to think differently, my friend." Thatch smirked as he moved past you. Not before uttering that he did in fact put you on whisking duty for the sole purpose of that pun with you rolling your eyes in response.
Honestly, you can't really blame them for thinking along those lines. To everyone else, you've been here less than a week and you were already sharing a bed with the second division commander. To you, you've known Ace for weeks now and felt entirely comfortable around him. He was the closest friend you've had in years.
Your whisking slowed as your thoughts traced back to your world. It had been almost a week since you stepped through the mirror. You wondered if anyone noticed your absence. Work definitely would notice and you were certain that you'd no longer be employed by the time you got back. Any friends you still had had been neglected since your grandmothers health deteriorated and after her passing. The same thoughts had been floating in your mind for the past few days. But you had to go back eventually…didn't you?
A boisterous laugh brought you back to the present and your shoulders tensed as you realized who had entered the kitchen. Sure enough, clapping Thatch on the shoulder was none other than the pirate you've been avoiding, Marshall D. Teach. Taking a deep breath, you resumed your whisking and tried to keep out of his line of sight.
Too bad that you have pretty rotten luck.
"Well, I don't believe we've been properly introduced, Greenhorn."
Your eyes slid up to the man who came up behind you. The way he practically loomed over you sent a chill down your spine. Why was everyone in this world obscenely tall anyways? You hid your disdain behind a polite smile. "No, no we haven't." You made no move to introduce yourself though.
"Zehahaha! No need to be so shy. I don't bite." He winked and you had to stop yourself from grimacing in response. "I'll go first; The names Teach. Your turn."
You reluctantly told him your name and hoped that he'd leave you alone. He did not. Instead, he kept talking.
"You know, I have been a bit curious-"
The call of your name has never sounded so wonderful. Peeking his head through the open door was Ace, who smiled when he caught your attention. Though, his eyes narrowed at your uncomfortable body language and how your shoulders sagged in relief when you saw him. You didn't even excuse yourself as you put down your bowl and rushed over to your savior.
"Thatch, I'll be back in a few!" You called over your shoulder.
Thatch had also been watching the interaction with curious eyes. Upon seeing you heading off with Ace, a teasing smirk stretched across his face. "Make good decisions! Wrap it before you tap it!" His only response was being flicked off simultaneously as you both disappeared through the doorway.
Watching the scene before him, Teach internally scowled. His initial thoughts on you remained the same. You were very odd….and maybe a bit rude. From what he's noticed over that past few days, it was apparent that you were avoiding him and only him. There was definitely something strange about you.
When you had entered the hallway, you grabbed Ace's arm to lead him out onto the deck. Once outside, you let go of his arm. He said nothing and only watched you questioningly as you rolled your shoulders.
"So, what did you need me for?" You asked after a beat of silence.
"Huh?…Oh! Some of the other commanders are here and I wanted to introduce you. Is that alright with you?" He trailed off.
Enthusiastically, you nodded. "I would love to meet some more new faces. I was needing a break from the kitchen anyways."
"About that," Ace glanced back where you two had came from and back to you. "Were you okay back there? You looked pretty tense when Teach was talking with you. Did he say something?"
"Oh that? It was nothing. I just get a weird vibe around Teach is all." You waved off his concerns.
Ace tilted his head slightly as he observed you. He let out a hum before he shrugged. "If you say so, but if he does say or do anything just let me know, okay?"
"I will. Now, who am I meeting?"
In your head, you just assumed that the whole crew lived on the Moby Dick. The ship was massive enough so surely the whole crew could fit. Actually being on the ship though, you suppose it would be a bit cramped with over a thousand men. You mentally shivered at the thought of what the crews quarters would look like.
The reality was that The Moby Dick was the main ship with Whitebeard and four Commanders. Marco and Thatch were the only commanders who weren't in a rotation. Ace and Izou were the other two currently on board. You'd met the 16th division commander earlier in the week when he helped you find your way to the bathroom. He had raised an eyebrow at your disheveled morning hair and that you were wearing Ace's clothes before promptly pointing you in the right direction.
There were also four slightly smaller ships which had been dubbed "the Mini Mobys'". Each ship held three commanders along with their divisions. One of the Mini Mobys' would sail alongside the Moby Dick for a month or two before it would switch out with another one. Special occasions would call for all of the ships and commanders to be reunited. Honestly, all of this information only made you want to ask questions.
But questions could wait.
Ace was currently waving at a man wearing a ruffed outfit who appeared in similar height to you guys, if not slightly taller. Finally, someone who didn't tower over you. He also appeared to be a bit younger than you expected. Of course, in this world, nothing is ever as it seems. He enthusiastically matched Ace's wave and bounded over.
"Heya, Ace!"
"Haruta! I have someone I want you to meet." Ace introduced you to who you now know as Haruta. Your friend slung an arm over your shoulder and brought you in close. Your cheeks heated up at the close proximity as you gave a small wave.
"Ah, Ace's friend. I've heard about you, it's nice to put a face to the name. I'm Haruta, Commander of the Twelfth Division." Oh no, not another person who was going to tease you. Whatever happened to platonic relationships. Haruta held a fist out.
"Only good things I hope. It's nice to meet you." Not to leave him hanging, you gave him a fist bump.
"Oh yeah, Thatch told me-Oomph!" The warmth beside you vanished as Ace sprang forward to stop the rest of Haruta's sentence. You raised an eyebrow as Ace turned his head towards you from where he was covering the other commanders mouth.
"You know, I still wanna introduce you to Vista and Jozu so we're gonna have to cut this short. Plus, Haruta's probably got a lot of stuff to do. Right?" Turning back to Haruta with a pointed glance, Ace removed his hand.
Haruta had a teasing grin waiting in response. "Yeah, I'm absolutely swamped. I'll catch you guys at dinner though."
With a pat to Ace's shoulder, Haruta wandered off. You kinda wanted to know what else he was gonna say. It didn't occur to you that your appearance was a big enough deal to warrant gossip between commanders. Ace's cutting him off also left you confused. What could Thatch have possibly said to warrant that reaction?
"What was that about?" You prodded as you both walked side by side.
"What was what about?" Was Ace's response as he searched around the crowded deck. Oh so he was going to play dumb.
"So we're ignoring that you practically pounced on Haruta to shut him up? Not suspicious at all, by the way." You pointed out.
"I have no idea what you're talking about. Ah! There they are, come on." Reaching down, Ace grabbed your hand and lead you to a group of men.
Compared to everyone on this ship, you were minuscule. Two of the men, you faintly recognized as other division commanders. One was about double your height with a curly black mustache and also smelled like roses. He also had two swords sheathed upon his back. The other man was at least triple your height with a long face and oddly patterned facial hair. Vista the Flower Blade and Diamond Jozu, you recalled.
Vista was the one to spot Ace first. "Ah, there's our local spitfire." He called out while a trace of a smile appeared on Jozu's face.
Ace beamed. "Vista, Jozu! It's been a few weeks! I actually wanted you to meet someone." He gestured towards you.
You gave a slight wave and introduced yourself. "It's an honor to meet you both, I've heard a little bit about you guys."
"Oh, we've heard about you as well. I take it that you've gathered that Thatch loves to gossip?" Vista subtly glanced from you to Ace then back to you.
"And that he loves to mettle in other peoples business? Yeah, he's worse than a teenager." You grinned, happy to poke fun at Thatch for once.
Jozu shook his head in mock disappointment. "He is too nosy for his own good."
"Tell me about it. It's like his pompadour is full of secrets." That one got a round of laughs from the group.
Ace nudged you. "Good one."
"I like you, you'll fit in just fine with us." Vista smiled and pat you on your shoulder, which you're ashamed to admit that it made you stumble just a bit.
Any further conversation was cut off by the sound of an alarm. You flinched at the loud noise as everyone around you seemed to know exactly what to do and jumped into action. A hand rested on your shoulder and from the warmth, you could tell it was Ace's.
A curse left Vista as the swordsman turned toward Jozu. "Those stubborn marines must have followed us from that last island."
"Wait, so is that like an enemy alarm?" You questioned, turning to Ace.
He nodded. "Yeah we have a few different alarms. It lets everyone know which position they're needed at. There's one for marines, other pirate crews, storm warnings, etc. There's even one for a man overboard, which may or may not be because of me."
"None of you look very concerned." You gestured to the commanders. If no one else was going to panic, then you certainly weren't going to. Even if alarms of any kind made you a bit anxious.
They all looked at each other and shrugged. Jozu was the one to speak. "Marines are pretty much canon fodder. Light work for a crew like ours, unless it's an admiral."
Ace squeezed your shoulder. "You, my friend, get to finally see us in action."
"And what am I supposed to do?"
"Stay here and watch me-us decimate this fleet. It'll take like ten minutes." He smirked as he stepped away from you and tipped his hat, ignoring his slip up.
Vista laughed. "Ten? I could take them out in five minutes."
"Okay, you're on-" Ace was interrupted as Haurta rushed past with his hand on his sword sheath.
"Sorry guys! I'll take them all out by the time you guys get there!" He cackled. That prompted both Vista and Ace to look at each other before racing after the brunet, leaving you behind with Jozu.
"Is this normal?" You looked up the giant of a man.
"Pretty much. Competitions and bet pools are also pretty popular around here." The third division commander crossed his arms.
"Interesting….hey can I make bet?"
last part | next part
a/n: WE'RE BACK!!! i promise not to abandon this fic even if i loose motivation sometimes. Since its been awhile, I'll have an enchanted masterlist linked at the top if you want to refresh/catch up. Also don't forget to like/reblog/comment, it really helps keep me motivated!
: ̗̀➛masterlist
જ⁀➴taglist: @kanekisheart @lxpofthegods @starrlo0ver @insomniacvoidsstuff @lucky-whispers @trouble-sistar @sluttysirennn @itsmugiwarasfault @ocean-mochi @s4-mmy @liyahpoohh @committingcrimes-2047 @asherrosesmokey @lilink @matchalilly @aionions-iqlauk
saw quite a lot of tiktoks say this, this is canon
"Zuko... Zuko. Z-zuzu—!"
Thrust.
"I told you not to call me that either," your husband rasped, both eyes scrunched as he drove his hips forward into you in an attempt to distract him from the sudden bout of disgust he felt at the nickname. Your body rocked in tandem with his, a similar expression — one of utmost pleasure — on your face.
But there was something else swirling with the blissed-out look in your eyes — confusion, maybe even concern.
Zuko's thrusts halted almost immediately, eyes slowly but surely opening. But even the warmth of your cunt couldn't stop him from rutting his increasingly hot length inside of you.
Even if they were micro-thrusts that you could barely feel.
"What... what is it? Why are you looking at me?"
But you weren't looking at Zuko — not directly, at least. Your eyes were drifting upwards, up at the white tendrils of smoke that were wafting off of your husbands body and hair.
"...are you close?"
Zuko's face soured immediately.
It was comical how fast his singular brow dropped, the warm hue on his cheeks spreading up to his ears and tinging them with a charming shade of red. The nerve. Had you not been his wife, he would've—
"No," he spat, adamant he wasn't close to blowing a load inside you barely three thrusts in. "We've just started. C-can't be close already."
Which was bullshit. Total, utter, bullshit.
Zuko knew it, too, with the way his balls were beginning to seize up on him. The ache in his groin was growing all too familiar, and you could both feel the temperature in the bedroom increasing drastically.
Sue him, his wife's pussy felt obscenely good.
"You're close, Zu. Can feel you— fuck, growing hotter inside of me." you murmured weakly, fanning your hand in the air to get rid of some of the steam. The minute ruttings from the firelord had ceased completely the moment you said that.
Seriously?
"Can't be. You're lying again."
"Am not," you retorted, voice choked. "It-it's so hot, Zuko. You're burning."
At that point, you were panting, hands flat against Zuko's sweaty stomach that tensed further under your wandering touch. He wouldn't budge at your measly attempts of pushing him off, but the second you flinched at the searing heat blooming across your palm, he lifted his bulky self off of you.
A war was fighting within you — putting any of the former battles Zuko had ever fought before to absolute shame.
Should you let your husband stave off the sex just so he could take a second to cool down, or should you have clenched your aching pussy, milk him for all he was worth and risk a hypothetical third degree burn?
Stupidly, you chose the latter option. A breathy whimper slipped out from between your kiss-bitten lips as you clenched your walls to keep him snug inside, eliciting a hiss from the man above.
"No, don't do that. You'll... it'll hurt you." Your husband mirrored your actions but more carefully, fingertips dancing against your bare stomach in an attempt to keep you settled. "I'll come back, always do."
"So empty, Zuko," you complained somewhat half-heartedly. "I don't like how empty I feel. You know I don't, but you keep working yourself up, 'n we keep stopping. All I want to do is feel good with you."
You could only shuffle into a seated position, fanning your hand again towards the direction of his face. Unable to touch you, Zuko simply watched through brooding eyes — looking like a kicked dog at the prospect of not filling you up tonight the way you deserved. When you huffed out a laugh, ignoring the emptiness down below, so did he. Kind of, as much as warrior like he could muster.
"I'm... sorry. Maybe we should keep a washcloth on standby," Zuko suggested somwhat softly as he tried catching his breath with you. Steam continued to radiate off of his hunched form funnily enough, drawing out a soft grin from you as you pushed his long hair back over his sturdy shoulders.
"That'd look funny," you teased, running a nail down his middle, all the way down to the base of his cock. Zuko's jaw clenched, leaking erection still standing strong and straight. "Watching the water evaporate right. Back. Off. Of. You."
Each word was punctuated with a flick of your wrist after you had experimentally wrapped your fingers around your husbands length — albeit somewhat loosely in case he was still hot to the touch.
Zuko had calmed down somewhat, distracted by the conversation. But the second your fingers met his skin, the steam came back, drifting off into nowhere. It wasn't hard to approach dangerously close to climax when his beloveds nude body was before him, marked with the physical evidence of love itself.
Withdrawing again, you stifled a grin and shook your head. "If only I could find a waterbender... Katara maybe—"
Warning: vulgar language, smut (literally right at the beginning 😀), gossiping maids, its 2 am pls excuse any grammar mistakes...
Synopsis: You and Zuko are in your early years of marriage. You’re a young couple with copious amounts of energy, when you two are alone intimacy is bound to happen. But what happens when you get a whisper of complaints from the palace workers. (2.3 k wc)
Your toes curled tightly, digging into the bed as your back arched off the silk sheets. Your eyes rolled back, an overwhelming wave of pleasure shooting through your body.
Your husband’s head was buried deep between your thighs, your legs thrown over his shoulders. His hands gripped your hips firmly as his tongue worked against you. Your breathing was labored, this was your fourth orgasm of the night, and he hadn’t given you a single break.
He pulled back with a quiet gasp for air, his fingers now taking place of his tongue, steady and relentless.
"Come on baby, I know you're close gimme one more and i’ll let you go, promise." You whimpered gripping the sheets below you as your body tensed from the pleasure.
He pressed a kiss to your thigh before diving back between your thighs mouth focusing on your swollen sensitive bud with renewed hunger. A sharp gasp tore from your lips at the sudden rush of pleasure.
Your lower stomach tightened, your hands moving from the sheets to his dark hair, gripping tightly.
“Zu–Zuko, please… I’m close!”
He kept the same pace. His amber eyes flicked up to watch you, hungry and intent, while one hand held your hips in place the other busy with two fingers shoved inside you pressed against your sensitive spot.
Your breathing quickened, your moans rising higher, more desperate.Your eyes squeezed shut so tightly you saw stars.
“Please— f-fuck, I’m close, I—” Your words broke into a mix of a groan and a cry as your body finally gave in, the climax hitting you all at once as warm liquid squirted out pooling below you. Zuko didn’t stop, he helped you through it, letting you ride out every last wave.
As it passed, your grip on him loosened. Your chest rose and fell as you struggled to steady your breathing.
When you finally looked down, his cheeks were flushed deep red. His bun had come loose, strands falling around his face. His lips were swollen and glistening as his chin dripped your juices. His expression low and satisfied. He looked unfairly hot like that.
His breathing was heavy as a tired smirk tugged at his lips.
“You did well, baby.”He peppered a few soft kisses along your inner thighs before pushing himself up and disappearing into the private bathing room.
You closed your eyes, feeling the adrenaline fade as exhaustion crept in. Sleep was just beginning to pull you under when a warm sensation between your legs made you jolt slightly.
“Shh… it’s okay. I’m just cleaning you up.”
You were too weak to respond, your body completely spent.
At some point during the night, Zuko moved you, stripped the bed of the ruined sheets, and settled back beside you, pulling a thick quilt over both of you.
The last thing you felt was the warmth of his body pressed against yours, soft kisses trailing along your shoulder and temple as sleep finally took you.
•••
The next morning, you woke up still wrapped in his arms, your head resting on his chest as you listened to his steady heartbeat. You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his chest.
Ever so gently, you shifted, propping your chin against him so you could watch him sleep. He looked so sweet and peaceful like this it was almost impossible to see him as the man who had ruined you the night before.
You giggled to yourself as you began pressing more kisses against his warm skin. That seemed to stir him. He took a deep breath, his eyes fluttering open, and the moment they found you, he smiled.
“You’re awake earlier than normal. I figured you’d be out for the rest of the day,” he teased.
You rolled your eyes. “Ha, you think you’re that good?” you shot back, already knowing you’d just gotten yourself into trouble.
A look of mock offense crossed his face before he suddenly flipped you onto your back. His bare chest pressed against yours, strong arms caging you against the bed.
“You’re telling me you can go again? Already?”
You smiled, craning your neck up just enough to brush a teasing kiss against his lips.
You felt him twitch against your bare thigh, and you smirked into the kiss, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him impossibly closer.
His hands slid down your body, gripping your thighs and guiding them around his waist as he pressed himself against your bare core with intention. You could feel him getting harder as a soft gasp left your lips.
You were deep in your morning make out session when a knock sounded at the door.
“Fire Lord Zuko, you have a meeting with the general and urgent letters from the other nations. You are needed in the council room immediately.” That voice belong to his annoying Grand Steward who somehow knew how to ruin the mood every time, always managing to find you two when you run off.
You were reluctantly pulled back to reality. Zuko broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. You let out a small giggle, your hand settling against his chest.
“Come on, maybe we can have breakfast together before you have to attend endless meetings today.”
You gave him one last kiss before he rolled off of you.
Before either of you could react, the doors slid open, startling you both. You scrambled to grab the blanket, covering your naked body only to realize it was your Head Handmaid, Akani. She was an older woman who was like a second mother figure to you, she always wore a scowl despite having a heart of gold. Once your mother’s head handmaiden, she had come with you when you became the Fire Lady.
Behind her stood your three ladies-in-waiting, along with three of Zuko’s personal attendants, who remained turned away by the door.
Akani approached the bed, holding out a robe. She handed it to Zuko, her expression unreadable. You knew she had been doing this for years, but that didn’t make it any less embarrassing.
Zuko awkwardly cleared his throat. Akani rolled her eyes, gesturing for the girls to turn around. They did so, giggling quietly.
He quickly stood, wrapping the robe around himself, moving so fast it was almost comical.
As he left, the women continued to giggle amongst themselves. You lay there, utterly embarrassed as Akani fixed you with a look.
“Akani—”
“A bath, shall we?”
You sighed, nodding.
•••
Later that evening, you were headed to your own separate meeting. The New Year’s festival was around the corner, and you were in charge of planning and hosting. You didn’t feel like putting on your formal wear, so you asked to be dressed in a robe with muted reds adorned with gold stitching, cinched at the waist with a matching belt and few pieces of jewelry.
As you walked down the hall, you tried to keep a straight face, but your calves and thighs burned with each step you took. You made a mental note to get back at Zuko later that night.
As you approached the door, your attention was caught by the fairly loud whispers of the servants inside. You held up your hand, stopping the guard from announcing your presence.
A young woman’s voice spoke, “They were so loud last night the guards heard them all the way down the hall.” A few giggles followed.
“I heard them a few days ago in the throne room Lord Zuko was incredibly loud. He was basically screaming her name.”
“I’m surprised she’s not pregnant yet. They do it any chance they get I don’t know how she’s not broken in two.”
“The laundry maids say they have to change their bedding so often, it’s ridiculous. Sezei says her forearms have grown three times in size because of how much washing they have to do.” Your entire body began to burn with embarrassment.
“No way!” another girl giggled. “One guard claims he caught them naked in the river near the waterfall, late at night.” Gasps erupted throughout the room.
“They say the flames throughout the castle will flicker uncontrollably when Lord Zuko—”
Akani barged past you angrily, sliding the doors open. “Have you all lost your senses, speaking of the Lord and Lady in such a manner?!”
You swallowed thickly, gripping your long sleeves in your fists. Your body was frozen in discomfort. The girls squealed like children caught by their parents, dropping to the floor, bowing and apologizing profusely. You dismissed them with a silent wave and they scurried away.
The meeting was a blur you couldn’t focus, not even a little. Their words clung to you, replaying over and over in your mind. All you could think about was Zuko and you.
You were from a noble family. You knew servants gossiped it was inevitable, but never like this. Never about you, and never in such detail.
Yet somehow, that made the burn of embarrassment settle into something deeper… something harder to ignore.
•••
As the sun set, you went outside to clear your mind but that didn’t help. With each servant or guard you passed, you found yourself wondering who had witnessed you and Zuko’s more…intimate moments.
You couldn’t even be mad. The two of you had been reckless when it came to your desires.
As the warm wind brushed against your cheeks, familiar hands gently wrapped around your waist. Your body subconsciously relaxed into him.
“Hey, beautiful.” Zuko trailed kisses up your neck. You smiled, tilting your head to give him more access until you noticed the guard across the courtyard. You took a sharp breath and gently pushed him away.
“We shouldn’t do this here,” you whispered, looking down in shame.
Zuko tilted his head, confused. “What’s the matter?” You sighed, taking his hand and leading him back inside to your bedroom.
After explaining the fiasco from earlier in the day, Zuko sat in front of you in silence. His cheeks held a faint pink tint as he sank into thought.
“I never thought about anyone hearing us. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you…”
“No, I— ugh. In the moment, I was ashamed and embarrassed I could barely move. Akani had to come to my defense, but… I don’t know.” You dragged your hands down your face, trying to find the right words.
Zuko chuckled softly, reaching out to take your wrist. You looked at him with a pout.
“Listen, if you’re bothered by what they think, I can have them dismissed while we participate in our…activities.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “No need. It’s just— it was just jarring to hear it firsthand.”
He gave you a gentle smile, cupping your cheek in one hand. You happily leaned into his warmth.
“You know… if they want to listen, let’s give them a show.” He smirked, a mischievous glint in his eye.
You sat there, giving it some thought. You had always been known as a poised, intelligent lady from a noble family— well respected, well mannered. What if word got back to your parents about how undignified you’d been behaving? You would be mortified the next time you visited.
Sex was meant to be shared between partners— husband and wife, not….oh fuck it. You were already married, so what the hell?
A small smile crept onto your lips as you nodded in agreement. Fine, if they wanted to eavesdrop then let them hear EVERYTHING.
•••
From late that night into the early morning, you spent hours tangled together, making love. Your sweaty bodies intertwined kissing, biting, pulling, teasing— your lewd sounds echoing faintly through the palace. From the bed to the floor, the balcony to the wall, neither of you stopped until exhaustion finally claimed you both, and you fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
The next morning, you woke with a soft smile, draped across your husband’s chest, the two of you tangled in sheets on the floor.
“Morning, sleepy head,” he murmured, a smile tugging at his lips though his eyes remained closed.
“I’m hungry… wanna eat?” He nodded lazily.
Your morning had been perfect so far. You dressed yourself in quiet before joining him for breakfast.
It was simple but divine light fish with rice, fresh fruit, and hot tea. The two of you spoke easily, drifting from meetings, to the New Year’s Festival, to whatever leisure the day might allow. You were happy (sore) and completely worry free.
Your handmaiden, Akani, entered the dining area, your ladies just behind her.
“Good morning, my lady. My lord,” she greeted, bowing gracefully.
You smiled. “Morning, Akani. Morning, girls.”
There was a small silence, her gaze lingered a moment too long before she straightened. A faint, almost knowing smile tugging at her lips.
“I trust you both slept well?”
You opened your mouth to answer, then paused. Something in her tone made it clear she knew. She always knew.
Your eyes narrowed slightly. “…we did.”
A quiet shuffle came from behind her one of your ladies suddenly very interested in the floor. Akani continued smoothly, “I’ve taken the liberty of having your chambers thoroughly refreshed this morning.”
Your brow lifted. “Refreshed?”
“Yes, my lady.” A beat. “Very thoroughly.”
Heat rushed to your face, your hand instinctively lifting toward your neck only to freeze when you felt the faint tenderness there. Beside you, Zuko picked up his cup suddenly taking interest in his tea swirling around. You turned your head just enough to catch the faintest hint of red creeping up his ears.
They heard. Good.
Akani’s eyes flicked between you both, entirely too composed. “May I speak freely?” You nodded in approval.
“I do hope your shared enthusiasm did not leave you both too fatigued for the day ahead.”
You pressed your lips together, fighting a smile. Zuko however, straightened slightly, setting his cup down with forced calm.
“Thank you for your concern. We are perfectly capable of attending our duties.”
There was a brief pause then, almost imperceptibly, his chin lifted just a fraction. You bit the inside of your cheek, barely containing your amusement.
Akani inclined her head. “Of course, my lady.” She reached forward to adjust your hairpiece, that same knowing smile lingering, before bowing and taking her leave. You leaned back slightly in your seat, finally letting your satisfied smile slip free as you reached for your tea.
DERLORDE SACRIFICING HIMSELF TO SAVE THE WORLD AND AVERY AND SEEING HIMSELF AS A LOST CAUSE, A COUNTDOWN TO AN INEVITABLE INSANTIY
AVERY WORRYING ABOUT DERLORDE MORE THAN HIMSELF DESPITE HIM BEING MOST VULNERABLE TO THE KING
DERLORDE BEING WILLING TO DO ANYRHING TO SAVE AVERY INFLUDING TRICKING HIM AND BETRAYING HIS TRUST AS MUCH AS HE NEEDS TO STOP HIM
AVERY RISKING SUMMONING THE KING BECAUSE HE CANT LET DERLORDE SACRIFICE HIMSELF
DERLORDE KNOWING AVERY AS WELL AS HE KNOWS HIMSELF
DERLORDE IMMEDIATELY RECOGNIZING THE FAKE AVERY VS THE REAL ONE BECAUSE HE KNOWS AVERY. HE KNOWS HIM.
DERLORDE CALLING THE FAKE AVERY AN IDIOT AND THE REAL ONE SPECIAL
DERLORDE KNOWING EXACTLY WHAT TO SAY TO RESTORE AVERY’S IDENTITY
DERLORDE ASKING WHY AVERY WOULD BE WILLING TO RISK HIS LIFE FOR HIM WHEN AVERY DOESNT EVEN KNOW HIM, DERLORDE KNOWIMG EVERYTHING ABOUT AVERY BUT HE CANT FIGURE HIM OUT FULLY.
DERLORDE BEING WILLING TO SACRIFICE HIMSELF FOR AVERY BECAUSE HE KNOWS HIM BUT NOT UNDERDTANDING WHY AVERY WOULD DO THAT FOR HIM SINCE THEY ARE STRANGERS
AVERY IMMEDIATELY MAKING SAVING DERLORDE HIS ONLY MOTIVATION DESPITE HIM NEEDING TO BE SAVED WAY MORE
BOTH OF THEM BEING WILLIMG TO SACRIFICE THEMSELVES TO SAVE THE OTHER
AVERY SEEING HIMSELF AS NOT ENOUGH AND DERLORDE SEEING HIM AS SPECIAL
DERLORDE SEEING HIMSELF AS A LOST CAUSE AND AVERY SEEING HIM AS IMPORTANT
THESE TWO FUCKERS ARE THE MOST SELF SACRIFICIAL IDIOTS I KNOW SOMEONE NEEDS TO PUT BOTH ME AND THEM DOWN WITH A DOUBLE BARREL SHOTGGUN
summary: the lights of Konoha glowed soft and golden against the dark, as if the village, too, was holding its breath. Two years had passed since the war ended, since peace settled like dust in the cracks of old wounds—and yet, something within him remained restless. You had been at his side through it all, patient and bright, always reaching with hands he wasn’t sure he deserved. And tonight, under a sky laced with stars and smoke, something long buried stirred quietly awake. Not with urgency. But with intention. And it would be your touch—steady, warm, unshaken—that would teach Naruto Uzumaki how to want, how to feel, and how to be loved for the first time.
pairing: naruto x female reader
genre: smut (with plot)
word count: 11,4k
warnings: explicit sexual content, first time (Naruto), soft smut, soft!dom reader, emotional intimacy, heavy romantic tension, detailed sensuality, mutual consent, aftercare, canon divergence (post-war AU), alcohol mention (light), suggestive themes, mild language, no warning but Jiraiya is alive in this timeline!
The path up to the compound was lined with paper lanterns, their warm glow pulsing softly in the breeze like fire trapped in silk. The night had settled in deep—thick with cicada hum and the murmur of distant laughter—but the air still carried the heat of the day, clinging faintly to his skin beneath his jacket. Naruto walked beside you, his hands shoved in his pockets, his shoulders just brushing yours as you moved together through the dark. You hadn’t said much on the way here. You didn’t need to. That was something he’d come to love about being with you—how quiet didn’t feel like absence. Just space to breathe.
Still, there were things he hadn't said. Things that pressed under his tongue like too much salt.
He glanced sideways, catching the way your hair moved in the wind, the soft edge of your profile lit briefly by a drifting lantern. You were nervous—he could feel it in the way you tapped your thumb against your thigh, barely noticeable. But more than that, he could feel how aware you were of him. Like every inch between your bodies was being measured, judged, waited on.
Maybe that was what made his stomach twist. That sense of waiting. As if you were holding the door open for him, and he just… couldn’t step through.
He should’ve. You were his. You chose him—every morning when you made tea, every night when you leaned against him on the couch, every smile that lingered a little too long. But knowing that didn’t make it easier.
Naruto didn’t have the kind of past that let him understand softness. Not the slow kind. Not the kind that meant touch me like this because I trust you to not break me. He’d fought for everything—shouted for it, bled for it, clawed his way into it. But intimacy didn’t listen to battle cries. It asked for silence. For courage of a different kind.
And you… you had loved before. You had lived before. With other people, in other beds, behind doors he couldn’t open. He didn’t resent that. Not really. But it haunted him in strange ways. Made his hands hesitate. Made him second guess every time you leaned in, every time you looked at him like he could be more than a good man. Like he could be yours. He didn’t want to disappoint you. He didn’t want to try and come up short.
So instead, he smiled. He always smiled.
“Looks like we’re late,” he said, scratching the back of his head as the compound came into view—lights strung across trees and wooden beams, voices rising in half-drunken rhythm. “Bet Choji’s already gone through the first two trays.” You smiled at that. “I’m more worried about Kiba challenging someone to a drinking contest again.” He snorted. “Only person dumber than him in that regard is me.”
You didn’t deny it. Just reached for his wrist, your fingers brushing skin, and gently tugged him toward the open gate.
The warmth hit him like a wave—music, motion, firelight, the smell of grilled skewers and something sweet and fried. Familiar faces turned toward you both. Sakura was the first to reach you, her pink hair caught in a delicate braid, loose strands framing her face.
“There you are,” she said, lifting a sake cup. “I thought maybe you bailed.” Naruto grinned. “What? Me? Never!” “Mmhm.” She eyed you with a soft smile. “You look nice. I love that color on you.” You thanked her, as Sakura turned back toward the cluster of friends near the low tables. “Grab something to drink before Shikamaru finishes all the good stuff.”
Naruto nodded, watching her disappear into the crowd. His hand hovered near yours again. Still not quite holding.
The music shifted—something brighter now, plucked strings layered with low percussion—and the crowd pulsed around them like a tide. Naruto’s hand dropped back to his side, knuckles brushing the edge of your sleeve, and he exhaled slowly, letting the sound disappear into the clamor. You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to. The space between you still hummed with that unspoken tension, warm and quiet, like a promise waiting for the right moment to take shape.
“Yo,” a voice called—lazy, familiar.
Naruto turned just in time to see Shikamaru approaching, hands stuffed in his pockets, a half-finished dango stick hanging from his mouth. His hair was slightly undone, his vest unzipped halfway like he hadn’t bothered finishing the thought. “Didn’t think you’d actually show,” Shikamaru said around the stick, then pulled it free and tossed it into a nearby bin. “I owe Ino 500 ryō.” Naruto scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Shikamaru shrugged. “Just figured you’d bail for some last-minute hero stuff. Or oversleep. Same difference.”
You hid a smile behind your glass.
“I was on time,” Naruto said, puffing his chest slightly. “We just walked.” “To build dramatic tension?” Shikamaru offered, deadpan.
“Exactly.”
Shikamaru’s gaze drifted to you for a moment, and whatever joke he was about to make softened. “You look good,” he said, voice lower now, not flirting—just sincere.
You thanked him, and he gave a little nod before glancing at Naruto again. “You should dance with her before Lee gets to her first.” “Before what?” Naruto asked—but it was too late.
“SPRINGTIME OF CELEBRATION!” came the bellow, and Rock Lee bounded into view, cheeks already ruddy from whatever concoction he’d been drinking. His arms were wide open like he was about to hug the entire night itself. Naruto winced. “My youthful comrades!” Lee cried. “You’ve made it! Truly, this night shall echo through the valleys of time!” He seized Naruto’s forearm in a bone-rattling grip, shaking it with far too much enthusiasm. “We just got here,” Naruto managed, “so maybe don’t shatter my elbow—?”
“Nonsense!” Lee declared, then turned to you. “And you, radiant blossom of the Hidden Leaf—would you honor me with one dance, just one, before my legs are lost to the flames of eternal motion?”
You blinked, startled. Smiled despite yourself. Before you could answer, a firm hand clapped down on Lee’s shoulder. “Easy there, Lee,” said Might Guy, appearing behind him in matching green, his teeth catching the firelight in a blinding grin. “Let the youth of today set their own rhythm.” Lee nodded solemnly, bowing to you in exaggerated apology. “Forgive me. I was… overcome.”
“You’re forgiven,” you said, eyes dancing. Naruto made a face. “I should’ve definitely overslept.”
Choji wandered over next, carrying two plates piled high with food. “You guys seen Ino?” he asked around a mouthful of rice. Shikamaru sighed. “She’s probably organizing the desserts again. Or yelling at Sai for mislabeling them.” Choji grinned. “She scares me a little.” You tilted your head, amused. “Only a little?” “I mean… respectfully.”
Naruto laughed for real this time, the sound chasing away the weight in his chest for just a moment. This was what he’d fought for. What they all had. This messy, ordinary, beautiful version of peace. But even surrounded by it, his eyes kept flicking to you.
The warmth of the evening curled around the gathering like a soft blanket, drawing the villagers closer beneath the web of lanterns. The chatter thickened, blurred into laughter and lazy melodies as time stretched and bent, slipping slowly from early evening into night. Dishes came and went—plates of honey-glazed chicken, roasted vegetables, bowls of miso and sweet pickled roots. The air grew richer with the scent of grilled meats and rice vinegar, sake heavy in the laughter of those gathered.
You sat near Naruto beneath the edge of the garden canopy, feet tucked beneath you, the firelight painting shifting shadows across your cheek. His fingers were close—resting on the bench between you—but still unmoving, like a promise half-kept. You leaned over to say something to Ino, who had just settled beside you with a fresh drink and a teasing smile, and Naruto let his eyes wander—not just in admiration, though that was certainly part of it. It was something quieter than that. Something more private.
He didn’t want to just look at you. He wanted to feel the space you left behind when you stepped away. The curve of your absence. The warmth your voice left in his chest.
Shikamaru launched into some story about a mission gone sideways, complete with his usual eye-rolling exasperation, and Choji chimed in with food commentary mid-bite. Even Kakashi, half-lounging against a nearby pillar with a cup of something suspiciously purple in hand, was chuckling softly to himself. Naruto smiled and laughed when the group did, but his thoughts kept drifting. Every time you glanced his way, every time your knee pressed slightly against his or your shoulder nudged his arm—he felt it like a silent drumbeat beneath his skin.
You leaned closer at one point, voice low enough that only he could hear. “It’s a nice song,” you said, nodding toward the slow rhythm threading through the night, some old folk tune played by shinobi who’d long since traded swords for strings. He nodded, unsure where to look. Your gaze lingered a beat longer. “Would you dance with me?” There was no pressure in your voice. Just a gentle invitation. A window cracked open.
Naruto’s breath caught. The words were there—I want to. More than anything. But they twisted behind his tongue, knotted in doubt, and he looked away just slightly, as if the firelight had become too bright.
“Maybe in a bit,” he murmured, voice caught somewhere between apology and self-betrayal. You didn’t press. You only nodded, offered a small smile, and turned back to the others—though your posture shifted, the line of your shoulder just a touch more distant.
He hated that he noticed. And more than that, he hated that he didn’t act.
Later, when the sky had melted fully into indigo and stars scattered like embers overhead, Naruto found himself in a lively pocket of the celebration, caught in a half-drunken conversation with Kiba, Lee, and Choji. Kiba was telling a story—loud, animated, his hands moving with every twist and turn—and Naruto laughed along, grateful for the distraction, even if it didn’t quite quiet the guilt sitting heavy in his stomach.
“You remember that mission near the Lightning border?” Kiba was saying, mouth full of skewered meat. “The one where Shino swore the beetle was cursed?” Choji snorted. “I remember you getting chased halfway down a hill by a boar because you thought it was your ninken.” “It was Akamaru!” Kiba protested, clearly offended. Naruto grinned. “Then why were you crying?” “I wasn’t crying. I was strategically retreating.” Laughter rolled through them. Naruto glanced across the courtyard again. You were standing near the lantern arch now, speaking with Ino and Hinata, the three of you haloed in gold. You looked calm. You looked like you belonged in every kind of light.
He’d seen the way your eyes had flicked to the dancing earlier. The way your fingers had idly traced the rim of your cup when no one was speaking. You hadn’t asked again. And he hadn’t offered.
He was still kicking himself when Kiba’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Hey.” Naruto blinked. Kiba followed his gaze. Saw where it landed. Saw you. And for once—he didn’t tease. “You’re gonna hate yourself later if you keep just sitting here,” he said, not unkindly. Naruto didn’t answer. Kiba exhaled, stretched his arms behind his head. “Well then. If you won’t dance with her—” He stood, brushing off his pants. “—I will.”
Naruto’s heart stuttered.
Not out of jealousy. That wasn’t it. It was something colder. Something deeper.
Shame.
Kiba strode toward you with the easy confidence of someone who didn’t second guess the things he wanted. Naruto watched as he approached—said something that made you laugh, motioned toward the music with a playful bow. You looked surprised. Then your gaze flicked briefly to Naruto. You hesitated. He didn’t move.
And so, with a soft smile, you nodded.
Kiba offered his hand, and you took it. They stepped into the lamplight together, and Naruto couldn’t tear his eyes away. Kiba didn’t touch you inappropriately. His hand stayed at a respectful place on your back, his movements easy, light, playful. It wasn’t flirtation. It was a friend offering you what Naruto hadn’t been brave enough to.
And you…
You looked radiant.
Your eyes closed for a moment as the music shifted into something slower. Your hand rested delicately on Kiba’s shoulder, and you followed his rhythm with quiet grace. Naruto felt the ache hit like a dull blade between his ribs. It wasn’t jealousy. It was grief. Grief for the version of the night where he’d said yes.
Kakashi appeared beside him, silent as a shadow, eyes trained on the dancefloor. “I thought you were the bold one,” he said casually, sipping from his strange drink. Naruto didn’t answer. “She asked you first, didn’t she?” “Yeah,” he said, barely above a whisper. Kakashi hummed thoughtfully. “You know, for someone who faced down gods and monsters, you're surprisingly easy to spook.” Naruto grimaced. “It’s not that.” “No?” He hesitated. “I just… I don’t want to mess it up.” Kakashi tilted his head. “By dancing with her?” Naruto ran a hand through his hair. “By not being enough.”
Kakashi was quiet for a moment. Then: “You think love’s about being enough? You think she’s looking at you and thinking about who you’re not?” Naruto stayed silent. “She’s not,” Kakashi said simply. “She’s just thinking about who you are. And whether you’re willing to meet her halfway.”
The words settled like mist, sinking into Naruto’s chest before he could swat them away with a laugh or a shrug. He didn’t answer.
He stepped away from the group without a word.
The garden quieted as he moved past the outer edge, lanternlight fading behind him until only the hush of the trees remained. Here, the world felt stiller. The chatter of voices and clinking of glasses softened into background noise. The sky above opened wide, cloudless and dark, lit only by stars that pulsed in and out of sight like memories.
Naruto exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair. His fingers shook more than he wanted to admit.
“You always were dramatic, brat.”
The voice came from a few steps away, low and gravelly and unmistakable. Naruto turned to find Jiraiya seated on the low wooden fence at the edge of the compound garden, a sake bottle resting beside him, sleeves pushed up, the lines in his face deepened by the flickering torchlight. Naruto blinked. “How long have you been sitting there?”
“Long enough to hear that sigh and wonder if someone broke your heart or stepped on your foot.” Naruto snorted, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Neither. I think I stepped on my own.” Jiraiya chuckled, but not unkindly. “Sounds about right.”
Naruto moved closer and leaned against a post beside his old master, staring up at the stars. For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence was companionable, touched with the quiet hum of insects and distant laughter. “She asked me to dance,” Naruto said finally.
Jiraiya made a sound in his throat. “And you said no?” “I said… maybe later.” Jiraiya took a sip of his sake. “And?” “Later never came.” Another pause. Then Jiraiya tilted his head slightly. “Why?” Naruto shrugged. “Because I was scared.” “Of dancing?”
Naruto gave a tired laugh. “No. Of… what it means. Of screwing it up. Of her realizing I’m not enough. That I don’t know what I’m doing. That maybe I’m not as grown up as she thinks I am.” Jiraiya looked at him for a long moment, then reached for the bottle and poured a second cup, handing it over.
Naruto took it without protest.
“Kid,” Jiraiya said, voice quieter now, “do you think any of us ever know what we’re doing when it comes to love?”
Naruto didn’t respond.
“I’ve written more about it than I care to admit,” Jiraiya went on. “Poems, novels, bad smut with good lines. And you know what I’ve learned? Love doesn’t give a damn how experienced you are. It doesn’t care if you’ve done this before, or if you’ve never set foot on that kind of battlefield.”
Naruto glanced at him.
“It’s not about being perfect,” Jiraiya said. “It’s about showing up anyway. Even when your hands are shaking. Especially then.” Naruto looked back at the sky. The stars didn’t have answers, but they didn’t judge either. “I keep thinking,” he said slowly, “that she’s lived more than I have. That she’s been with other people. That maybe she’s expecting something from me I don’t know how to give.” Jiraiya nodded once, solemn. “Maybe she has. Maybe she is. But here’s the thing: she chose you. She’s still choosing you.” Naruto swallowed. The sake burned a little on the way down, but it grounded him. Anchored him to the moment. “She’s not waiting for you to be anyone else,” Jiraiya said. “She’s waiting for you to see yourself the way she already does.”
Naruto went still. And for a moment, the ache in his chest didn’t feel like fear. It felt like hope.
“She doesn’t need you to be better than the people who came before,” Jiraiya added. “She just wants you to be real with her. Honest. Present. There.”
Naruto closed his eyes. He saw you again—your soft smile, the way your fingers had reached for his earlier, the way your eyes had searched his without pressing. The patience in your silence. The quiet ache in your expression when he looked away. “She deserves more,” he whispered. “She deserves you,” Jiraiya said. “The version that fights for what he wants. Not the one who runs because he’s afraid of being seen.”
Naruto opened his eyes. And this time, they were clear.
He turned to Jiraiya, offered the empty cup back. “Thanks.” Jiraiya smirked. “Don’t thank me yet. Go tell her.” Naruto nodded. Pushed off the post. Started back toward the lights. Then paused. Looked back once.
“She really is the one,” he said softly. Jiraiya’s grin softened, just a little. “I know.”
The stars burned quietly above Konoha, scattered like forgotten prayers across the dark velvet sky. The air had cooled, but not unkindly—just enough to brush bare arms and cheeks, to remind the skin that night had fallen fully now. The wind carried traces of laughter and sake and ash, the scent of grilled fish long since faded. Somewhere nearby, the music still played—slower now, like the celebration had softened into something more intimate, more remembered than lived.
You stood near the edge of the garden, your cup cradled loosely in your hands, the last of your drink warming your palms more than your thoughts. You weren’t drunk—not really. Just flushed. Loose. Your limbs felt like they belonged to you in a different way tonight, like gravity was softer than usual. Naruto found you there—quiet, apart, beneath the hanging paper lanterns whose glow had faded to something pale and dreamlike. The moment he saw you, he stopped. Something had shifted.
You felt it too. It lived in the way his shoulders moved now—not uncertain, not closed off. Like whatever weight he’d been carrying had finally been set down, somewhere just out of sight. Your eyes met, and this time, he didn’t look away. “Hey,” you said softly. He returned the word, simple and steady. “Hey.” You let the silence stretch for a breath. Two. Then, gently, “Would you mind if we left?”
His brow lifted slightly. “Now?” You nodded, the corner of your mouth curling. “I think I’ve had enough celebration for one night.” He didn’t argue. Only tilted his head and studied you for a moment, as if trying to see something behind your eyes. And then he smiled. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
You moved through the party one last time together, exchanging quiet goodbyes with friends who were already starting to gather in smaller circles, voices hushed with the weight of sleepiness or drink. Ino hugged you both. Lee offered an overly dramatic farewell speech. Shikamaru waved from his spot on the steps without rising. Kakashi gave Naruto a slow, knowing nod—nothing more.
And then the lanterns were behind you. The lights. The music. And Konoha unfolded before you like a sleeping giant, every rooftop soaked in silver, every street empty and waiting.
The walk home was quiet, but not the same kind of quiet it had been earlier. Something had shifted in the air between you. Something subtle. Not spoken. But there. Naruto walked beside you with his hands tucked loosely into his pockets, his gaze moving occasionally from the cobbled path to the moonlit rooftops. You felt the way his body shifted—closer now, more open. Like whatever wall he’d kept between you had cracked, and the light was finally pouring through.
You didn’t press him. Didn’t speak. You let the night hold the silence for you.
Above you, the moon hung high, a white coin carved into the dark, casting long shadows that trailed behind you like whispers. The lamps along the street were few and far between now, their flickering glow only accentuating the softness of the night. The world felt smaller somehow—slowed down. As if all the noise of the evening had been left behind in a memory, and only this moment remained. You were nearly at his building—just a few doors away—when he stopped. You blinked, turning to him. “Everything okay?” you asked.
He didn’t answer at first. His gaze had lifted—not at you, but just over your shoulder, toward the sky. His lips parted like he was thinking of saying something and couldn’t quite decide how. Then, quietly, “Can I ask you something?”
You nodded.
He turned to face you more fully now. His expression wasn’t guarded—not like before. It was open in a way that caught you off guard. Raw, almost. He looked younger somehow. Like the boy he used to be still lived behind his eyes. “I know this is… backwards,” he said, voice soft, nearly swallowed by the breeze. “But would you… would you still want to dance?”
You stared at him.
It took a beat for the words to settle. For the meaning to unfold. Here. Now. Under the moonlight. In the middle of the quiet street where no one was watching. You blinked once, and then the surprise gave way to something warmer. Your lips curved gently. “I thought you’d never ask,” you whispered. Naruto let out a breath—half laugh, half relief—and stepped toward you, offering his hand with something shy in his eyes. His fingers brushed yours carefully, as if testing the shape of the moment, and then slowly, deliberately, he drew you in.
There was no music. No rhythm but the steady beat of your hearts, and even that felt like a shared thing now, as if your steps were guided not by sound but by trust. He rested one hand at your waist, the other curling around your fingers, and you followed him without hesitation, your free hand settling lightly at his shoulder.
And then the world fell away.
You moved together slowly, your feet gliding over stone still warm from the sun. The moonlight pooled around you in soft silver, catching in your hair, casting gentle glow over his jaw. His eyes didn’t leave yours. Not once. There was something reverent in the way he held you now. Not desperate. Not unsure. But present. Entirely.
You let your head rest lightly against his shoulder, your breath syncing with his. The breeze played at the edges of your sleeves. Somewhere in the distance, a windchime stirred softly—just one single note that faded as quickly as it came. This wasn’t the kind of dance you’d imagined earlier at the celebration. It was quieter. Slower. Almost like dreaming. But it felt more real than anything else had tonight.
You pulled back just slightly, enough to look up at him. His gaze found yours, steady. Clear. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “For earlier.” You shook your head, fingers tightening just a little where they rested against him. “You don’t have to be.” “I do,” he insisted. “Because I saw you. I saw how much you wanted to reach out. And I let the old fear win. I let it tell me I wasn’t enough.”
Your breath caught.
“But you were right there,” he continued. “The whole time. Just… waiting. Not asking for perfect. Just for me. And I think…” He exhaled. “I think I’m finally ready to show up.”
Your heart ached in the best way.
And then, without asking permission from your thoughts, your body leaned in—just enough for your lips to brush against his.
The kiss was soft. Brief. A breath more than a whisper. But it stole the air from Naruto’s lungs.
He froze at first—not because he didn’t want it, but because something inside him cracked open with the touch. Something long-held, long-hidden. The world narrowed to the warmth of your mouth against his and the clean scent of your skin, the way your fingers curved gently at his shoulder as if they’d always belonged there. He felt his heart jolt, like it had missed a step and then raced to catch up. His hand, once trembling with hesitation, now steadied against the small of your back, drawing you just a little closer. His other hand left yours to ghost up your arm, brushing along the curve of your shoulder with something deeper than shyness. Not bold. Not greedy. Just… present. Intentional.
You leaned into him, your body fitting against his like it had always known the shape. And somewhere between the stillness and the silence, your steps slowed again—no longer dancing, just swaying. Breathing. Existing together in the in-between.
Naruto felt it in the shift of your weight. In the way your chest rose and fell a little faster now, how your fingers curled lightly into the fabric at the back of his shirt. His hands moved lower, inch by inch, resting now just above your hips. He’d never dared before. Not even in moments where he could’ve. But tonight, something was different. He was different.
He felt it in the way your breath caught when his palms pressed a little firmer into you, in the subtle way your body tilted toward his, inviting him closer. Testing the space between want and need. You pulled back slightly—not far, just enough to look up at him.
And your gaze…
There was something in your eyes that hadn’t been there before. Something untamed. Not lust alone—something fuller than that. A kind of knowing. Like you’d waited long enough for him to see you, and now that he had… you were ready to show him just how much. And whatever it was, Naruto felt it strike through him like a lightning bolt straight to the chest. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.
And then—your hand found the side of his neck, pulled him down—
—and you kissed him again.
But this time, it wasn’t soft. Your mouth moved against his with intent, lips parting, deepening the contact until he felt the tip of your tongue brush his. He gasped quietly into you, the sound lost in the heat, in the way your fingers slid into his hair, anchoring him to you as if the street beneath your feet might vanish. He’d never kissed like this before. Not once.
And yet—his body answered instinctively. Mouth opening to you. Breath mingling with yours. His hands tightened where they held you, no longer afraid of their own boldness. You tasted like wine and something sweeter, something only you, and it was dizzying. Your tongue moved slowly against his, teasing, coaxing, and he groaned softly into the kiss before he could stop himself. The sound vibrated against your lips—and you only pulled him closer.
He melted into you.
Right there in the empty street, under the indifferent gaze of the moon, he let the fear go. No more hesitating. No more wondering if he was enough. Just the pressure of your mouth on his, the urgency in your hands, the electricity threading through every point of contact between you. You kissed him like you had no plans of stopping. Like you’d been waiting for this—him—for longer than you cared to admit.
And Naruto felt it.
He felt it in the way your hands tightened slightly in his hair, in the heat that flared behind your kiss, in the barely restrained pull of your body toward his like a tide that had finally found its shore. His heart slammed in his chest—not from fear anymore, but from the raw realization of how long he’d wanted this too. Wanted you.
Your lips parted slowly, drawing back only far enough for breath, and in the quiet space between your bodies, something shimmered—like the moment had changed shape. Grown deeper. Denser. The kind of silence that hummed beneath the skin. For a few heartbeats, you both just stood there, looking at one another.
Your cheeks were flushed, your lips wet and slightly parted. And the look in your eyes—half-lidded, steady—felt like the answer to every unspoken question he’d ever carried. Naruto’s chest rose and fell with uneven rhythm. Something inside him had uncoiled, warm and spreading, and he couldn’t—didn’t—want to rein it back in. Your fingers found his again. He laced them with yours without hesitation. Neither of you said anything as you turned toward the road again, this time walking in sync, quieter now but heavier with intent. The distance to his apartment wasn’t far, but tonight it felt like another kind of journey—like each step was carrying you both across some invisible threshold neither of you had dared to cross until now.
The streets of Konoha were utterly still. The last of the lanterns had burned low behind paper walls, casting faded orange hues through distant windows. The moon rode high above the village, bathing rooftops and stone in silver-blue light. And though you were surrounded by familiar streets and silent shadows, the air between you and Naruto felt charged, different—like the village itself was holding its breath.
When you reached his building, Naruto hesitated only briefly before pushing the door open. He stepped aside to let you in, hand never leaving yours. Inside, the space was warm and quiet—dimly lit by the soft golden glow of a single lamp near the kitchen. It smelled faintly of clean linen and the faint trace of sandalwood, and for a moment, you both simply stood there, letting the hush of home settle around you.
Then you turned to him again.
And whatever had been restrained on the walk over—tempered by silence, steadied by breath—broke free all at once. He moved first. A step forward. A hand to your cheek. A kiss—deeper now, tasting of want and recognition. He kissed you like someone who had finally realized he didn’t need to be anyone else. Just yours. Only that. Your hands found his waist, pulling him in.
And Naruto—
He let go of whatever had been holding him back. He kissed you with more certainty than before. Still gentle, still careful, but grounded in something solid now. One hand slid to your hip, resting there, fingertips tentative at first. But when you didn’t flinch—when you pressed closer instead—his touch grew bolder. Confident in a way that surprised even him. He broke away, breath heavy, and looked at you with wide, wondering eyes. You smiled, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “So…” you murmured, lips still close enough to his that he felt the whisper against his skin, “this new confidence…” He blinked, breath catching. “Huh?” Your grin widened just slightly. “I take it Jiraiya had something to do with it?” Naruto’s expression shifted—surprised, then amused, then a little sheepish. “Maybe,” he admitted, laughing under his breath. “Or maybe it was… I don’t know. You.”
Your smile softened, turning quiet again. And then you kissed him once more—slow, open, filled with something wordless—and whatever he might have said next vanished. You pulled him with you as you stepped deeper into the room, his arms around you now, your lips barely leaving his for more than a second. The rhythm between you changed again. No longer fast. No longer rushed. Just close. Constant. His hands moved over your sides, your back, learning the lines of you. When his mouth trailed from your lips to your jaw, you tilted your head, granting him silent permission—and he followed the path down to your throat, leaving a trail of warmth in his wake.
When he reached that one spot—just beneath your ear, the place that always made your breath stutter—he paused. And kissed it. Softly. Then again. Slower. Your breath hitched, and you exhaled a small, trembling sound—a quiet moan that escaped you before you could pull it back. Naruto froze.
That sound—
That single, fragile sound lit something in him. His pulse roared in his ears. Not from panic. From pure heat.
He kissed the spot again, firmer this time, and you gasped softly, pressing closer, fingers fisting into the fabric of his shirt. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest. Could feel the tremble in your hands. Could feel you—all of you—leaning into him without restraint. “Y-you okay?” he whispered against your skin, voice rough. Your answer was a breathless laugh, hands sliding down his back. “More than okay.” That was all he needed.
Your steps shifted, backward now, toward the hall that led to his bedroom. You tugged gently on his hand, guiding him, never breaking contact. His fingers traced patterns along the small of your back, then upward, slipping beneath fabric, skimming bare skin. His mouth found yours again—slower now, deeper, every kiss unraveling something in him he hadn’t known was still tightly wound. But just as the threshold to his bedroom approached, you slowed. Then stopped. You looked up at him, your fingers still looped at the collar of his shirt. “Naruto?” you asked quietly. He blinked, suddenly aware of the way his hands were trembling again. You were breathing quickly, but your eyes were steady, clear. “Are you… sure?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “We don’t have to rush.” His heart stuttered. And then he smiled. Not wide. Not nervous. Just real.
He reached for your hand, lifting it to his lips and pressing a soft kiss against your knuckles. “I’ve never been more sure of anything,” he said, his voice low and warm. “I want this. I want you.” Your eyes softened. And something in your shoulders relaxed, the last thread of uncertainty dissolving like mist. You didn’t say anything as you reached for his hand again. Just held it. Just led him.
The quiet of his bedroom wrapped around you both as you stepped inside—low light spilling in from the streetlamp outside, catching in the pale curtain that swayed ever so slightly in the breeze. The room was warm, lived-in. A space that had seen late nights, quiet mornings, laughter, silence. But not this. Not you, like this. You turned to him again, close now, and your hands rose slowly—fingertips brushing along his shoulders, then up the sides of his neck, featherlight. He felt the weight of your touch like a current running through him, grounding and electric at once. He swallowed hard, his breath catching in his throat.
Your eyes searched his face for a beat longer—asking without asking. And he nodded. That was all you needed.
Your lips met his again, unhurried, coaxing him into something deeper. The kiss was slow but certain, your mouth moving against his like you knew exactly how to pull him in, how to quiet the last tremors in his chest. His hands came to rest at your waist as he kissed you back, still with that soft, stunned kind of awe, like he was afraid he might wake up. You smiled against his mouth, and then your hands began to move—down over his chest, sliding along the hem of his shirt. You hesitated just for a moment, giving him room to stop you. He didn’t. He couldn’t. He only nodded again, his breath shaky but sure, and lifted his arms to let you undress him.
You peeled his shirt away slowly, inch by inch, revealing warm skin and lean muscle and a trail of nervous heat that ran straight up his spine. He shivered beneath your touch, not from cold, but from the sheer intimacy of it—of being seen, not just looked at. Of being wanted.
And you…
You were so gentle with him.
Your hands brushed along his collarbones, down over his bare chest, slow and reverent, like every inch of him deserved to be known. Naruto’s breath hitched again, and his fingers flexed slightly at your hips. He wasn’t used to being touched like this—softly, patiently. He didn’t know how to hold it in his palms without trembling. But you didn’t rush him. You kissed him again—slower now. Deeper.
He sank into it.
Your body pressed against his, warm and certain, and you moved together in careful steps until the back of your knees found the edge of the bed. You broke the kiss with a quiet breath, eyes flicking down, and then, without words, you let your dress fall away.
His mouth went dry.
You stood there before him in nothing but soft underthings, bathed in shadow and streetlight, your hair loose around your shoulders, your chest rising and falling just a little quicker than before. Naruto had never seen anything more beautiful. He wanted to say something—anything—but no words came. Only the heat that rushed to his cheeks, the way his throat tightened with something close to wonder. You reached for his hand again, and guided him down with you.
The mattress dipped beneath your weight as you laid back slowly, and he followed—carefully, hesitantly—hovering over you on his elbows, his skin flushed and warm, his eyes locked to yours like they were the only thing anchoring him to the earth. He didn’t know where to look. Your face. Your neck. The soft slope of your collarbone. The line of your waist beneath him. And the way you were watching him—open, patient, welcoming—like you weren’t nervous at all, only present.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
Your smile deepened.
And then your hands found him again—gentle at first, tracing along his sides, grounding him. He shivered beneath your touch. Every brush of your fingertips felt like it carved a new memory into his skin. He leaned down slowly, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. Then lower. Then to the space just above your heart. You sighed softly beneath him, your hands threading up into his hair again, pulling him back to your lips. The kiss deepened quickly—hungrier now. You moved against him, your body arching gently beneath his, and Naruto could hardly breathe. You were everywhere—soft skin and breath and sound and want—and he’d never imagined it could feel like this. Not frantic, not lost. Just… real.
Your thigh brushed his hip. His hand slipped along your side, learning your shape. You guided him with subtle movements, always patient, always careful. He was clumsy, a little too tentative, but you didn’t mind. You made room for him. You taught him how to listen to you—through breath, through touch, through the way your lips broke apart only to find his again. And every time he kissed you, he gave a little more of himself away. Until it wasn’t nervousness anymore. It was want. It was him choosing this—you—with both hands.
He hovered over you now, shirtless and flushed, your bodies pressed together, breath mingling, eyes searching. And in that moment, nothing about him felt unsure. Not anymore. He leaned down again, kissed you softly, slowly. One hand cupped your cheek, the other tangled with yours where it rested between your bodies. “Tell me if I mess something up,” Naruto whispered, voice hoarse. “You won’t,” you said, voice low and full of certainty. “You’re here. That’s all that matters.”
Your breath was still warm on his lips when you shifted—slow, unhurried—your hands brushing over his chest, grounding him as you moved. He felt the shift in your weight first, the gentle push at his side, the silent way you guided him to roll with you until he found himself on his back. The mattress dipped beneath your knees.
And suddenly, you were above him. His heart stuttered.
Naruto lay there, staring up at you, lips parted, eyes wide, every nerve in his body awake and buzzing. The soft light from the window wrapped around your shoulders, silvering the outline of your form, and for a moment, all he could do was look at you—his breath caught somewhere in his throat. You weren’t rushing. You just were—kneeling over him, thighs pressing gently around his hips, your hands resting against his ribs like you’d always belonged there.
And gods, you were beautiful.
His hands, uncertain at first, rose to your thighs, fingers lightly brushing against your skin. His touch was reverent. Careful. Like he didn’t quite believe you were real. But you leaned into him, just a little, your hips settling lightly against his, and the heat that bloomed through his chest nearly undid him. He felt it—you—everywhere. In the weight of your body over his. In the look in your eyes as they searched his face. In the soft curve of your mouth when you realized how hard he was trying not to fall apart under you.
And then—
Without a word, you reached one hand behind you, toward the small of your back. Naruto’s breath hitched. His hands froze on your legs as he watched—really watched—the way your fingers moved to the clasp of your bra, the slow, practiced ease of it. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t seductive in the way some might imagine. It was honest. Intimate. And utterly captivating.
He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing.
You unhooked it with a quiet snap, the straps slipping forward over your shoulders. Your eyes never left his. The fabric slid away, soft as a sigh, and you let it fall beside you on the bed without ceremony.
And then you were bare to him.
His breath came back all at once. Not in a gasp. Not in a moan. But in a long, silent exhale, like his chest had finally remembered how to move.
You weren’t shy—not with him. And that did something to him. Something deep. Because in that moment, you weren’t just showing him your body. You were offering trust. Letting him see you—truly see you—without hiding, without armor. And it wasn’t lust that struck him first. It was wonder. Pure, quiet wonder.
His hands lifted slowly, brushing over your hips, your waist, then higher—until one hand settled just beneath your ribs, fingers splayed, as if trying to memorize the shape of you with his palm. “You’re…” he whispered, but the word trailed off. He couldn’t finish it. Because there wasn’t a word strong enough. You leaned down then, your bare skin brushing his, and kissed him—slow, deep, steady. He melted into it. Into you. His arms wound around your back, holding you against him, his heart pounding so hard he was sure you could feel it.
You were all softness and fire, all steady rhythm and quiet urgency, and Naruto—he had never known closeness like this. He didn’t feel lost. Or out of place.
He felt… seen.
You stayed there above him, straddling his hips, your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of his waist, your breath still warm and shallow as it mingled with his. His hands rested tentatively on your thighs, and he couldn’t look away—couldn’t stop watching you, the way your hair framed your face, the way your chest rose and fell in time with his own racing heart. And then—without a word—you reached down and took his hands again.
You guided them upward, slowly, fingers intertwined with his, lifting them from where they rested to the warm bare skin of your waist. His breath caught, but he didn’t pull away. He let you move him. Let you show him. His palms slid across your ribs, your sides—still hesitant, still trembling with the weight of the moment—and then higher. Until you placed them over your breasts. He froze.
Heat rushed to his face so fast he thought his vision might blur—but he didn’t look away. He couldn’t. Your hands stayed over his, holding him there. Not forcing. Guiding. And when he looked up at you, your gaze was soft and patient, your expression so full of trust it made his chest ache. So he breathed in. And let himself feel.
Your skin was warm beneath his fingers—soft and delicate, yet solid and real. He moved slowly, following the shape of you, brushing his thumbs in slow circles where he thought you might like it. He wasn’t sure. He was guessing. Learning.
And then—
You sighed. A soft, low sound that slipped past your lips and settled in the space between you like a secret. He felt it everywhere. In his chest, in his pulse, in the way his hands instinctively tightened just slightly around you. You leaned into his touch, and he thought he might shatter under the weight of it—not from pressure, but from how much it was. How real. The heat between your bodies deepened, not frantic, but steady—like an ember catching breath, growing warmer by degrees.
Your hips shifted over him, only slightly, but it sent a jolt of sensation through his spine. His hands faltered for a moment, and you leaned down to kiss him—reassuring, slow, grounding him again. Then your hands slid down his arms, down his sides, until they rested against his stomach. You moved with purpose—graceful, unhurried—and he let you take the lead. You were the lead. And he was following, willingly. Your mouth trailed soft kisses down his jaw, his neck, and he tilted his head instinctively to give you more room. His hands never left your skin, still exploring in quiet reverence, and each time you shifted over him, he had to fight to keep his breath steady.
But gods—he didn’t want you to stop.
And you didn’t.
Your hips moved again, slowly, rolling down against him with more certainty this time—drawing a quiet, startled sound from his throat as his body arched up toward yours. The friction was sudden and devastating, even through the layers that still separated you. But it was real, and Naruto felt it with every inch of his skin. You moved again. And he couldn’t think. Just feel.
The pressure. The warmth. The way your body aligned with his like it had always belonged there. You rocked against him with slow, deliberate rhythm, and all he could do was hold on—his fingers gripping at your hips now, not tightly, but with awe, as if grounding himself to something solid. He was already so hard it almost hurt.
And he knew—knew from the way your breath quickened, the way your hands slid up along his chest again, the way your eyes darkened when they met his—you felt it too. You wanted him. Not just in theory. Not just in a vague, distant way. You wanted this. You wanted him. And it undid something in him.
Naruto swallowed, his breath shaky, his body trembling beneath you as your lips ghosted along his neck—soft, trailing, open-mouthed kisses that made his spine curl into the mattress. He was losing himself, and he didn’t mind. You kissed him again, deeper now, and his hands moved up your back, one tangling in your hair, the other resting at your waist. And then you shifted. Your hands slid down, slow and sure, until your fingers found the waistband of his pants. You paused just long enough to search his face—quiet question in your eyes. He nodded.
Breathless. Helpless. Willing.
And you moved.
Your fingers worked with quiet urgency—no teasing, no delay. You undid the button, the zipper, and began to slide the fabric down. Naruto lifted his hips without thinking, giving you space, trusting you completely. You moved with such care, such ease, like the moment was a conversation you already knew how to speak. Boxers followed. And suddenly the air felt different—cooler against his skin, heavier between you. He was exposed now. Completely. And still, you didn’t look away. You didn’t laugh. Or flinch. Or hesitate. You just breathed. And touched. And stayed.
His cheeks burned, but he couldn’t look anywhere else. Because you were still above him, warm and steady, hands on his thighs, your gaze roaming slowly over him—not as someone assessing, but as someone feeling. Wanting.
You leaned in closer, the heat from your bodies mingling together as your breath whispered across his bare skin. Then, with a gentle ease that belied the racing pulse in your throat, you bent down and took him into your mouth.
Naruto's eyes shot wide, a sharp intake of breath cutting through the silence of the room. His hips jolted upwards reflexively, a soft, desperate sound escaping his lips. The sensation was like nothing he'd ever felt before—so much more intense, so much more personal than the furtive touches he'd stolen from himself in the quiet of his own room when he was alone. Your mouth was warm and wet, enveloping him completely, and it sent a shockwave of pleasure through him that left his body trembling.
You didn't stop, though. You took him deeper, your tongue playing along the sensitive underside of his shaft, your hands caressing his thighs, urging them apart slightly to give yourself more room. The feeling of you around him was intoxicating, a heady mix of pleasure and disbelief that had him groaning out loud. His cheeks were still flushed, his eyes glazed over as they remained locked on yours, watching as your head moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm that had him seeing stars.
After a few moments that stretched into an eternity, you pulled back, just enough to allow a glimpse of pink around his girth. You looked up at him, your eyes filled with a smoldering heat that mirrored the fire burning in his own. The connection between you was palpable, a silent communication that spoke of desire and need.
Naruto's chest heaved with the effort of staying still, his fingers twitching against the comforter. He wanted to reach for you, to touch you, but he was afraid to break the spell. So he held on, watching as you took him in again, your cheeks hollowing with each deep suck. The noises you made were low and needy, and they only served to spur him on, making his erection throb painfully. You paused, just for a moment, to swirl your tongue around the tip, tasting the precum that had beaded there. It was a gesture so intimate, so erotic, that it had him moaning your name.
He felt your warm breath against his skin as you paused, looking up at him with eyes that held the promise of so much more. He could see the desire in your gaze, the way it flickered with anticipation and the faintest trace of nerves. It was like watching a flame dance in the dark—beautiful, mesmerizing, and oh so tempting. And as your lips left him, swollen and sensitive, he couldn't help but feel the loss like a physical ache.
But you didn't leave him hanging for long.
You slid your way back up his body, your soft curves brushing against him like a warm summer breeze, leaving trails of heat in their wake. When your gaze met his again, there was something new in your eyes—a determination that sent his pulse racing even faster. He watched, unable to look away, as your hands slid to the edge of your underwear, tugging it gently down your legs. Your thighs parted slightly, revealing the soft, bare skin of your inner thighs, and his eyes followed the path down, down, until you were just as bare as he was.
The room felt like it was spinning around him—everything but the two of you seemed to fade away into nothing but a distant buzz. His heart hammered in his chest, echoing in his ears, and all he could do was lie there, trembling, as you straddled him once again. The head of his cock nudged against your wet heat, and he couldn't hold back the groan that rumbled up from deep within him. The feeling was exquisite—like coming home after a long, hard journey.
As you positioned yourself over him, guiding him to your entrance, your eyes never left his. They were wide, filled with a mix of excitement and uncertainty, but the confidence in your touch belied any doubt you might have felt. And when you finally sank down, taking him inch by inch into your warm, welcoming depths, it was like nothing he'd ever experienced before.
Naruto's hips jerked up to meet you, the sensation of being inside you so intense it was almost painful. You were so tight, so wet, so perfect, and the way your body seemed to mold around him was like a dream come true.
You slid down until he was fully sheathed inside you, and then you stilled, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you adjusted to the new sensation. He could feel your muscles contracting around him, gripping him like a vice, and it took every ounce of his willpower not to move, not to thrust up into you and claim you as his own. Instead, he waited, his hands on your hips, his breathing ragged. He watched as your eyes fluttered closed and a soft, contented sigh escaped your lips. And when you finally began to rock your hips, moving slowly at first, he felt like he could come undone right then and there.
The sensation was overwhelming—each roll of your hips sending waves of pleasure crashing through him, each brush of your clit against his pelvis making him grit his teeth in an effort to hold back. He didn't want this to end, didn't want to miss a single moment of feeling you like this, wrapped around him so perfectly.
Your breasts bounced gently with each movement, your nipples hard and pebbled from the cold air in the room. He reached up to cup them, feeling the weight of them in his hands, watching as you bit your lip in response. The air was thick with lust, with the scent of your arousal mingling with his own, creating a heady perfume that seemed to cloud his thoughts even further. All he could focus on was the way you felt, the way you moved, the way your eyes opened to meet his again, filled with a heat that seemed to scorch his very soul.
You leaned down, capturing his mouth in a kiss that was just as hungry, just as demanding as the way your body moved against his. It was like you were trying to devour each other, to consume one another in a fiery dance of passion that neither of you could control. Narutos eyes never left yours, and as your hips rolled in a sensual dance, he could feel the tightness of your pussy clench around him, milking him with every stroke. It was a delicious torture, one he didn't know if he could endure much longer.
Reaching out, you took his hand and brought it to your mouth, wrapping those soft, warm lips around two of his fingers. Narutos breath hitched as you sucked them into your mouth, your tongue swirling around them, tasting him, teasing him. He watched, entranced, as you drew them out slowly, your eyes never leaving his, and then you brought them down to that sweet, sensitive bud nestled between your folds. "Here," you whispered, guiding his hand to your clit, "like this." You showed him how you liked it, the way your hips bucked when he touched you, the way your breath hitched in your throat. And as your fingers danced around his, his mind went blank with the need to feel more of you, to give you more pleasure than you could handle.
He started to rub you in those slow, steady circles, just as you'd shown him, and the noises you made—the way your breath caught in your throat, the soft, keening sounds that escaped your lips—it was like a siren's song, drawing him closer to the edge of oblivion. He could feel the tension coiling in his balls, the heat building in his cock, and it took every ounce of his willpower to keep from coming right then and there.
But you had other plans. You took his hand away from your clit, leaving it wet and shining with your arousal, and brought it to his mouth. "Taste." you murmured, and he obeyed without thought, licking the sweetness from his own fingers. The taste was heady, intoxicating, and it only served to drive him wilder.
You straddled him once more, and this time, as you took him inside you, there was a new urgency in your movements. You rode him harder, faster, your breasts bouncing with the rhythm of your hips, your nails digging into his shoulders. Each thrust sent sparks of pleasure shooting through him, and he knew he was losing control. But Naruto didn't want to just watch anymore. He reached up, grabbing your hips with both hands, and guided you into a more intense rhythm. His thumb found your clit again, and he rubbed it in those perfect circles that made you whimper and arch your back. Your eyes squeezed shut as you leaned into his touch, your body shuddering with each stroke.
"Like that?" he panted, his voice thick with desire. "Yes," you gasped, your voice strained, "just like that."
And as you moved together, the only sounds in the room were the slap of skin on skin and the muffled cries of pleasure. His cock was so deep inside you, it felt like he was touching your soul, filling you up in a way nothing else ever could. And with each thrust, he could feel you tightening around him, could feel you getting closer and closer to that sweet release.
You leaned forward, your hair cascading around both of you like a curtain of silk, and kissed him hard. It was a kiss filled with passion and need, a kiss that spoke of the connection that had been building between you for so long. And as your tongues tangled together, Naruto felt the world fall away, leaving just the two of them in this perfect moment. But he couldn't resist the urge any longer. With a groan of pure need, he rolled you both over, his body now covering yours, his eyes never leaving yours. The shift in power was palpable, but instead of fear, you seemed to melt into it, your legs wrapping around his waist eagerly. He held you tightly, one hand cradling your head, the other sliding down to grip your hip firmly. His cock slid out of you briefly, only to be replaced by the thickness of his thumb, which he used to tease your clit as he positioned himself at your entrance again.
"Yes," you moaned, your body arching up to meet his, your eyes begging him to fill you again. He didn't disappoint. With one swift, powerful thrust, he was inside you, and the sound that left your lips was nothing short of a scream of pleasure. You felt so good, so tight, so wet around him, and the sensation was more than he could handle. His hips began to move, a punishing rhythm that had your breath coming in pants and your nails digging into his back.
You clung to him, your legs locked around his waist, your heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper, faster. The way you moved with him was like nothing he'd ever experienced—each stroke a symphony of pleasure that had him teetering on the edge of ecstasy. "I can't hold on much longer," he confessed, his voice strained, his muscles tight with the effort of maintaining control. "Neither can I," you gasped, your own body wound tight as a spring, desperate for release.
You reached down between your bodies, your hand finding your clit easily in the slickness that had built up between you. Your fingers danced over the sensitive nub, and your cries grew louder, more urgent, as you approached the precipice. "Don't stop, please," you begged, your voice breaking with need.
And Naruto didn't. He watched as your eyes squeezed shut and your mouth fell open, your breaths coming in ragged gasps. He thrust into you harder, faster, his own body responding to the desperation in your voice. He could feel the tension coiling in his balls, the heat building in his cock. You tightened around him, your pussy gripping him like a vise, and he just knew you were close. So close. And he wanted to be there with you. He wanted to feel you come apart in his arms, wanted to know that he'd been the one to give you that kind of pleasure.
So he leaned down and whispered in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "Come for me," he urged, his voice a low, gruff rumble that sent shivers down your spine. "Let go."
And with those words, something inside you snapped. You bucked against him, your back arching off the bed, your body writhing with pleasure. The orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, crashing through you, making your toes curl and your eyes roll back in your head.
But Naruto didn't let up. He kept pounding into you, his own release so close he could taste it. And when he felt you begin to come down from that peak, he knew it was time. He slammed into you one final time, his thumb pressing hard against your clit as he spilled himself inside you, his cock pulsing with each hot, thick rope of cum.
The feeling was indescribable—the way your walls contracted around him, milking him for every last drop, the way your body shuddered with the aftershocks of your climax. You lay there, panting, your body still clenching around him, your legs still shaking. And when he finally pulled out of you, the feeling of emptiness was almost too much to bear.
But then—he didn’t leave.
He didn’t roll away or shift awkwardly like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He just stayed, chest rising and falling against yours, his forehead pressed gently to your shoulder, his arms wound around you like you were something sacred. Something still worth holding, even now. Especially now. His breath was warm on your skin. Uneven. Quiet. You felt it—how his heart was still racing against your ribs.
And when he finally spoke, it was soft. A little hoarse. Like he was afraid to break whatever spell the night had cast.
“…Was that okay?”
You turned your head slightly, brushing your lips against his temple. Your fingers moved gently through his hair, damp and mussed, golden strands clinging to your skin. You smiled. “That was perfect.”
Naruto let out a breath you didn’t realize he’d been holding. A tiny, disbelieving laugh trembled in his chest as he shifted just enough to look at you. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes still wide with something close to wonder. His fingers trailed lightly over your waist, then your hip, like he wasn’t ready to let go. Not even of a single inch of you. “I didn’t think it would feel like that,” he said, almost shy. “I mean… I didn’t know it could.” You nudged his nose with yours. “You’re not supposed to know everything, Naruto.” He blinked. “But I wanted to do it right.” “You did.” And you meant it—because it hadn’t been about practiced touches or perfect rhythm. It had been about you and him, the way your bodies learned one another slowly, the way you listened, the way he gave, the way it all meant something.
He kissed you softly, reverently, his lips lingering like a promise, then pulled back only far enough to wrap the blanket over you both. His arms found you again, pulling you close against his chest. Your head nestled beneath his chin, his hand splaying protectively over your back.
Outside, Konoha slept under a silver-washed sky. Inside, everything was still.
“You’re not going anywhere, right?” he whispered, half-asleep already, words slurred at the edges. You smiled into his skin. “Nowhere but here.” And you felt it then—his whole body relaxing around you. The last of the tension bleeding out of him. Trust, full and quiet. Love, warm and unguarded. You lay there for a long time, tangled together in the dark, the kind of silence that wasn’t empty, but full. Of breath, of heartbeat, of something deeper settling between you. And in that hush before sleep, wrapped in his arms, skin still humming where he’d touched you, you knew this for certain:
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You get kidnapped and branded by the joker on christmas. The bat-family sees Jason unravel.
word cnt. 14.6k
cw ›››› torture, branding, suicidal language, violence, blood, gore
Something is wrong.
Jason feels it like a pressure change—subtle, almost polite—but it crawls under his helmet and settles behind his eyes. It hasn’t clicked, not cleanly. Not yet. He hasn’t asked. Hasn’t said a word through the harbor sweep, through the cold iron stink of saltwater and oil and Christmas rot. A small job. The kind that should feel easy. The kind that still manages to choke the air out of his lungs anyway.
Everyone’s moving like the night might shatter if they stop.
Tim keeps choosing his words too carefully, syllables slowed and smoothed like he’s sanding down sharp edges. Dick’s doing that thing where he smiles first and speaks second—but the timing’s off, the warmth a fraction too late, like a recording lagging behind the video. Damian watches Jason more than the perimeter, eyes sharp, calculating, guarded. Stephanie hasn’t joked once. Not even a cheap jab to him, not even under her breath. That alone feels wrong enough to tilt the world sideways.
Bruce didn’t come.
That absence is loud. A hollow where a presence should be, echoing through comms and instinct alike. The Cave, he’d said. As if that explained anything. As if Bruce ever sits things out without a reason that claws.
Cassandra says nothing—but she’s closer. Close enough that Jason can feel her awareness like static along his spine. When the group splits, she falls into step beside him without discussion, without a glance. Just there. Solid. Protective in a way that feels less like trust and more like vigilance. As if she’s guarding him.
That’s when unease really sinks its teeth in.
Bruce didn’t need all of them.
Didn’t need six sets of boots scraping concrete, six heartbeats crowding the same dark. Dick alone could’ve dismantled this whole thing with half the effort. Hell, Jason himself could’ve wrapped it up fast and bloody and been home already. Instead, they’re stacked together, overlapping, slowing each other down like they’re afraid to let him out of their sight.
He agreed because no one argued about his presence. Because no one questioned whether he was needed. Because the silence around that decision felt intentional.
That should’ve been his first real warning.
Between two groups of thugs, he had ducked behind a row of shipping containers, Gotham’s lights bleeding gold across the black water. He had pulled out his phone and called you, already rehearsing the apology in his head. Late for presents. Again. You’d tease him, pretend to scold, maybe force him to wrap some gifts for your co-workers.
You didn't answer.
Probably a bath, he told himself. You’d mentioned one. Candles. The fancy bath salts you bought. Something soft to push the cold out of your bones. The thought settles him, briefly. He sends a text instead—short, careful. An apology. An I love you so much that he doesn’t overthink, because with you, he never has to.
You always know what he means.
The phone stays quiet in his pocket.
No buzz. No vibration brushing against his thigh like it usually does, grounding him, tethering him back to something warm and real. He told himself it’s nothing. That you’re relaxed, distracted, asleep. That the night is just heavy, that Gotham is doing what Gotham always does—making ghosts out of shadows and dread out of coincidence.
Still.
When he looks back at the others, he notices the way Dick avoids his eyes now. The way Tim’s gaze flicks to Jason’s pocket and away again. The way Damian’s jaw tightens when Jason shifts his weight, like he’s bracing for impact. Cassandra meets his eyes once—just once—and there’s something there that twists low and sharp in his chest. Not fear. Not exactly.
Knowing. Jason doesn’t ask. He doesn’t press.
But the harbor feels too quiet, the night stretched thin and listening, and for the first time since he sent that text, a cold, irrational thought curls in his gut—
That whatever is wrong didn’t start here.
And that somewhere far from the water, far from the mission, something precious has already slipped out of reach.
“That was the last of them,” Jason says, voice rough through the helmet, as Tim finishes cinching zip-ties around the final goon and anchors him to a rust-flaked shipping container. The plastic bites down with a sharp click that echoes too loudly across the concrete. The man mumbled insanities through spit.
The harbor exhales around them—cold wind off the water, carrying brine and diesel and something rotten that’s been sitting too long. Sodium lights flicker overhead, casting everything in jaundiced gold and long, distorted shadows that stretch and tangle at their feet. The concrete is damp beneath Jason’s boots, slick with mist and old oil, the kind of surface that never really dries no matter how many ‘sunny’ days Gotham pretends to have.
“We should do another check around the harbor,” Dick says.
He’s already kneeling, already breaking the man's phone in half with practiced efficiency, grinding it into the concrete with his heel until the screen spider webs and dies. He doesn’t look up when he says it. Doesn’t grin. Doesn’t even sound casual about it.
Jason lifts an eyebrow, slow, deliberate. His gaze slides to Damian automatically—because Damian is usually the first to shoot an idea like that down, sharp and impatient and blunt as a blade.
Instead, Damian just mutters, “Tim could be wrong.”
Mumbles it. Like he’s afraid the words might carry.
That alone sends a small, unpleasant chill up Jason’s spine.
Tim doesn’t argue. Doesn’t bristle. He straightens from the goon and dusts his gloves together, eyes flicking—not to Jason—but to Stephanie. The movement is quick, practiced, like muscle memory.
“Do you want to take the gates with me?” Tim says, too smooth. Too rehearsed. “Jason and Dick could go along the—”
“What?” Jason cuts in before he can finish, blinking once. “You two were perched on the gates the entire op. What’re you talking about?”
The wind gusts harder, rattling loose chains and setting a tarp snapping somewhere down the dock. Water slaps against concrete pylons in a slow, hollow rhythm.
Jason suddenly feels like the sound is counting something down.
“It wouldn’t hurt to double-check,” Tim says, rising to his feet.
He still won’t meet Jason’s eyes.
Jason’s jaw tightens. He shifts his weight, the concrete cold and unforgiving through the thinning soles of his boots, and for a split second his mind drifts—unbidden—to you. To the warmth of your kitchen lights. To the way you’d probably be halfway through setting out plates by now, humming something low and off-key, waiting for him in that way that makes him want to claw his soul out and hand it over to you.
The thought lands soft, intimate, grounding—and then slips through his fingers when he remembers his phone, silent and heavy in his pocket.
“…You guys don’t need me for that,” Jason says, firmer now. There’s an edge to it, something protective and stubborn. He already has plans. A timeline. A promise he intends to keep. “Seriously. If you want to sweep again, even one person could—”
Dick finally looks up.
It’s just a glance, quick and loaded, the kind Jason’s learned to read over a lifetime of almosts and unsaids. Cassandra shifts closer at the same moment, her shoulder nearly brushing his, her presence steady and deliberate. Jason doesn't think she's ever willingly touched him in his life. Stephanie opens her mouth like she’s about to say something—anything—then closes it again.
The harbor feels tighter suddenly. Smaller. Like the stacks of containers have leaned in, hemming them closer, their corrugated sides looming like silent witnesses. The wind cuts sharper off the water, needling through the seams of Jason’s jacket, and somewhere deep in his chest, that pressure builds again.
Jason turns fully to Damian.
“Kid, I swear to God, tell me what—”
Damian snaps at the exact same moment Cassandra moves. Her hand closes around Jason’s shoulder, firm and sudden, fingers digging in through armor like she’s trying to anchor him to the concrete before he does something irreversible. The contact is intimate in a way that feels wrong, alarmed.
“How the hell should I know? They didn't tell me—” Damian bites back, voice sharp, flaring too fast, too hot.
“Damian!” Dick hisses, the sound cutting through the night like a blade dragged too quickly from its sheath. He’s already moving, stepping between them without quite committing to either side, hands up in a placating gesture that lands closer to panic than calm. He turns to Jason almost immediately, words tumbling over each other. “Come on, dude, let’s just go check the security towers and—”
“That’s going to take another hour,” Jason cuts in.
The words come out flat, but there’s steel underneath. He shrugs Cassandra’s hand off—not rough, but final—and reaches into his pocket. The harbor lights blur for a second as his fingers close around his phone, the familiar shape of something that connects him to you grounding him. It’s 10:20. He knows that without looking but checks anyway. He’s been counting the minutes since the mission dragged past its supposed end.
“I had plans,” he says, quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “Let me at least—”
The batarang whistles through the air.
Jason barely has time to register the movement—Damian’s arm snapping forward, wrist precise, expression tight and furious—before metal slams into his hand. The impact jars up his arm, sharp and biting, and the phone slips free, spinning once before it hits the concrete.
Crack.
The screen fractures instantly, a spiderweb of dead glass blooming beneath the sodium lights before the device skids to a stop near Jason’s boot. The harbor seems to hold its breath. Even the wind falters, the water’s slap against the pylons momentarily muted, as if the night itself is listening.
Jason stares down at it.
At the dark screen. On the way his reflection breaks apart in the shattered glass.
Jason’s gaze lifts slowly from the ruin at his feet.
It settles on Dick.
“Call Bruce.”
The words aren’t loud. They don’t need to be. They cut anyway—clean, controlled, edged with something that’s starting to slip. Dick falters under it, hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck, eyes flicking anywhere but Jason’s face. The harbor lights stutter overhead, one of them buzzing like it’s about to give out, bathing Dick in a sickly gold that makes him look younger.
Guilty.
“What, you gonna tattle?” Dick says, trying for levity and missing it by miles. His laugh lands wrong, brittle against the cold. “C’mon, Damian's just in a mood. I was going to surprise you with burgers but I thought the kid would spill. I’ll buy you a new phone, okay? Just—”
“Call Bruce,” Jason repeats.
This time it’s a hiss, dragged out through clenched teeth, something feral and fraying around the edges. The wind picks up again, slicing between the containers, rattling loose metal and carrying the sharp tang of rain that never quite falls in Gotham. Jason turns his head, slow and deliberate, until his eyes find Cassandra.
She hasn’t moved. She’s watching him like she’s afraid he might break.
“…He’s busy,” Cass says.
Her voice is barely there. Smaller than usual. Soft enough that Tim, standing a good ten feet away, doesn’t hear it at all. The words dissolve into the night almost as soon as they leave her mouth, swallowed by wind and water and distance—but Jason hears them. Every syllable.
Busy.
Something inside him tightens, winding down to a thin, dangerous thread.
His hand comes up to his comm without conscious thought. He adjusts it once, fingers steady despite the way his pulse thuds too hard, too fast. The harbor seems to lean in again—the stacked containers looming like watchful giants, the river below churning black and endless.
Gotham breathes around him, damp and unforgiving.
“B,” Jason says.
Sharp. Precise. A single syllable fired into the dark like a flare.
Static answers him. Wind whistling through steel corridors. The distant cry of something alive and miserable echoing off the water. No voice. No correction. No irritation crackling back through the line.
Just silence. It stretches. Pulls thin. Grows teeth.
Jason exhales through his nose, a humorless breath that fogs faintly in the cold air. He thinks of you again—too vividly now. The way your voice softens when you say his name. The way you always pick up, even when he thinks you shouldn’t. The way silence has never belonged between the two of you.
His jaw locks. Fuck this shit, I should be at home with her.
Jason moves before anyone can stop him—before anyone even realizes he’s decided something.
He’s across the concrete in three long strides, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirror Gotham’s jaundiced lights in broken pieces. Damian doesn’t flinch when Jason grabs his comm. Doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t protest. That, more than anything, makes Jason’s teeth grind.
He clicks the emergency signal to the Batcomputer—once, twice, a break, two clicks hard enough that it hurts his thumb—then rips the comm free. His helmet follows, clattering against the concrete with a hollow, echoing crack that ricochets between the shipping containers. The sound feels too loud, too exposed. Jason presses the comm to his bare ear, cold metal biting into skin.
No one stops him.
Not Dick. Not Tim. Not Stephanie. Cassandra watches with that same quiet intensity, hands flexing like she’s bracing for impact. They stand there and let it happen, like this is how it was always meant to go—like they’ve already accepted that Jason finding out is inevitable, but telling him would be worse. Like this is some twisted test, or penance, or family tradition he never agreed to.
The harbor hums low and restless. Wind slides through steel corridors, rattling chains, carrying the stink of oil and brine and rain-soaked concrete. Gotham feels awake in that way it only does when something bad is already in motion.
“Robin?” Bruce’s voice cuts through the static, sharp and immediate. Too immediate. There’s an edge to it Jason hasn’t heard in years—tight, almost nervous, parental. “Robin, what’s wrong?”
Jason almost laughs.
Instead, his mouth twists.
“I’m going home, old man,” he hisses, already turning away from Damian. “What was this? Ya trying to tire me out, or did you get mind-controlled again? ‘Cause everyone here apparently likes you enough to not tell me the truth.”
“Jason—”
“Red Hood,” Jason snaps, the correction coming fast and mean. He bends, scoops his helmet up by the chin guard, and starts walking toward the exit between the containers where the harbor opens up to the road. “What happened to keeping hero names on comms? Or are you the only one allowed to break rules tonight?”
“Red Hood, just give me—”
“It’s a lousy gang!” Jason shouts, voice tearing loose now, bouncing off steel and concrete and dark water. “They don’t even crack the top twenty. Damian could’ve done this shit by himself.”
He doesn’t look back, but he knows they’re following him. He can feel it—the weight of their footsteps, the way they trail just close enough to intervene if he breaks. Later, it’ll hit him why Tim made sure every single goon was double zip-tied, wrists biting white beneath plastic. Insurance.
Tim knew Jason would find out.
Knew none of them would be coming back to clean this up.
“Red Hood—”
“Merry Christmas, B,” Jason cuts in, bitter and sharp as broken glass. “Please don’t call.”
“JASON—”
Bruce’s voice snaps through the comm like a gunshot, dragging Jason straight back into another life, another night, another version of himself that answered to that tone. “She’s in danger. And if you want any chance of seeing her again, get to the Batcave—”
The line goes dead.
Not static. Not interference.
Bruce cut it himself.
Jason stops, because there's only one person he could be talking about to send all five of them with him.
The harbor seems to lurch, the world tilting just enough to make his balance feel theoretical. The wind howls between the containers, louder now, like Gotham exhaling something foul and satisfied. Water slaps hard against concrete pylons below, relentless, counting seconds Jason no longer owns.
Slowly—too slowly—he turns.
He looks at them. At Dick’s pale face. At Tim’s clenched jaw. At Damian’s rigid stillness. At Stephanie, eyes bright with unshed panic. At Cassandra, whose gaze is already on him, steady and mournful, like she’s watching something crack.
They look at him like he’s glass.
Like he’s a bomb they’re waiting to defuse—or clean up after.
Jason doesn’t give them the chance.
“Fuck all of you,” he spits, the words coming out broken and small despite his best efforts.
Then he runs.
Out of the harbor. Out of the sodium lights and rust and the weight of too many eyes. Jason runs like Gotham itself is on his heels, boots striking concrete in a brutal rhythm that drowns out thought—or tries to. The city stretches around him in jagged silhouettes and wet stone, skyscrapers looming like blackened ribs against a low, churning sky. Clouds hang heavy and swollen, bruised purple and gray, threatening rain they never quite release. Gotham loves the anticipation of pain more than the act itself.
His blood is loud in his ears. Too loud. Every heartbeat punches through his ribs, frantic and unforgiving, as if his body already knows something his mind refuses to accept.
Toward the manor. Toward answers.
Toward the awful, creeping certainty settling into his bones that whatever Gotham has taken this time, it didn’t take lightly—and it didn’t take something he can afford to replace.
He takes the shorter way.
Fire escapes. Rooftops slick with mist. Narrow alleys that smell like old rain and older sins. He vaults gaps without slowing, coat snapping behind him like a torn banner, the city blurring into streaks of shadow and light. This route cuts close to your place. Too close. He doesn’t consciously choose it; his body does, muscle memory dragging him along a path his heart has memorized better than any map.
And then—
Mid-leap, suspended between one rooftop and the next, he sees it.
Your building sits quiet against the skyline, dark in a way it never is. Your lights are off. All of them. The windows—your windows—are shattered, glass glittering weakly under the city’s glow like fallen stars. The balcony rail is smeared with something darker than shadow.
Blood.
The word doesn’t form. Not fully. His brain skids around it, refuses to give it weight. At most, he tells himself, you’re hurt. Something small. A cut. A scrape. A stupid accident that looks worse than it is. You’ll laugh it off when he gets there, scold him for worrying, tell him he’s being dramatic again.
Because you’re untouchable.
That’s the rule his mind has always clung to. Gotham can drown him in filth and violence and rot, but you—you—are clean. Untarnished. Something soft the city hasn’t learned how to bruise yet. You exist outside its reach, outside its hunger. Gotham takes things like Jason. It breaks people like him. It doesn’t get to put its hands on you.
It can’t have you.
Because if you’re hurt—if you’re really hurt—then everything Jason has built inside himself caves in at once. Every fragile structure, every careful compromise, every promise he’s made to stay standing for you. There’s no version of the world where you’re broken and he survives it intact.
He lands hard, barely absorbing the impact before he’s running again, lungs burning, throat raw. The manor rises ahead of him through the trees like a dark monument, windows glowing warm and oblivious against the night. Too slow. The gates are too slow. The doors are too slow.
Jason doesn’t bother.
He barrels straight for a ground-floor window and drives his elbow through it without hesitation. Glass explodes inward, sharp and screaming, biting into skin. He doesn’t feel it—not really—until he’s inside, boots skidding onto the polished floor, breath tearing out of him in harsh, uneven pulls.
Blood runs freely down his forearm, drips onto the pale carpet in dark, blooming stains.
It looks wrong there. Violent. Out of place, just like the blood on your balcony.
Jason stares at it for half a second too long, chest heaving, and something in him splinters quietly—because now he knows. The city has already touched you and it has never, not once, let go without breaking something in return.
Jason doesn’t slow down in the Cave.
The platform is still lowering when he’s already moving, boots striking metal too hard, too fast, the sound ricocheting off stone and steel. The Batcave yawns around them—vast and echoing, all cold water and colder rock, computer screens throwing pale blue light across jagged walls. The waterfall roars like it’s trying to drown the night itself, a constant, punishing noise that usually steadies him.
Tonight it only sharpens the edges.
Bruce turns at the last possible second. His eyes flick first to Jason’s face, then to the blood smeared down his arm, dripping steadily onto the pristine metal floor. Bruce’s mouth tightens. Not in anger. In calculation. In fear he refuses to name.
Jason shoves him.
Hard.
Bruce’s back slams into the Batcomputer console, screens rattling, data stuttering for half a heartbeat. A lesser man would’ve been airborne. Bruce Wayne could have thrown Jason across the Cave without effort—could have ended this in a clean, controlled second.
He doesn’t.
Jason knows he won’t.
“Where is she,” Jason spits, the words tearing out of him raw and shaking. His hands fist in Bruce’s cape, knuckles white, trembling despite the strength coiled beneath them. The fabric bunches beneath his grip like it might rip if he pulls any harder. “Where is she?”
Bruce lifts his hands slowly, carefully—not in surrender, but in containment. Like approaching a live wire. His voice, when he speaks, is measured to the point of pain.
“…Jason.”
The name alone is an attempt. An anchor. Bruce is already running scenarios, already gauging angles and exits and how much damage Jason could do if this slips another inch. He knows Jason’s tells. Knows the way his breathing has gone uneven, the way his eyes are too bright, too fixed. Knows this isn’t rage yet.
This is terror.
“Don’t,” Bruce says quietly. Not commanding. Pleading, buried deep beneath control. “Just—listen to me.”
Jason laughs once, short and broken, the sound scraping his throat raw. “No. You don’t get to slow this down. You don’t get to prepare me.”
Bruce swallows. “…Joker—” he begins.
And the world fractures.
The word lands heavy and obscene between them, fouling the air of the cave like poison gas. Joker. The name crawls under Jason’s armor, past muscle and bone, straight into the place where you live inside him.
Suddenly, you’re not untouchable.
You’re not the one clean thing Gotham never got its hands on. Not the soft place Jason runs to when the city claws at him too hard. Not the warmth in his bed, the light in his kitchen, the voice that says his name like it belongs to something human.
You’re not safe.
You’re not distant.
You’re not protected by the simple, impossible belief that the worst things in the world know better than to touch you.
You’re real.
You’re fragile.
You’re reachable.
Jason’s grip tightens without him meaning to, breath hitching violently in his chest. His mind fills with images he refuses to finish forming—broken glass, blood on pale surfaces, your windows shattered open to the night the same way his chest feels split open now. He thinks of your hands. Your laugh. The way you look at him like he’s something worth keeping.
And now—
Now you’re the blood he’s already wearing.
The blood he’s going to feel soaking into his gloves tonight.
Bruce sees it happen. Sees the moment Jason slips past anger and into something far more dangerous. His own heart lurches, sharp and traitorous. This—this is what he’s been afraid of since the second he knew Joker was involved. Not Jason lashing out blindly.
Jason focused.
Emotional.
Unanchored.
“Jason,” Bruce says again, softer now, steady as bedrock despite the fear tightening his chest. “I need you to stay with me. I need you here. Because if you go out there like this—”
Jason’s eyes snap back to him, glassy and feral and devastatingly alive.
“If I don’t go,” Jason says hoarsely, “she dies.”
“If you go,” Bruce says, low and sharp, the words cutting through the roar of the Cave, “you die—and you could lose her at the same time.”
The Batcave hums around them, fluorescent light washing the rock walls in cold blue, computer screens flickering with restless data. The waterfall crashes endlessly behind Bruce, mist clinging to the air, dampening everything it touches. It feels like the Cave is breathing—slow, heavy, watchful.
Bruce moves closer and grips Jason’s jacket with both hands, fingers clutching the leather like it’s the last solid thing in the world. He holds on the way a man holds a ledge he’s already slipping from, hoping friction alone might be enough to keep someone from falling.
It isn’t.
“Where is she,” Jason says.
His voice is flat. Too controlled. His eyes have already left Bruce, already slid to the Batcomputer, to the glowing map littered with red and yellow pings like open wounds across Gotham’s body. Each marker pulses faintly, alive and accusing.
He doesn’t notice his siblings closing in—Dick’s careful steps, Tim’s rigid stillness, Damian hovering sharp and coiled like a drawn blade.
“She’s alive,” Bruce says quickly, desperately. “She wasn’t the only one—at least four other children and three women—”
Jason turns his head.
The look he gives Bruce is devastating in its emptiness. Eyes glassed over, jaw set too tight, brows drawn together like the world has narrowed to a single, unbearable point.
“Do you honestly think I give a damn about them right now?”
The words aren’t shouted. They don’t need to be. They land heavy, obscene in their honesty, and Bruce’s grip tightens reflexively, knuckles whitening against Jason’s jacket.
“I know you don’t,” Bruce snaps back, frustration bleeding through control. “Which is why I didn’t tell you she was taken. Because we need a plan that keeps everyone who was captured safe—”
“At the risk she dies in the process?” Jason cuts in.
Then—he stills.
Something shifts. His hands loosen, falling away from Bruce’s cape as if the fabric has suddenly burned him. His gaze slides, sharp and intentional, and locks onto Tim.
“How long,” Jason says.
The question is steady. Solid. Frighteningly calm.
Tim swallows and flicks a glance at Bruce—a silent check, a plea, a habit Jason has seen a thousand times. Jason shoves Bruce’s hand aside and crosses the distance in two strides, grabbing Tim by the shoulders, fingers digging in through armor.
“Don’t,” Jason hisses, thumbs pressing hard, grounding, painful. “Don’t look at him.”
The words aren’t just for Tim. They’re for Jason too.
He vaguely registers Dick saying his name, Stephanie’s voice tight with panic somewhere behind him, but it all dissolves into a dull ringing as he stares down at Tim. Tim doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. He meets Jason’s gaze head-on.
“How long,” Jason repeats. “Where.”
Tim exhales, slow and controlled, the way he does when delivering bad news. “Two hours,” he says quietly. “Warehouse two blocks from Crime Alley. Behind that busted playground.”
Crime Alley.
The name echoes through the Cave like a curse, sinking into Jason’s chest and blooming outward, cold and malignant. Of course it’s there. Of course Joker chose that place—layers of history piled atop rot, a shrine built from other people’s pain.
Jason releases Tim slowly, hands trembling now, control finally beginning to crack.
Two hours.
Two hours of you alone with the man who taught Gotham how to laugh while it kills.
The Batcomputer hums on, indifferent. Gotham’s skyline glows faintly on the monitors—jagged towers under a bruised sky, rain finally starting to smear the camera feeds, streaking the city in gray. Somewhere out there, windows are broken. Somewhere out there, that cashmere scarf he wrapped and placed under your tree stays un-wrapped.
Jason understands then—with a clarity so sharp it almost feels merciful—that plans are a luxury meant for people who still believe time is something they own.
Time has never belonged to him.
Because you—you—aren’t alone. You’re trapped with seven other people. Four of them children, Bruce had said, like that word didn’t rearrange Jason’s insides completely. His mind does something traitorous then, something he hates himself for even acknowledging: it calculates. It knows how these things go. It knows Joker’s sense of theater, his appetite for cruelty, his fondness for leaving one survivor behind as punctuation.
And the last one standing is never the strongest.
It’s the smallest.
You would be dying before those kids.
Jason’s breath stutters, just once.
“Jason,” Bruce says from the Batcomputer, voice tight, forced into calm the way it always is when he’s terrified. The blue glow paints him hollow, all sharp angles and restraint. “Don’t make me stop you. The cops are on their way. Joker just wants cash.”
For the first time since the harbor, the noise in Jason’s head goes quiet.
Not peaceful—focused.
Everything narrows down to Bruce. To the way his shoulders are squared like a barricade. To the way his hands hover, uncertain, like he’s trying to decide whether to reach out or brace for impact. Jason’s heart hammers so hard it hurts, louder than the waterfall, louder than any threat Batman could ever make.
“If you even try, Bruce,” Jason says.
He doesn’t look at him when he says it. He can’t. The name comes out wrong in his mouth—too raw, too intimate, scraped down to bone. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Tim, standing rigid in front of him, small in a way Jason suddenly can’t stop seeing. He hopes—distantly, uselessly—that he isn’t glaring at his little brother. Hopes Tim understands this isn’t anger.
Just pure desperation. His last attempt, his last shot.
“Ill fucking shoot myself. I’ll make sure you know it’s your fault,” Jason continues, voice low and shaking despite his effort to keep it steady. “I’ll use my gun. And if you tie me up today, I’ll wait until next week. If you lock me down for a week, I’ll wait a month. I’ll do it.”
He swallows.
Because that’s the only thing that’s ever worked. The only language Bruce Wayne never ignores.
Dick moves fast—too fast—grabbing Jason’s arm where it’s still braced near Tim, fingers digging in hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he shouts, panic cracking straight through his anger.
Jason turns on him then, eyes blazing, voice breaking loose at last.
“Would you be this still?” Jason yells back. “If that was me with Joker again? If it was me instead of her—would you have left me there for the police to find? Again?”
The word hangs between them, heavy and damning.
Again.
Jason knows Dick well enough to see it land. To watch his brother’s grip falter, fingers loosening like they’ve forgotten what they were holding onto in the first place. Dick’s face goes pale, mouth parting uselessly, and Jason twists the knife—not because he wants to hurt him, but because he needs them to understand.
“This,” Jason snaps. “This is why none of you fucking knew about her.”
He looks at all of them now—really looks. At Bruce, frozen behind the console like a man staring down a live bomb. At Dick, wrecked with guilt.
“If you can’t even see me beyond a mistake you made,” Jason says, voice hoarse, “there was no way you wouldn’t have seen her as that too. And I love her too much for that.”
The words leave him hollowed out.
Then he’s gone.
The Cave swallows the echo of his footsteps, leaving only the roar of the waterfall and the hum of machines that suddenly feel pointless. No one moves to stop him. No one even tries.
It takes Tim a full minute to cross the platform and reach the Batcomputer, fingers hovering uselessly over keys he knows by heart.
It takes Cassandra four times as long to find a part of Bruce that still moves—some small, human place in his arm or shoulder that isn’t locked rigid like a man bracing for an explosion he knows is already ticking down.
Dick follows Jason’s trail almost immediately. And Damian follows Dick.
You don’t remember the last five hours.
They’re gone—hollowed out—like someone reached into your head and scooped the time away with a careless hand. The last thing you have is small and warm and ordinary: the coffee table between the couch and the window, set for two. Plates aligned just so. The new glasses you bought with Jason on that stupidly perfect thrift-store date, thin and elegant and impractical. You’d laughed about them, about how easy they’d be to break. Jason had pretended to scold you, fingers warm around yours as he tugged you toward the bookshelves, already stacking paperbacks in his arms like treasure.
You’d bought homeware. A vintage mirror with a gold edge, slightly warped, the kind that makes everything look softer than it is.
Jason always said you needed better locks. You realize it numbly.
He always said it gently, like a suggestion instead of a warning. Like he was talking about replacing a lightbulb or buying better coffee. You brushed him off every time, smiling, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, telling him Gotham wasn’t that bad. That you were fine. That you were safe.
And you were right. You always are.
Because an extra lock wouldn’t have stopped the man with the red smile.
It wouldn’t have stopped hands tangling in your hair, fingers tight and merciless as he dragged you across your rug, skin burning where it scraped against the fibers. It wouldn’t have stopped the way your mirror shattered when he slammed you against it, glass singing as it broke, your own reflection splintering into a hundred terrified pieces that stared back at you with wide, unbelieving eyes.
It wouldn’t have stopped the way he looked at you.
He crouched in front of you like this was intimate. Like this was a secret. His smile stretched too far, paint cracked and smeared, eyes bright with something wrong and delighted and ancient.
Joker tilted his head, studying you the way a child studies an insect pinned to cork.
“Here’s the other lovebird,” he murmured, voice lilting, almost fond. “Ohhh… how cute you are.”
You remember thinking—absurdly, desperately—that Jason would hate that word. That he’d bristle at it, roll his eyes, pull you closer just to prove a point. You remember the ache of missing him hitting harder than the pain at first, your mind reaching for him the way it always does when the world goes wrong.
Jason would know what to do.
Jason would make this stop.
The thought is a comfort even now, curled tight in your chest, fragile but stubborn. You cling to it as the man stands, as one of the shadows behind him passes up an old, rusted crowbar. The metal is pitted and dark, flaking with age and something older still. It smells like iron and damp and rot.
It doesn’t take a lock to stop that.
It doesn’t take a security system to stop the sound your bones make when he brings it down.
The pain comes in blinding flashes—white-hot, nauseating, wrong. Your legs scream before you do, nerves lighting up in protest, your body trying to fold in on itself, trying to protect something already broken. You taste blood, copper and thick, your teeth chattering even as your throat burns raw from crying out.
Through it all, you think of Jason.
Of his hands—gentle despite their strength. Of the way he says your name like it’s something precious, something he’s afraid to drop. You think of his laugh, low and surprised, the way he softens when it’s just the two of you and Gotham can’t see him. You think of the books still stacked on the table, waiting to be read, of the glasses that shattered just like the mirror did.
Of how he warned you.
Of how he would be here already if he knew.
The room feels wrong—tilted, smeared with shadow, the air thick and sour. Blood pools where it shouldn’t, dark against your floor, soaking into the rug you picked out together. The city hums outside your broken windows, indifferent and vast, neon bleeding into the night like nothing is wrong at all.
You breathe when you can. You hold onto Jason’s name like a prayer you’re afraid to say out loud.
Because if he comes—when he comes—you need to believe there will still be something left of you for him to find.
Your consciousness returns in fragments, drifting in and out the same way you remember nights with him. Not clean breaks. Not mercy. Just gaps.
A void of sleep.
Jason easing your window open like the city might hear him, hands raised in mock surrender, voice low and careful. I didn’t mean to wake you… shh… go back to bed. The mattress dips, familiar weight settling beside you, warmth bleeding into your back.
A void of sleep.
Jason in your bathroom, the light too bright, the mirror fogged. Gotham’s blood and grime rinsed down the drain while he rubs his hair dry with one of your soft, ridiculous pink towels. He smiles at you through the doorway, sheepish and fond, promises he’ll be there in a second. He always is.
A void of sleep.
Jason shifting beside you, breath warm against the delicate skin beneath your ear. His arm tightens in his sleep, possessive without knowing it, like even unconscious he’s afraid the world might take you if he lets go. He murmurs your name—broken, reverent.
A void of sleep.
White hands. Cracked paint. Fingers threading through your hair, slick and tangled with blood. The touch is intimate in the worst way, scalp burning as he hums—no, sings—a childish tune about robins, voice lilting and wrong, laughter bubbling beneath it like rot under sugar.
A void of sleep.
Concrete tearing at your skin as you’re dragged, knees bouncing, spine jolting with every crack in the ground. A van door yawns open, metal teeth waiting. A child sobs near your ear, small and hiccuping. A woman screams at the child to shut up—panic sharp and desperate—until a gunshot rings out like punctuation. The woman goes silent. The child doesn’t. The word mommy repeats, thin and broken, drilling into your skull.
A void of sleep.
You wake choking on pain.
Your body is bound to a chair, wrists cinched tight, ankles screaming. Barbed wire coils around you like something alive, biting deep with every involuntary twitch. The metal is rusted, flaking, cruel—tearing skin open in ragged kisses that burn and throb and never quite stop bleeding. Your legs are numb in places, screaming in others. You can feel blood soaking into fabric, sticky and cooling as it trails downward.
He’s in front of you.
Smiling.
Head cocked, eyes bright with interest, like you’re a puzzle he’s just started enjoying. He steps closer, crouches until he’s eye-level with you, hands clasped together as if in prayer.
“You do love your sleep, don’t you?” he says, voice almost gentle.
Your vision swims. The room smells like iron and oil and damp concrete. Somewhere nearby, something drips steadily—water, or blood, or both. The walls feel too close, the shadows stretching and curling like they’re listening.
“The other birdy,” he continues, grinning wider, “wouldn’t even sleep if I cracked his skull. Such a shame.” He sighs theatrically, tapping the barbed wire with one gloved finger, delighted by the way you flinch. “I suppose I’ll have to find a way to keep you awake.”
Through the haze, through the pain, one thought stays stubbornly intact.
Jason is coming.
And you cling to that like a lifeline, even as the horror closes in, even as the night tries to peel you apart—because if you let go of that belief, if you let the void take everything—There will be nothing left for him to save.
You can’t see farther than four feet in front of you.
Anything beyond that dissolves into smears of color and motion, the edges of the room bleeding into one another. When you try to focus, your vision tilts violently, the world pitching sideways as warm blood slips down from your temple, sticky and insistent. It drips into your eye, blurring everything further, each blink making it worse. The ceiling swims. The walls breathe.
He notices.
Of course he does.
He steps into what little clarity you have left, face snapping into focus like a nightmare finally deciding to be seen. His hand comes up fast, fingers prying your jaw open with impatient familiarity. Something chalky presses against your tongue.
You gag immediately.
Your throat spasms around his fingers, saliva thick and useless as panic claws up your chest. Your head jerks instinctively, barbed wire biting deeper in protest, fresh pain flaring white-hot along your wrists and ankles. He doesn’t pull away. He shoves the pill back, past your tongue, past your resistance, until your body betrays you and swallows.
You choke.
Tears spill from your eyes, hot and humiliating, streaking through the grime on your cheeks. Your lungs burn as you suck in air in sharp, broken pulls.
Jason, you think, distantly, desperately. The name is a reflex now. A prayer you don’t dare say out loud.
His hand withdraws at last.
Then—
Smack.
Your head snaps to the side, vision exploding into sparks. Before you can react—
Smack.
The second strike lands harder, ringing through your skull, teeth clacking together as pain blooms anew. The world steadies just enough to be cruel about it.
“That’ll keep you awake, birdy,” he croons, pleased.
Your heart slams against your ribs, frantic and trapped. Already you can feel it—the way the haze pulls back just a little too much, the way your thoughts sharpen against your will. Your eyelids burn, heavy but refusing to close, nerves screaming as the drug seeps in and denies you even the mercy of darkness.
“Now.”
He leans back into his own chair like this is a rehearsal, like he’s bored of waiting for his cue. The legs scrape loudly against the concrete, the sound sharp enough to hurt. He reaches forward and adjusts the camera in front of you with careful precision. A small red light blinks every few seconds—steady, patient. Watching.
“We’re going to make a deal, okay?”
You don’t answer.
Your eyes refuse to cooperate, swimming uselessly as you blink through blood and tears. Every attempt to focus sends a wave of nausea through you, the room tilting, your pulse roaring in your ears louder than his voice. Your jaw trembles. Your tongue feels thick, wrong in your mouth.
“Okay?”
Nothing comes out.
The barbed wire strung cruelly across your throat digs in deeper with every breath you take, a quiet reminder that sound would cost you skin. Air hisses past your teeth in shallow pulls. You can feel your heartbeat there, fluttering and frantic against metal.
His smile thins.
He stands.
The rusty crowbar tightens in his grip as he rises from a stupid, bright orange folding chair—out of place, obscene against the filth of the warehouse. He steps into frame, then closer, until the camera, until you, are all that exist. He hooks two fingers under your chin and lifts your face, forcing your eyes up.
“Answer.”
You try.
Your mouth opens. Nothing happens.
All you can see is him—cracked white makeup creasing around his eyes, green hair greasy and limp, age showing in the lines around his mouth where smiles have lived too long. He smells like oil and metal and something sour beneath it all. The warehouse stinks of rust, damp concrete, old fuel. It crawls into your lungs.
And then—
You hear it.
A sound that doesn’t belong to him.
Crying.
Your head turns slowly, painfully, vertebrae protesting as the wire shifts against your throat. The movement costs you another sharp breath. Your vision blurs again—but this time, shapes resolve.
A cluster of bodies huddled together against a dented equipment container. Two teenage girls with their knees pulled tight to their chests, faces streaked with dirt and tears. Four little boys wedged between them, shaking, hands bound too tight, mouths open in silent sobs like they’ve already learned screaming doesn’t help.
Something in your chest caves in.
You don’t even see the crowbar move.
The impact comes out of nowhere—white-hot, brutal. The hooked end of the bar slams into your shoulder with a wet, tearing sound, metal biting deep as it pierces flesh. Pain detonates through you, ripping the air from your lungs. He yells as he does it, manic and delighted, like the violence startled even him.
Your body jerks against the restraints.
Barbed wire bites deeper. Blood spills warm and fast down your arm, soaking into your sleeve, dripping to the floor in thick, uneven drops. Your vision fractures, stars bursting behind your eyes.
You clamp your teeth down hard on your lip to keep from screaming.
You taste iron immediately—sharp and overwhelming—as skin breaks beneath your bite. Tears spill freely now, blurring everything, mixing with the blood already clinging to your lashes. It burns. It hurts. Your whole body shakes with the effort of staying quiet.
Behind you, the crying gets worse—fractured, panicked.
“Okay,” you choke out.
The word scrapes your throat raw on the way out, barely more than a breath. It tastes like blood and rust and surrender.
Immediately, the pressure is gone.
The crowbar pulls free with a wet sound that makes your vision white out, pain screaming down your arm as the hooked metal tears away from muscle and skin. You shudder hard, a broken gasp ripping out of you despite your best effort to swallow it down.
He steps back like a magician deciding on the next trick.
Then he leans in again—careful, deliberate—and pats at the wound where the bar pierced you. Not gentle. Never gentle. His palm presses just enough to make you flinch, fingers smearing warm blood across your torn clothes.
“See?” he says brightly, turning slightly so the camera gets a better angle. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Your breath comes shallow and fast, chest stuttering against the wire. Every inhale sends a fresh bloom of pain through your shoulder, the edges of it pulsing in time with your heart.
His hands come up next.
Dry. Cracked. Too warm.
He grabs your face, fingers digging into your cheeks, thumbs pressing at your jaw as he tilts your head from side to side. The movement drags the skin of your neck against the barbed wire, a searing, intimate pain that makes your eyes flood instantly.
“What a dumb dumb birdy you are,” he croons, affectionate in the way predators are. “It’s okay. Joker can teach you.”
Your body trembles uncontrollably now. Your fingers spasm uselessly against the wooden arms of the chair, nails scraping shallow grooves into the surface. You can feel blood slicking your palm and you don't even want to think about how you got hurt there too.
He releases your face.
Pats your head once.
The gesture is almost worse than the violence.
“Now,” he says softly, pleasantly, “say thank you.”
Your vision swims. The room feels too loud, too close. Somewhere behind you, one of the children sobs so hard it turns into hiccupping gasps. You swallow around the wire, throat burning.
You look up at him with shaking eyes, lashes heavy with tears and blood. Your mouth opens. Your lips quiver.
“Thank—” Your voice breaks completely. You force it back together, dragging the word out of yourself like it’s being pulled through glass. “Thank you.”
His smile spreads slow and satisfied, stretching the cracks in his makeup wider.
“Good birdy,” he coos, pleased. “So much more compliant than your love bird already!”
“Now—” Joker announces, voice lifting into a theatrical lilt, like he’s stepped beneath a spotlight instead of flickering warehouse fluorescents. He turns toward the camera, gives it a jaunty little nod, then looks back at you, grin splitting wider. “I was gonna let you go for some cash. Thought your little boy bird might get scared shitless—just a fun little bonus, really—buttt—”
He drifts away from you, footsteps light, almost playful. You can’t turn your head far enough to see what he’s doing. The wire bites when you try. Your vision pulses, dark at the edges.
Then—
A scream.
Sharp. High. A girl’s voice.
It cuts off halfway through, collapsing into a thin, broken cry that echoes far too long in the hollow space of the warehouse.
Something in you fractures.
Joker reappears at your side, breath brushing your ear, laughter bubbling out of him like it’s a private joke the two of you share. “Got lucky with a rich bitch on the road,” he cackles, delighted. “Gotham really does keep on givin’.”
Your stomach twists violently. You taste bile. The crying behind you swells again, panicked and animal, and you can feel your own body trying to fold in on itself despite the restraints, like if you curl inward hard enough you might disappear.
His hands slide to your throat and at the same time your eyes land onto his hands. Diamond earrings.
He ripped her earrings out of her ears.
Before you can flinch at the sight of pieces of skin in his open hand, he yanks.
The chain snaps free with a sharp tug, metal biting into your skin as the necklace tears away. You gasp, the wire at your neck punishing you for it, and the sudden cold where the chain used to rest feels obscene—too exposed. You feel lucky that you took off your earrings when you were doing your hair.
He dangles it in front of the camera, letting it glint under the harsh light, gemstones smeared faintly red from your blood. “This could go for a couple hundred too!” he sings. “Ohhh, how delightful!”
He leans closer, eyes alight, savoring every tremor that runs through you. “At least one of the birdies knows how to decorate their nest. Found a few rings at your place as well.”
Joker pockets the necklace with a satisfied hum.
“Well, now that I don’t need the money,” he croons, voice lilting, playful, like he’s deciding which joke to tell next, “what should I do with you?”
His fingers drag along your cheek again, slower this time, the pad of his thumb pressing just hard enough to bruise. His touch leaves heat behind, a crawling sensation that makes your stomach revolt. You feel contaminated where he’s touched you, like your skin is remembering something it shouldn’t.
“…I’ll give you more,” you whisper. Your voice fractures around the word, splintering into something pitiful and thin. “However much you want—just—”
“Oh, I don’t need money.”
The change is instant. His tone drops, sharp and venomous, and when he leans in his eyes are blown wide and empty, pupils swallowing the green like oil slicks. A hawk spotting movement. A blade finding flesh.
“I was looking for some fun, love bird,” he hisses. “You can’t give me that?”
You whimper around the grip on your jaw as his fingers tighten, nails biting into your skin. The wire at your throat digs deeper when you gasp, its teeth kissing something vital. Pain blooms hot and bright, stars bursting behind your eyes.
“Jason— Jason will—”
He doesn’t even flinch at the name.
Maybe that’s mercy.
His fingers move higher, rough and invasive, smearing through the makeup you’d put on hours ago with careful hands. The eyeshadow burns as it’s ground into your skin, sweat and blood turning it into a dark, ugly paste. His thumb drags through the faint blush on your cheeks, erasing it like it was a mistake.
“How pretty you are,” he murmurs, almost tender. “I do makeup on myself too, you know.”
Then his hands leave you entirely.
He grabs his own face, fingers digging into the cracked greasepaint, stretching the red grin wider, tearing at the corners until the white creases and flakes. For a second you think you see real skin underneath—white, lined, angry. Horrid.
“Do you like mine?” he asks brightly. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Your mind blanks.
Your eyes flick helplessly to the camera instead—the blinking red light pulsing steadily, patiently. Recording. Waiting. You try to speak, to say yes or no or anything that might stop what’s coming, but your throat locks around the wire and all that comes out is a wet, useless sound.
Then—
“Very pretty!”
The voice is behind you.
Too young.
A teenage girl, no older than seventeen. Her voice trembles, thin and frantic, the words tumbling over each other. “So—so pretty—”
You feel something inside you tear open.
She’s trying to survive. You can feel that hope radiate off of her. The hope of throwing words into the dark and praying it lands somewhere safe.
Joker’s head snaps toward her.
His eyes narrow, sharp and wrong, smile freezing into something predatory. “You think so?”
There’s a frantic nod you can hear more than see—the quick intake of breath, the shuddering little sob that follows.
Joker bends down.
The crowbar scrapes loudly as he lifts it, metal screaming against concrete. You catch a glimpse of it as he moves past you—rusted, pitted, darkened in places where it’s already been used tonight.
Then he’s gone from your line of sight.
The scream that follows is immediate and unbearable.
It’s not just pain—it’s shock, terror, the sound of someone realizing too late that they were wrong. The metal wall amplifies it, throws it back at itself until it feels like the warehouse is screaming with her.
There’s a wet, sickening crack.
A sound like meat hitting concrete.
“Why don’t we match?” Joker coos from behind you, voice light and delighted. “I did one side, now the other!”
The crowbar hits again.
You hear bone give this time—feel it in your teeth, in your chest. Her scream fractures into something animal, then into choking sobs, then into a raw, bubbling sound that makes bile rush up your throat.
Your own crying breaks free, ugly and uncontrollable. Your body jerks against the restraints, fingers cramping, nails tearing uselessly into the wood of the chair. Hot tears spill down your face, mixing with blood, dripping off your chin in thick, dark drops.
The camera’s red light blinks again.
Once.
Twice.
It taunts you by matching every sound that breaks out of you.
Every gasped sob, every wet, hitching breath. The camera’s red light blinks in time with your chest, like it’s learned your rhythm, like it’s decided to breathe with you instead of for you.
And then the Joker comes back.
You smell him before you see him—iron-thick blood, old rust, sweat gone sour. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, fingers shining under the warehouse lights. The crowbar hangs loose in his grip, darker now, clotted, strands of hair caught cruelly in its curve.
He crouches in front of you, bringing himself eye-level, like he’s talking to a child.
“Well,” he hums thoughtfully. “I can’t give you her look, can I?”
Your vision swims. You can’t stop shaking. Tears slide down your face in hot, unstoppable streams, carving clean paths through blood and grime. Your mouth opens, but nothing coherent comes out—just a broken, animal sound that folds back in on itself.
His smile twitches.
“What should I do with you?” he asks softly. “Hm?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. You just cry harder, chest stuttering against the wire, throat raw and burning.
That seems to irritate him.
He clicks his tongue, disappointed, and lifts the crowbar. The cold metal taps against your cheek once—tap—just enough to make you flinch violently. He pauses, head tilting.
“Oh—”
His eyes light up.
“Oh yes, that’s wonderful! Oh—” He erupts into laughter, sudden and explosive, clutching his stomach as if the joke is too much to bear. Spit flies from his mouth, warm and disgusting as it lands in your hair, streaking through blood-matted strands. “Oh, isn’t my brain just splendid?”
He straightens, still laughing, wiping his eyes like he’s genuinely amused. “You bats are all poetry, I say—pure poetry!”
Then he turns.
Walks away.
His footsteps fade, echoing hollowly through the warehouse, until there’s only the hum of the lights, the distant crying behind you—and the camera.
You’re alone.
One last sob claws its way out of your throat, wet and choking. Blood follows it, dribbling down your chin, splashing darkly against your chest. You force your eyes open, drag them upward, lock them onto the camera.
You don’t know who’s watching. You don’t know if anyone is.
Your voice comes out steadier than it has any right to be.
“How—”
“Shut up!” someone whisper-yells behind you, frantic and terrified. “There’s other men!”
Your mouth snaps shut.
And the red light keeps blinking.
The metal door slams open with a shriek of abused hinges, the impact shuddering through the warehouse floor and straight up your spine. Dust rains down from the rafters in a thin, dirty veil, catching in your hair and sticking to the blood already drying there.
He’s laughing before you even see him.
Not distant laughter—close. Moving. Each step accompanied by a wet, dragging sound, like something heavy being pulled across concrete. His cackle ricochets off the shipping containers, off the steel beams, off the low ceiling that traps the sound and forces it back into your skull.
A little boy cries out behind you as Joker passes him. A sharp, panicked sound that fractures into a sob and then cuts off abruptly, like someone clamped a hand over his mouth.
The air grows hotter.
Through the warped reflection in the camera lens, you see it clearly now: a long metal bar burning red-hot, so bright it hurts to look at directly. Heat ripples distort the image around it, the glow painting the walls in feverish streaks of crimson. The smell hits you next—burning iron, scorched metal, something faintly organic beneath it that makes bile crawl up your throat.
Joker taps the brand against the concrete behind you.
It doesn’t clang.
It hisses.
The sound is sharp and alive, like meat on a skillet. Tiny sparks spit outward where it kisses the floor, leaving blackened scars in the cement. The red glow doesn’t dull. Doesn’t cool. It stays furious and bright, as if fed by something endless.
Whatever fragile hope you were clutching evaporates in that moment, leaving you hollowed out, lungs burning as you exhale something that feels like your last prayer.
He’s behind you in the next second.
Joker’s hand comes out of nowhere, clamping over your mouth, palm slick and hot. The copper taste floods you as his fingers press into your cheeks, nails digging in just enough to hurt—just enough to remind you that restraint is a choice he’s making. Your head is forced back, neck screaming as the wire saws deeper, the barbs biting into tender skin.
“Would you like to match your birdy?” he murmurs.
His voice is serene. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
He angles the brand around the arm of the chair so you can see it clearly. The letter is unmistakable now, its edges glowing white-hot, heat radiating off it in suffocating waves.
A ‘𝙹’.
Your body reacts before your mind can—your stomach convulses, gagging against his hand, breath stuttering uselessly through your nose. Your skin feels too tight, like it’s already shrinking away from what’s coming.
“We’re going to make the deal now,” he coos.
In the camera’s reflection, you can see his eye—wide, bright, utterly focused on the blinking red dot. Performing. Enjoying the audience if there even is one.
“You either get a matching look…” The brand drifts closer, close enough that the heat kisses your cheek, nerves screaming in anticipation, sweat instantly breaking out along your spine. “…or you tell me who you hate.”
His hand peels away from your mouth.
Air rushes in too fast. You choke on it, coughing hard enough that the wire grinds into your throat, pain blooming hot and blinding. Your voice comes out shredded. “Who… who I hate?”
“Who put you here?” he hums thoughtfully, as if the answer delights him. “It wasn’t me.”
The brand pauses, hovering inches from your skin. You can feel the heat burrowing inward, like it’s already memorizing you.
“Why do you think I found you?” he continues lightly. “Do you know how sloppy he is?”
Silence stretches, thick and oppressive.
You stare at the glowing red letter, your mind drifting somewhere distant and numb to survive. Absurdly, irrationally, you think of Jason’s helmet—the same violent red, the same defiant color. You wonder if he’s thinking of you right now. If he can feel this, somehow.
“Tell me who you hate.”
The words don’t just reach you—they enter you, heavy and cold, sinking past bone and settling somewhere deep and irreversible. They press the air flat, make the warehouse feel smaller, closer, like the walls are leaning in to listen.
He stands before you in all his wrongness, and up close there is nothing theatrical left. The Joker’s makeup has melted into something corpse-like, white cracked and flaking into the grooves of his face as though his skin is trying to shed it. The red smile is no longer a grin so much as a wound, smeared unevenly, darker where blood has mixed in, the corners dragged downward by age and use. His hair hangs limp, green dulled to the color of mold, clinging to his scalp in greasy strands. His eyes are too bright—glass-bright, feverish—never still, never soft, reflecting the warehouse lights like knives.
The space around you hums with misery. The concrete beneath your feet is slick with blood and oil, cold seeping up through the chair and into your bones. Shipping containers loom like coffins, their metal sides scarred and rusted, shadows pooled so thick between them it feels like something could step out at any moment. The air reeks—burnt iron, old sweat, copper, rot—and every breath feels like inhaling something alive and hostile.
You look at the camera.
That red eye blinks steadily, rhythmically, a heart that isn’t yours. It sees the way your chest shudders, the way your fingers twitch uselessly against the bindings, the way your body is already bracing for pain it knows is coming. Your thoughts drift, slow and exhausted, slipping through your hands like water you can’t quite hold.
You think of Jason.
Not the helmet. Not the blood. But his hands—warm, callused, careful when they touch you. The way he looks at you like the world might soften if you stay. The way he says your name like it’s something solid.
You could say his name now.
You could offer it up like a sacrifice and pray that this monster believes in deals, that you might walk out of here broken but breathing. You could lie and hope he lets you go.
Or you could say Jason’s name and watch Joker’s smile vanish as he switches off the camera and kills you quietly, preserving this horror to show your sweet boy later.
Or you could stay silent and take the brand—feel your skin burn, your body marked, watch the ecstasy bloom in Joker’s eyes as he claims you like an object he’s improved.
None of them feel survivable.
Something inside you twists—not courage, not bravery, but love sharpened into something desperate and ugly and defiant. You gather what spit you can in your blood-wet mouth and turn your head as far as the wire allows.
You spit in his face.
It lands wet and unmistakable, dragging a slow line through the cracked white paint, cutting through the red smile like an insult carved in flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything freezes.
The Joker goes utterly still, his expression emptying out in a way that is far more frightening than his laughter. Then his eyes widen, pupils dilating, fury flaring bright and feral—pleased.
You lean forward, neck screaming as the wire bites deeper, and you whisper because your voice will not survive being louder.
“You know,” you murmur, breath shaking despite everything you do to steady it, “he’s never mentioned you before.”
His breath stutters.
“You must not have left quite an impression.”
It’s a lie. A reckless, transparent lie.
You have lived in Gotham long enough to know exactly what he is—his name written in blood across the city’s history—but lies can still cut, and you see it land. You see the way his smile stretches wider, hungry and thrilled.
You’ve given him a reason.
A reason to prove himself.
A reason to keep you alive.
A reason to make you hurt longer.
His hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back violently. Your neck slams into the barbed wire, spikes tearing in with a wet, intimate sound that makes you sob despite yourself. Warm blood spills down your throat, choking you, slicking your chest.
Then the brand descends.
The heat is indescribable—ancient, total, a pain so vast it consumes thought itself. Your flesh screams as it burns, the smell of seared skin rising thick and sweet, smoke curling upward as the letter is carved into you slowly, deliberately. Your body arches uselessly against the restraints, every nerve on fire, and the sound that leaves you is not a scream so much as something torn out of your soul.
You hate that he hears it. And when that drug denies you the void of sleep you so desperately need, you allow yourself to think numbly as the man pulls it away that at least Jason can't dwindle his appearance anymore.
Your tears stripe down your cheeks, burning as they touch your skin.
We match. You think numbly, Atleast we match.
He strokes over the brand with more delicacy than he has ever had in this whole nightmare, mumbling, “This is going to hurt you a lot more than it hurts me.”
When you wake again, it’s to the weight of tears landing on your face—warm, uneven drops that pull you out of the dark in slow, reluctant pieces. For a moment you don’t know where you are. The world rocks gently, like it can’t decide whether to keep moving or stop altogether. There’s the low hum of an engine beneath you, vibration traveling through bone and bruised muscle, and the smell of old leather surrounds you—worn, familiar, grounding in a way that makes your chest ache.
Leather is good.
Leather is not acid.
Leather does not burn your lungs on the way in.
“Hurts,” you mumble, the word barely surviving the journey out of your throat. You offer it up like an apology, like a peace offering, half-expecting pain to answer you back.
Instead, the crying breaks harder.
It comes undone above you, raw and ugly, and through the haze you realize you aren’t lying flat on concrete, waiting for the Joker to press a cinder block to your stomach. Your body is stretched across someone, your legs draped over another set of knees, your weight distributed carefully, reverently, like something fragile that might shatter if shifted wrong.
An arm is braced beneath your neck, steady and strong, keeping your head from lolling, and your cheek presses into a leather jacket that smells unmistakably like gun oil, sweat, rain—
Jason.
The knowledge hits softer than it should, cushioned by exhaustion and shock, and when your eyes finally manage to open, everything swims. Light smears at the edges, colors bleeding into one another, but his face is there anyway, hovering close, carved with terror and relief and something so naked it almost scares you more than the warehouse did.
“Am I in heaven?” you mumble.
He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob and isn’t quite a laugh, choking on it as his chin trembles. “You don’t even believe in heaven.”
“Well,” you murmur, trying—and failing—to pull your mouth into something that resembles a smile, “what else could you be?”
Your jaw burns when you speak. Everything burns. It feels like your body has been filled with broken glass and lit from the inside, and you’re dimly aware of warm liquid slipping from your mouth, darkening the leather beneath your cheek every time you breathe wrong. You hate that you’re staining him. You hate that you can’t stop.
“I’ll kill him,” Jason whispers, like a prayer he’s been holding onto with both hands. His fingers shake as they brush your hair back, careful to avoid places he knows are hurt. “I’ll kill him. I promise.”
“Can I have hot chocolate first?” you mumble. The words feel distant, like they belong to someone else. “I bought that expensive kind… from Finland. Asshole knocked it all over my carpet…”
Jason’s breath fractures completely at that. He nods too hard, tears spilling freely now, dropping onto your cheeks, your neck, your collarbone. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll buy you hot chocolate. I’ll buy you all of it.”
Somewhere near your feet, another voice cuts in, low and strained with concern. “Hey, Jay—breathe—”
Jason doesn’t hear them. Or maybe he does and simply can’t afford to listen. His chest is rising too fast beneath you, breaths sawing in and out like he’s drowning on dry land, his eyes glassy and unfocused, the green in them shifting with every frantic blink.
Or maybe that’s just your vision still failing you. That would make sense. The powder. The smoke. The way light hurts now.
“Stop crying,” you murmur weakly. “I can’t die with you looking like that.”
That breaks him.
His face crumples completely, grief spilling over into something fierce and desperate as he bends closer, forehead almost touching yours. “Good,” he chokes. “Fuck you. I’ll cry even more, so–so stay with me, yeah?”
“No,” you whisper, your voice scraping raw against your throat. “Wanna sleep.”
“You slept an awful lot,” he snaps, but there’s no anger in it—only terror wearing sharp edges, only love clawing its way out however it can.
“Well,” you murmur, your voice thin but soft, like you’re afraid of startling him, “You show up in my dreams an awful lot.”
That does it.
Whatever fragile control Jason had left fractures clean through. He folds over you instinctively, shoulders caving as he tries—fails—to hide the sound of it. His breath comes apart against your hair, his forehead dipping close to your temple like if he presses himself near enough, he can keep you here by force alone. You feel the tremor of him through your whole body, every hitch of his chest echoing in your ribs.
You smell blood on him then. Copper and iron, sharp beneath the leather and sweat and rain. For a distant, numb second you think it’s yours again—until the scent is too heavy, too layered.
Oh.
Was this—
“Did I interrupt family bonding?” you whisper.
Your lips barely move. The words slip out half-asleep, half-dreaming, and they earn you a startled huff from somewhere behind you. Jason doesn’t answer. He can’t. His arms tighten instead, one hand splayed carefully at your back like he’s afraid even breathing too hard might hurt you more.
A voice comes from the seat behind, dry and unimpressed, because Jason is currently incapable of speech and whoever has your legs resting in their lap is rubbing slow, grounding circles into his back.
“If this is what you think family bonding is, you’ll fit right in.”
“Damian, be quiet,” another voice snaps.
“She’s the one shamelessly flirting with him in front of all of us, Tim” Damian continues anyway, undeterred. “And Father isn’t even saying anything, so—”
“Well she’s the one dying!” Tim blurts, voice cracking sharp with fear.
Jason chokes on the words that come from Tim’s mouth, breath stuttering hard, and a deeper voice cuts in from the front seat—controlled, measured, holding itself together by sheer will.
“She’s not going to die, Tim.”
“I want hoya bellas on my grave,” you interrupt softly.
Jason lets out a broken sound that might have been a laugh in another universe. He shakes his head over you, forehead brushing your hair, and through your blurry vision you think you catch a gloved hand popping up behind him in a solemn thumbs-up.
“Got it.”
Another voice joins in from the front, exasperated and strained. “Cassandra, she’s not being serious.”
“I’m sorry,” Jason whispers, over and over, like a mantra, like something he’s trying to carve into reality. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His thumb strokes your hair away from your forehead again, impossibly gentle, avoiding the places he knows hurt, the places he doesn’t want to know at all.
“I’m gonna sleep now,” you murmur. It takes effort to shape the words. The dark is getting heavier again, tugging at you, warm and deep. “Can one of you give Jason water?”
“Hey—” Jason breathes, panic flaring sharp as his voice cracks. “Hey, no—no, no, no, stay with me, come on—”
But you’re already slipping.
Your eyes flutter closed despite him, despite the warmth of his arms, despite the way his heart is racing beneath your ear like it’s trying to outrun fate itself. His glove comes off hurriedly and you feel his bare fingers press to your pulse, grounding himself in the steady beat there, in the fact that it’s still happening.
After a few minutes, Dick leans forward and taps Jason’s shoulder gently, offering a water bottle. His uniform is torn and scorched like the rest of them, a thin cut bright against his cheek, but his voice is soft when he speaks.
“Drink.”
Jason doesn’t look up. He doesn’t let go. He just nods once, tight and shaky, eyes fixed on you like if he looks away for even a second, the world might take you again.
He forces himself to take a full gulp of water, the plastic bottle crinkling loudly in the too-quiet car, his throat working like it has to remember how swallowing goes. His hands are still shaking when he passes it off to Tim.
“Hey, I don’t need any—”
Jason looks at him.
Not sharp. Not angry. Just steady in a way that leaves no room for argument, the kind of look that says do this or I will fall apart next.
Tim takes a long swig immediately. Somewhere in the background, Damian lets out a low, satisfied cackle.
The digital clock on the Batmobile reads 4:00 a.m.
The numbers glow cold blue against the dark interior, reflected faintly in the windshield like a second set of eyes staring back at them. Gotham outside is hollow and half-dead at this hour—streetlights flickering, rain-slick asphalt stretching endlessly, buildings slumped together like they’re exhausted too.
Bruce’s voice is calm as he calls Alfred, clipped and precise, already listing supplies like this is something he can control if he names enough of it out loud.
Jason doesn’t listen.
He keeps his focus on you.
On the shallow rise and fall of your chest. The warmth is still clinging stubbornly to your skin. On the way your weight settles into him like it belongs there, like it always has. One hand stays firm at your neck, holding you upright because you need it—because you need him steady, and that knowledge anchors him harder than anything Bruce could ever say.
You need him here. You need him present. You need him not to break.
He knows that, because once—once—that was all he ever wanted too.
And that’s the cruel part of it.
Because the weight of you in his arms has only ever meant safety. Home. Sleep curling warm and heavy in his bones. His body doesn’t know the difference between holding you safe and finally being allowed to rest.
Jason Todd passes out with his forehead dipping gently toward yours, his grip loosening only by a fraction, like even unconscious he’s afraid to let you go.
The last thing he hears before everything goes dark is Tim’s voice, sharp with panic and disbelief.
“Dude—what the fuck—”
“Hold his head up—don’t let him fall on her!” Bruce barks from the front, voice cracking sharp through the Batmobile like a snapped cable.
All at once, everyone moves.
Damian fists the back of Jason’s T‑shirt, knuckles white as he yanks him upright with a strength born of panic he’d never admit to. Dick stretches impossibly from the passenger seat, arm braced awkwardly as he cups the back of Jason’s head, careful, reverent, like he’s afraid one wrong angle will shatter him. Tim presses a steadying hand to Jason’s chest, feeling the uneven rise and fall beneath his palm, grounding him the way he’s learned to do with bombs and brothers alike.
Jason is dead weight. Heavy. Still clinging to you even in unconsciousness, his arm slack but stubborn around your shoulders, like muscle memory alone refuses to let you go.
The Batmobile hums on, tires slicing through wet streets, Gotham blurring past in streaks of sodium light and rain-slick concrete. The city feels distant now, muffled, like it’s holding its breath with them.
“…Did someone check if the Joker was—uh—breathing?” Stephanie asks from the back, her voice small in a way it rarely ever is.
She hadn’t stayed for the end. Her job had been triage—getting the kids out, shouting orders, dragging civilians through blood and broken glass while the rest of them stayed behind in the warehouse with the laughter and the screaming. She’d smelled the aftermath on them when they regrouped. She didn’t need details then but...
Bruce doesn’t look back. His hands tighten on the wheel.
“Jason didn’t hit any vital points,” he says quietly, like he’s reciting a report he’s already memorized. “Just… ah—”
“Carved his face like a jack‑o’‑lantern,” Damian supplies, entirely too calm. “Heated up a crowbar to do it too. Very effective.”
There’s a beat of silence.
The city lights flash over Bruce’s face—old stone and deep eyes that are hollowed by relief he doesn’t let himself feel yet.
“…Yeah,” Bruce exhales, short and rough. “That.”
The Batmobile keeps moving.
Jason breathes.
You breathe.
And for now, that’s enough to keep the night from swallowing them whole.
You wake up in bed.
Not the thin, borrowed kind your body has learned to tolerate at your apartment, but something deep and indulgent—clean sheets tucked tight, the mattress yielding just enough to cradle you instead of swallowing you whole. The pillow beneath your cheek feels stupidly expensive, cool and smooth, smelling faintly of detergent and something old and comforting, like cedar and money and quiet hallways that echo.
For a moment, you think you’re dreaming again.
Then you feel him.
Jason is asleep beside you, solid and unmistakable. You don’t need to move—you can’t really anyways—to know it’s him. The arm wrapped around your waist is heavy with familiar strength, protective even in unconsciousness. His hair brushes against your arm every time he breathes, soft, tickling your skin in a way that makes your chest ache.
He’s breathing.
That fact alone nearly undoes you.
God. You really need to raise your standards, you think hazily. You’re reduced to this—listening to him breathe, feeling the slow rise and fall of his chest, and already you want to curl into him and coo like nothing in the world has ever gone wrong.
Then you see Bruce.
He’s standing near the bed, still as a statue, watching you with the careful intensity of someone afraid to spook a wild animal. It takes effort to focus on his face, your vision dragging itself into clarity inch by inch.
When you try to lift your head—manners resurfacing before sense—your body protests sharply.
Bruce moves instantly.
“Hey, hey—no,” he murmurs, hands gentle but firm as he presses you back into the mattress. “Relax. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Your head sinks back into the pillow, and the moment stretches. You swallow thickly before managing a small, hoarse sound of politeness.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Wayne. Jason—”
“Hasn’t told you much about me,” Bruce finishes for you, a faint, tired chuckle slipping out. “That’s alright. I just need you to sleep right now.”
You glance downward as best you can, feeling something sharp dig into your side.
“…I can’t sleep if your son’s elbow is in my ribs.”
Bruce blinks.
Actually blinks—surprised enough that it breaks through the carefully assembled calm. “Ah—” he starts, then reaches for Jason, trying to rearrange him with the same precision he uses on everything else.
It doesn’t work.
Jason huffs in his sleep, a low, irritated sound, and somehow manages to make it worse—his arm tightening, his leg hooking over yours possessively, like you’re something he’s afraid the world might steal back if he lets go.
Bruce freezes.
You mumble, exhausted but soft, “It’s alright. I’m sure he hasn’t slept… I’ve gotten quite a lot, so…”
Bruce looks like he wants to argue. His jaw tightens, then loosens, the fight draining out of him. He exhales and sits back in the chair by the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together.
“It’s the 26th,” he says quietly.
Oh.
You missed Christmas.
What a shame.
After a moment, Bruce speaks again, and his voice is heavier now—careful, deliberate, like every word costs him something.
“I… want to apologize to you.” His fingers interlace, knuckles whitening. “I knew you’d been taken. And I didn’t tell him. Possibly… he could have been there sooner. But I needed to make sure the others would be saved as well.”
“Well,” you murmur, the word barely more than breath, “I don’t exactly blame you for that.”
It isn’t forgiveness exactly—nothing so grand—but it’s honest, and it lands heavier than anger ever could.
Bruce doesn’t relax. If anything, his shoulders pull tighter, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite comes. He’s spent his whole life learning how to de‑escalate men with guns, gods with vendettas, cities with teeth—but you unsettle him in a quieter, more dangerous way. You’re calm. You’re lucid. You’re something Jason had threatened to shoot himself for.
He clears his throat, trying to give you something solid, something measurable. Facts are safer.
“Jason… got him,” Bruce says carefully. “Badly. I think—” He hesitates, eyes flicking once toward Jason like he’s checking for movement. “I think the Joker may be blind now. Or at least permanently impaired.”
“You let him?” you ask.
Still no accusation. Just a soft, stunned curiosity, as if you’re piecing together a story you were never meant to survive.
Bruce nods. Once. The motion costs him. “I did,” he admits. “But I—”
“Then that’s enough,” you whisper, interrupting him gently, like you’re afraid the words themselves might hurt. “Jason will realize that too.” Your lashes flutter; exhaustion tugs at you like a tide. “I mean… he probably won’t. He’ll still try to kill him.” A faint, crooked exhale. “But you did everything you could yesterday.”
Your gaze drifts—not to Bruce, but to Jason. To the way his arm is still locked around you, even in sleep. To the stubborn set of his jaw, the crease between his brows that never fully smooths out anymore.
“Thank you,” you add quietly. “For finding me.”
That’s when Bruce goes still.
Not rigid. Not defensive.
Still.
Because he’s been looking at you, yes—but now you realize he hasn't been looking you in the eye while he speaks. His eyes have been caught in one place, drawn there again and again like a bruise you can’t help but press.
Your cheek.
The skin there is angry beneath the bandage’s edge—raw, faintly swollen, discolored in a way he winced at while he bandaged it. Bruce didn't let anyone else tend to it, not even Alfred.
Because this was a wound he inflicted, one that he needed to tend to.
“It’s still fresh,” he says, softer now, stripped of the Bat and the rules and the fear. Just a man speaking carefully around something fragile. “I’ll get you better medicine. The pigment should fade.” A pause. His voice lowers. “I can’t promise about the texture.”
You don’t look away. You don’t flinch.
“That’s okay,” you say.
And Bruce doesn’t know if you mean the scar, or the pain, or the fact that you’ll carry this forever—but Jason shifts in his sleep then, brow tightening, arm drawing you closer like he sensed the weight of the moment and refused to let it settle on you alone.
Bruce watches that. Watches how Jason anchors himself to you without waking, how his breathing steadies when yours does, how it pauses even in sleep when yours hitches.
“He loves you a lot.” Bruce mumbles.
“...And you too Mr.Wayne.”
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) :@justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree,
❝he's my man, we're hand in hand, to hell and back - and i love him like nobody else can.❞
𝄞⨾𓍢ִ໋ your husband is the loveliest man that's ever lived. how could you possibly let him go?
yandere! fem! reader x yandere! flins (genshin)/sunday (hsr).
The soft sounds of rain hit the lighthouse rhythmically, a song and dance which you had grown accustomed to these past few weeks.
Winter was a sharp mistress and Nod Krai's ice would spare no one. Therefore, you took it upon yourself to make this ancient lighthouse into a home - fire crackled cheerfully in the tiny pit, the sound giving the room a brand new sense of life. Soft orange hues bathed the furniture, some pieces being older than others. The oak grandfather clock stood tall and proud close to the door and despite its old age, its handles worked perfectly.
In a few minutes, it would be midnight.
Curses.
A deep frown etched itself onto your lips as you slowly descended down the rickety old stairs, each step causing more noise than it ought to. Dust clouds kept rising, the air becoming so polluted that you wondered if you'd start coughing later. You hated going down the basement but your dear husband simply could not help himself but to hunker down there, those soft yellow eyes of his all but pleading not to tear his head off for making such a decision.
Kyryll was such a fascinating man. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, he was the kind of person who could stand in the middle of a graveyard and gaze at the wandering ghosts before him, his eyes filled with sorrow, pity and perhaps a speck of wonder as well. He was old, borderline ancient really, but that didn't stop you from wanting him the moment you saw him. Ever since that day, there hasn't been a single moment where you haven't tried to fulfill the role of a good and dutiful wife.
He had no reason to eat human food, but he still enjoyed at the very least having dinner with you. Those long, gloved fingers of his would slide across your forearms and land smoothly on your hands, fingers now intertwined like vines as he whispered how he can't wait to taste your cooking.
Hah. He cannot taste any of it, the silly man. As a matter of fact, he likely doesn't even like it.
But, he never said so out loud. Never, not even once. Kyryll was always so delicate towards you, treating you like a precious bloom which could wither if handled poorly. He made you feel so special, like the most beautiful woman in the world. It didn't matter if you were covered in dirt or grime from head to toe, your good husband always made sure to pick his words well.
Perhaps a bit too well.
He all but insisted that you stay home, claiming that he makes more than enough to sustain you both. Besides, the upkeep of his little lighthouse is no easy task - not to mention the various phantoms lurking all over would surely cause problems.
However, his darling wife had surpassed all of his expectations. He originally had no plans of ever changing the decor around his living space, but he found himself genuinely enjoying the little touches here and there. The frostlamp flowers hung loosely in a nearby vase, its porcelain slightly chipped as the man felt his wife standing next to him.
A familiar scent hit is nostrils, causing him to smile. It was a sickly sweet one, which was well masked by the strong liquor which was brought to him in a neat little tea cup, the hand painted roses on it adding a special kind of touch which was oh so sweet.
His wife hoped to make him ill - he was no fool, the specks of poison were nothing new to him. Originally, the Lightkeeper thought that perhaps his wife was filled with a sort of ire, that she was not as good as she led on.
Turns out that, much like him, that was a half truth.
His sweet wife was such a silly woman - always so afraid that something would happen to him, constantly chiding him that it's so dangerous out at night and can't he take the day shift?
Just once?
Without hesitation, Flins took the cup out of her hand and drank everything, all but a single drop of the hazel liquid grazing down his pale chin, meanwhile the lantern on his side flickered a bright, passionate red.
Cute, he thought to himself.
He didn't mind playing dumb, ah, he didn't even need to actually even drink anything - he just loved to please that snippy, adorable creature he called his wife. She brought a sort of peace into his life, a sort of light that could not be mimicked. To his ancient fae eyes, she was like a jewel, all pretty and rough around the edges, all his for the taking.
The little jewel never even knew just how long he had been watching her, cataloging every single speck of hers. Flins was a collector at heart, and he just so happened to find something that struck his fancy... Even if the gem tried to scratch him from time to time.
What was so wrong about a wife who loved her husband just a bit too much? Human nature was fickle and wild, absolutely terrible to predict but none the less - he absolutely reveled in it.
Sometimes he'd cough just a bit too much, making himself weaker than he actually was. The sound of rushing footsteps would immediately follow, accompanied by the sound of that lulling voice which wanted nothing more than to keep him under lock and key.
Flins sometimes wondered if he should just tell his wife the truth. Should he just cut this little game and tell her that she's less subtle than a hungry animal? Her teeth and claws were always at the ready, even if she did look like a cute berry to the outside world.
He could devour that berry any time he wanted, its essence sticking between his teeth like candy - much too enjoyable to let go.
Therefore, how could he deny himself the joy this brought him? For just a while longer, he'll play the role of the clueless husband. He'll kiss his wife good morning and goodbye, all the while keeping the blooming butterflies and smug grin buried deep within.
You are so precious, I could devour you. - this was the mantra Sunday had been hearing for the past few weeks, causing his poor heart to flutter like mad. Every time his wife would stick close, her hands enveloping him into a hug, she'd whisper those words over and over, her voice so sweet that it might as well be honey.
Sunday was not sure if she was casting a spell or a curse on him. The tenacity, the ferocious nature of her words often made him question just how good his chosen one really was - but as time went on, he found himself not caring as much.
He was, for the lack of a better word, terrified. His fall from grace had been high and bad, but even after the shame and humiliation, his good wife had taken his hand and followed him into the abyss, the future a mystery to them both. Sunday had once been sure that she would leave him the moment he was captured, but that was just not the case.
He once cornered her, his voice laced with sorrow and melancholy, the feathers on his head flicking nervously as he just went straight for it:
"Why are you still here? Why do you follow me?"
He was not sure what to expect, but... But seeing that serene smile on her face was the last thing he could imagine. Sunday felt her fingers on the tips of his wings, cheeks now burning hot and red as she kissed the edges of the feathers, her eyes shining bright as the stars in the galaxy.
She loved him. She really, truly loved him.
And he was a fool for never noticing it.
All of his planning and scheming had become a good backdrop for her and her real objective. Up until recently, he didn't even know just how much he actually needed his wife. She was his backbone, his heart, his soul - she had managed to integrate herself so seamlessly into his life as if she was a missing heartbeat.
Whatever their souls were made of, his and hers were the same.
Sunday had lost Robin - but against all odds, he hadn't lost his heart.
His fingers gently took a lock of her hair, the halo at the back of his head flicking with light ever so slightly as he hummed mindlessly, causing the woman next to him to grin like the cheeky thing she was.
Cheeky. Yes. He didn't mind his wife being cheeky.
His journey would be long and arduous, but there was no thorn he couldn't take out if he had his rose right next to him. Not even the Aeons could pluck out this feeling out of his chest, no matter how hard they may try.
This was a cage he would not be stepping out of. It was made by his own cursed hand, and with a good touch of the one person he needed like air. May the universe take it all - just not this.
A/N: HAPPY 2026!! I hope every single one of you has an amazing year! This is my first written post for the new year and I was super excited to do it!
I was originally going back and forth between Diluc and Flins for the song choice, but then Sunday rotted my brain once more... So I said fuck it, I'll shorten the format and just cram both of them into one post. This was originally supposed to be a longer fic for Flins and only Flins but uh, that didn't end up happening... And I kinda don't regret it.
I don't really know what the vibe here is though. The fic feels very much all over the place, I fear I'm losing my touch.
The song which birthed this fic is living in my head rent free, I am catching myself constantly humming it, especially since it's January and it's super rainy where I live. The eerie atmosphere just makes the vibe so much better, y'know?
While writing, I wasn't actually listening to the song the fic was based off, I was actually listening to this masterpiece. When reading/writing, I genuinely cannot concentrate if my music has lyrics, so instrumentals are an absolute MUST!
I'm rambling, sorry about that, your author likes to ramble. Please leave your thoughts and ideas in the comments, there just aren't enough words for me to use in the dictionary to describe just how much I live off feedback!
CW: feet, blood kink , dehumanization, creepy behavior, heavy M tendencies from yan, n/c touching/kissing.
Since that night you sneaked off, the man you once called yours virtually kept trying to get you to talk. Trying to progress your relationship to whatever next level fantasy he’s conjured up in his head…Oh and also help with your pronunciation. Well….he was more of the former.
That was until..
He decided to host a party in his mansion for a collaboration with another business, some drink you offhandedly remember him talking about, Sounds of the buzzing voices, hastened footsteps of servants running across the huge house to prepare the upcoming evening event in a structured manner. You wanted to take a peek—just a little but fear holds you tight within that room and it’s four walls.
The party had long started when the sun had began to set but you stayed in your room, ears prickling to the muffled voices you can slightly hear past the door and down the stairs where the life stayed. You don’t join in the festivities, with the minuscule feeling of dread to seeing familiar faces and lingering memories of pain yet this man still buys you a…. dress.
It was white.
Absolutely gorgeous.
A dress so beautiful and extravagant you feel unworthy of even thinking of putting it on. Hand-beaded pearls and jewels decorated the floor-length dress, multiple layers of cloth and ruffles overlap each-other beautifully, it was modest—covering up parts that didn’t need to be seen yet there’s fabric that cinched perfectly against whatever curves one may have. When you saw the mannequin in your room with that dress on, you wondered of it’s purpose, fingers brushing against the expensive fabric.
“I want you to wear it,” his voice sounds from behind, you gasp, quickly turning around. You didn’t hear him, then again…
It’s what he was good at.
“I’m sorry” he apologizes, “I won’t force you to but…I just..want to see you in it.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously. “J—join…thum…?” You asked gesturing to below the house, where the party was still ongoing, “Oh, no no. You don’t have to join them—us. You can stay here if you want. It’s.. the dress isn’t for that..” he gulped, like he was having trouble saying the words he really wanted to say. “I’m sorry—again.” He sighs, “You—nevermind…it’s selfish of me to even ask you that.” He was muttering to himself before standing up straight to look at you. “Sorry, I’ll just….leave you alone for now.” He turned to walk away, to leave—get out and let you be for at least a few hours before he came to bother you once more….. and you should’ve let him go. Be happy that he wasn’t bothering you. In fact you should’ve made him leave as soon as possible.
Perhaps then…you could have avoided what happened that night. And the other nights.
“Wu—wa-it…” you finally speak out, your voice so quiet one would have to strain their ears to hear, a little part of you hoped he didn’t hear you, but the cease of his footsteps tells you differently. He turns, a smile you don’t what to decipher the meaning of sitting handsomely on that face of his. “Yes?” Instead of replying with words, you hold onto a sleeve of the dress, you can feel the heaviness of the jewels sewed into the cuffs of it, how much did this cost?
“You’ll wear it?” He asks hopefully. You stand there for a moment—hesitation evidently in your body language but you nod. That smile grows ever larger.
Due to the dress being so heavy, with a zipper to the back, he had to help you in it—of course letting you have a few moments to yourself put it on first before helping you zip it up.
He turns around once you were done, where he comes face to face with the bare skin of your back.
He stared at it for what seemed like hours, skin that was exposed to him, you stood still waiting for him—a few minutes pass and you let out a noise of confusion, “a-ah..sorry I forgot it had some parts to fix before I zip it up, let me do that first yeah?” He lets out a shaky breath when he realized something.
You weren’t wearing a bra.
At least he didn’t remember leaving you any, he assumed the maids had it covered but….
He bites his lip taring at the exposed skin welcoming his eyes, lowering his gaze til it rests to the bottom of the zipper, where a sliver of your undergarments was exposed and Fuck—he was hard. Fingers absent of their usual gloves shakily trace the sides of your body—you being none the wiser—you don’t know how intricate dresses of this world works, the ones he had gifted you before were simple enough yet this dress seemed very important and extremely expensive—if the diamonds and crystals decorating the hem of your neck wasn’t enough.
Brandishing you like a fine victim for criminals from a mile away with how brightly they sparkled under the chandelier hanging above you both.
You didn’t want to anger him by accidentally breathing too much and ripping a stitch that could cost you more than you could ever afford to pay. Yet you didn’t know how the man behind you, a man usually composed and stoic—never once batting an eye or taking a glance to the many women who yearn for his affection, is doing his best to not beg you to let him lay his kisses along your feet. Holding back from kissing the ground you walk on. Trying not to whip out his cock to release all over your soft back—it aches and throbs beneath his slacks and he knows he won’t last long if he stays with you any longer.
Quickly he zips it up, finishing the end details like pinning the flowers and tying up the ribbon that rests above your bum. He steps back, allowing you space to turn around for him.
His breathe hitches.
Already knowing how pretty you are from the dresses you obediently wore for days, he knew it would look gorgeous on you. But seeing you in his Mother’s wedding dress blew him away. You fit her perfectly he thinks, remembering his mother’s words
‘The perfect woman for you would be one who can fit into my wedding dress perfectly!’
That is your sign, she said. And now… here you are, literally dropped onto his doorstep like a gift from above—one that he abused so cruelly before—Oh but he’s changed!
He knew now, that you are the one for him.
His other half.
His one and only.
You were sent to complete him.
Fidgeting in place a little, you wonder if it looks bad, he’s been quiet for awhile now you think, not knowing the eureka he has just experienced just looking at you. “Umm…” you start, he blinks, “O-oh! Hah..sorry, got caught off guard by how.. Beautiful you look in it.” You hate how that made your scared little heart flutter. “Can you do a little twirl for me?” he requests softly, like a pet you obey, slowing turning til you’ve made a complete 360.
“Gorgeous.” Nodding his head in approval, “I also have the shoes to match if you’d like?” At that you shake your head no. you’ve already let him play dress up and that’s all you’ll give him tonight.
You hope.
He deflates a little, it’s almost hilarious but you can’t find it in you to laugh. “Well..that’s okay, here—come to the mirror so you can see for yourself.” with a hand to your waist, he leads you to the mirror floor length mirror across the room.
Holy shit, he was right.
You look gorgeous.
The dress fit you perfectly, glittering stones decorate you like a royal crown, you were right by assuming the dress cinched perfectly to your shape—wait yours? Well the dress did fit you to a T. You admired yourself in the mirror—not minding the weird man lovingly gazing at you from behind. You wonder if this is an apology from a higher power above. You’ve never felt this pretty wearing a dress.
Turning this way and that, you can’t find a bad angle at all!
It’s like the dress was… made for you.
Of course, normally you would assume that—he had the money afterall, but.. there was a certain…age to it. You don’t know why but you feel that this dress belonged to someone important once before….
“I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” he speaks up from behind, still admiring yourself you don’t turn to look at him, only nodding in response. After adoringly watching you for a few more minutes, he leaves.
———-
“You seem to be busy nowadays huh?” One of the many faceless men jokingly asks him, “Is there a…. missus we’ve never heard about?” Another pipes up beside him and in the response the crowd swirling around him laughs, “Oh nothing new, just something called…a job.” he deadpans.
The first man, he doesn’t remember his name but his red face was clearly a sign of his deep intoxication, “C’monnn~ you don’t have to hide it from us! Tell us, is she prettier than mine?” He nudges the man rudely, before pointing to his wife from across the room, wine sloshing in his cup due to how unstable he moves, “Hah! Forget about looks! How good is she in bed? She must be phenomenal with how much effort you spend to keep her hidden.” Another snickers, the men around them agree with hollers and jeers.
Of course, as ecpected from a party with heavy alcohol involved.
Animals. He sneers.
His eye twitches in response to those disgusting questions. Pigs, He internally scoffs at these pathetic men. “My good Sirs, it seems you have…. drunk your fill for the night, why don’t you go rest and….leave some for the rest of us, yeah?” Giving them his practiced smile, the men raise their own cups in agreement. Buncha yesmen.
Monkeys, another eye twitch. But he keeps the smile.
He can’t wait for this to be over.
——-
It’s finally over.
An exhausted sigh leaves his mouth.
After the party finally ends and the last guest departs, he leaves to return up to your quarters, the servants were left to clean up the mess left behind by unruly guests.
With a candelabra in hand, he walks up the flight of stairs to your floor.
The help don’t question their master and his sudden obsession with the pretty lady he keeps hidden in one of his many rooms. Knocking before entering to avoid another scare, he sees you still in the dress, all negative feelings leave him instantly, instead filling him with adoration one would have for a cute kitten—of course you were more than that to him.
“The party is over,” he starts, “I..” he clears his throat, “well—i know it’s..late but—” his hands goes to pull at his collar, “I would like to ask you….if you can join me for a dance?” You stare at him, a…dance? Something else he wants? You wanted to say No, you thought he was done for the night, he told you he would leave you alone.
Although you register later that it was a bad idea when you realized that you couldn’t take off the damn dress without his help.
So you decide that just for that night that you will…
Sleep in it.
But you haven’t been successful so far.
Like sure the jewels are hard as fuck and pinch you wrong sometimes but the fear of ruining it has rendered you sleepless yet now he was here—at first you thought he was here to help you take it off but instead he just wants another thing from you.
You should say no.
You nod your head yes. Fucking idiot. Your mind screams, you’re gonna get us killed!
“Can you…come with me?” A hand out for you to take, obediently you do. Why are you doing this? Why are you letting him do this?
Is this survival? Or are you still in love with the character you saw through a screen?
He brings you to a room at the end of the hall, it was unfamiliar, he lets you go for a moment to open it up, pushing the heavy wooden door to reveal a room much larger than yours, unlike the carpeted floors of your room. This one had polished floors instead— so shiny and clear you can see your reflection on it.
Leading you to a loveseat before a fireplace, you sit down, the material soft and comfortable underneath you. It’s been a while since you’ve sat on something quite as soft since you still vehemently refused to sleep on the bed in your room—too terrified to suddenly wake up to him above, just waiting for you to close your eyes so he can bring down the knife—so this is the first time you’ve felt such a soft cushion that wasn’t an armchair.
You hear him rummaging somewhere in the room but you fix your gaze to the burning flames before you.
Such warmth.
Soon his silhouette obscures your view and looking up, there’s a box in his hands. Kneeling in front of you, he opens the box—
It’s the heels you never bothered to wear.
It’s just as beautiful as the dress, all white and covered in diamonds—priceless gems, littered in like money wasn’t a problem for him. “I understand that you don’t want to wear it..but I would like to see you in them for just a while—just a few minutes, at least while we dance then you can take it off….please?” Refuse, he doesn’t deserve it, please say no—come on just this once say no…
SAYNOSAYNOSAYNO-
You nod. Pushing down the feelings of dread swirling in your gut and….lifted your right foot up.
Another uncharacteristic grin spreads across his face, taking out the shoe corresponding to it, his other hand gently cradles the heel of your foot. With no warning, he lifts it up before leaning down to kiss your toes one by one.
You freeze up but he doesn’t notice.
Starting from the littlest one, his lips tingle, each contact he makes creates mini electric shocks that travels from the tips of your toes to your back, making you grip at the seat beneath you. With the last kiss on the last appendage he slips on the shoe, before moving on to your left foot, giving it the same treatment. Gathering them both in his heavy palms he stares at them.
A perfect fit once again.
“Such beautiful feet,” he confesses, with one last kiss to each foot, he sets them down and gets up to bow at the waist. “May I have this dance?” You were still reeling from his alleged… fetish when you took notice of his awaiting hand,“but….no..so..und?” Pointing to your ear to wonder how you’re gonna dance without music.
A chuckle leaves him, “We won’t need any dear, just follow my steps.”
With slight hesitation you stand up and, despite the heels— he still towers over you, a clear distinction of the difference in size and strength that you know you can’t escape if he tried anything.
You purse your lips, wishing away the thoughts in your head before taking his hand—letting him lead you to the ‘dance floor’ which is just the large extra space behind the loveseat, both of you dance the remaining night away with him holding you delicately in his arms, the sweet hum of his voice as he sang a song to fill the silence between you.
He had a beautiful one—a voice you probably would’ve fangirled over for days if not for the history between you two. The whole time your gaze stays on the floor, trying to match his steps to avoid stepping on the dress or his feet though you wish you did step on his feet. Bare fingers, absent of the gloves he usually wears gently pull your face to look at him, forcing you to stare into the eyes you yourself have stared at for hours before dropping into this world.
Eyes that were once full of hatred and disgust—now only show pure love and adoration, without warning he leans forwards as if to kiss you—
Quickly turn your head so his lips meet your cheek instead, fear immediately grips you. Both bodies stop moving, the only thing illuminating the room was the roaring fireplace and the moon shining through the huge window that bathe you both in it’s shine. Was he going to get mad you didn’t let him kiss you? You begin to feel the sweat building up beneath the now-suffocating layers of fabric on your skin.
Soft he hums internally to himself.
Stepping back away from you. He admires you in the glowing moonlight—wishing he had one of those —’memory keepers’ he hears about in his travels through town so he can keep a remembrance of what you’d look like on your wedding day to him.
In turn you stare at him shrouded in the shadows of the room, a perfect parallel between you too.
A gentle hand grabs yours to lead you to a bed you never noticed—by now you realize this must be his room, sitting you down before once more kneeling before you, removing the heels one by one before going on to massage them. He asks you if you’re alright, merely nodding in reply—the conversation continues like this, with you barely responding with your mouth.
However what went from a normal conversation turned into another session where he releases his pent-up guilt and shame, pain and anguish racking through him as he recounts the day he murdered you, “May a creature as sweet as you never forgive,” he begs, pressing a weeping face to your lap, “All I want—all I deserve…is your ire,” he shudders, “Your anger, the hurt, to yell at me—anything and everything that you will grant me.” A strong hand grips yours—now sweaty in his grasp, bringing it to his face to kiss your fingertips, “Let me feel it, I will endure it all because I deserve it and now I realize..”
He turns his gaze up at you, looking more like a humble servant to a beautiful goddess than a powerful Lord, “That it is love that I feel deep within me, love that I cannot express in words alone, love that consumes me whole with thoughts of you.” He almost whimpers when you stroke his face, thumb brushing against a stray tear at the edge of his eyes. His breathe shudders and moving his face closer to your warm hand.
“And it’s with this love, that I promise to serve and protect you til the day I die, to love you until you tire of me and need me no longer. I will do anything and everything in my power to provide for you and anything it is that you will ever need.”
You can’t feel a thing. It’s the same song and dance for days—although he tells you it’s okay to take your anger out on him—have your revenge. You can’t.
You couldn’t raise a finger to hurt him—not then and not now. You don’t have it in you. You weren’t a violent person and despite your anguish—a plan to hurt him back never crossed your mind.
Was it survival?
God, You just wanted to get out and go live belong somewhere peacefully.
You sit there while he sniffles silently, other hand moving to stroke at his head—a stray thought musing on how soft his hair was, then without thinking, you lead his head to rest at your bosom—and like a dam was released within him, he begins to weep. At the sight of it, you feel your own eyes welling up with tears before they roll down your cheeks.
It was a few stray drops at first, ones you easily blink away, then non-stop tears pour out yet you don’t make a sound, instead you cradle him like one does a baby.
That night, the both of you sleep side by side for the first time.
———
Things changed after that night, becoming more tolerable—somehow and….normal for you at least. you don’t feel afraid of his sudden touches like you normally do and it seems he has noticed this—often pulling you into hugs or peppering you with kisses on your head, hands or even feet if you allowed him too.
Winter has come and you—surprisingly found it more comfortable sleeping next to him on your bed during the colder months, his body unnaturally warmer than most. He never tried anything, not once has he breached anymore than quick hugs and subtle kisses.
But it all escalated the one time you kissed him back, it was a quick one barely even a peck on his cheek yet his face went as red as the wine he often drank. He spent the whole day stuttering around you, his gaze unable to meet yours.
Of course that little action from you left him hard as diamonds—leaving to quickly relieve him multiple times a days like a horny teen in the many dark corners of his mansion, a desperate hand rubbing his shaft and remembering the soft feel of your lips…imagining it wrapped around his throbbing length—with a strangled groan, he cums hard, spilling his precious seed into a handkerchief you once used. He hastily cleans himself up before anyone sees.
He’s had to repeat this process a few more times later that day regardless.
You got used to doing that—leaving him a little kiss on his cheek every time he brought you breakfast or a gift, a little part of you was smug that you got this usually emotionless man to blush like lovestruck-teen.
Of course you didn’t know that he was secretly hoarding all the panties you’ve ever worn since living in that room.
Beating his aching meat to the scent of your precious cunt pressed to his nose every night without fail. Tongue licking up and down where your pussylips would have been smushed up against—tasting what little you gifted him.
Yet despite the orgasms wracking his body night after night, he was never satisfied. But he would never pressure you—He wouldn’t dare to even think to ask you. No matter how much he wants nothing more than to slam you onto his desk that night you both danced and pump you full of his seed. Or the days after when his head was filled with thoughts of putting you in a mating press and fucking you til you were leaking his cum for days, letting him clean up the mess with his tongue before shoving his cock back in to leave another heavy load deep in your surely tight cunt.
His body ached with need but his respect—or lack thereof for your privacy and guilt holds him back, he has no right to demand anything of you. Grateful for what little you bestow upon him. Keeping them in his heart like precious treasures. Which they are.
However one winter night changed the trajectory everything for the both of you. You had kissed him goodnight like you always did, however you left it on his lips instead of his cheek as usually. He was shocked, obviously. Almost dropping the tray holding what little remained of the dinner you both shared.
His eyes locked onto you, then without thinking, he drops the tray—glass shatters but he pays no mind to it. Moving to hold you gently as he kisses you back—it was desperate and wanting. Accepting it, you lean forward, pushing back and angling your head to meld your lips together, a moan escapes him—like he was finally rewarded of something he was deprived of for ages.
Hands travelled to your hips before moving to your thighs, with brute strength he lifts you, you instantly wrap your hands around his neck and your legs around his waist, the fabric of your dress bunching around your waist—you pull back to balance yourself but he chases your lips, “No, no please..come back” he begs, moving his head to connect your lips, your kisses were like air to him, he desperately explores your mouth with his tongue, coaxing your own shy one to dance with his, he carries you to the bed, never once leaving the lip-lock you were both engaged in—almost crushing you underneath his weight when he slams you both on it, slightly bouncing from the mattress resistance.
Tongues fighting for dominance he easily lets you win, moaning as you take what you want from him. You pull back, catching your breath. Panting is all the noise that echoes—you stare into his eyes, those eyes that once harbored such disdain.
Eyes that now look at you with such love it was laughable. You suddenly feel an itch.
You don’t know why but the memories suddenly flood through you, the pain and helplessness you’ve felt for weeks and months after his torture made you feel dirty.
Your fingers were itching for something. An urge you don’t know.
He simpers down at you, eager and patiently awaiting for your next move.
Your right eye twitches and without warning—you reach for it, soft fingers rest gently against his eyelid that closes as soon as he sees it approaching. You rub your finger over it, he realizes what’s going through your head and he smiles at your ‘idea’.
With ease, he picks you up and turns you both until you are now sitting on his lap, letting you feel the big, hard bulge pressing against your own embarrassingly weeping panties.
“Go ahead.”
With that answer, he enables you to do what you’ve been wanting to for days.
Your finger pierces his eye socket, digging around as though looking for something—what are you looking for? The blood pours from the wound you’re causing, staining your hands and his face a ghoulish red but his smile doesn’t drop, and not a hint of pain is present in his other eye, hands dutifully kept at your sides, massaging your hips with his thumbs as if to encourage you.
Without stopping, you push further-further-further. Feeling the ball of his eye and the fleshy sinew that would’ve had you disgusted but your mind is blank and your hand doesn’t stop gouging it outoutout til…
Pop!
It hangs there, his once beautiful eye is hanging by one fleshy thread, one that you easily yank off with your other free hand, staring at it now—you can’t help but compare it to the one he stole from you.
Looks similar, your mind blankly states.
The whole time he never lets out a sound of pain, not an ounce of movement to indicate that that he didn’t want this. You show him the eyeball—almost as if it was something you won rather than something you savagely took from him. Like he did you.
He gives you a small grin—almost proud, you move to drop it into the glass of water he always leaves you with by the nightstand. Watching the orb bounce around for a few moments before it stills. The eye moves to stare at you and you almost think it was alive.
Moving to pull your fingers out until a desperate, “No!” Leaves him, hand coming up to stop you from exiting the wound.
You freeze.
“No.” He says again, gently this time. “Do it more….please.” He was almost panting now, the blood pouring down his face made him more handsome somehow or maybe you’re just as sick as him.
“Make it so that it scars.…” Practically begging you, it was then you feel it, the bulge throbbing underneath you.
He was still hard.
As though the excruciating pain of having his eye pulled out—you know how that feels, was nothing. As though to reward him with his good behavior, you grind against him and he moans. You continue to prod around, moving your fingers and pressing against the soft flesh pumping blood beneath your fingers til he lets out a loud moan and you know he had just cum untouched. He slouches as though exhausted, and you pull out your fingers, staring at the blood covering your digits, you think of how dirty they are.
Your gaze move to his still open mouth, panting after such a toe-curling orgasm. Pushing them into his gaping maw, he eagerly sucks on them, gratefully looking at you with so much love he can portray in his now one eye.
You don’t feel a single regret.
——
The next day had everyone shocked at his ‘new look’, the eyepatch over his left eye had some people gushing with rumors over who could’ve destroyed such a handsome face. Rumors he instantly stilled with his harsh words and the many screaming victims in his basement who dared tarnish your precious ‘reward’ to him unknowingly.
When asked, all he answers that it was ‘an accident’ yet it was said with such fondness people wonder what truly happened, as if his eye wasn’t currently being kept with you. Like he didn’t go through such lengths to encase it in a container and preservation magic so you could always view it whenever you wanted.
Your lives had ‘suddenly’ …..improved, spending more time with him in his room, reading the many books that littered his shelves or having him read them to you by the fireplace when it got to cold to stay in your room.
He adores it when you invade his space.
Leaving your scent all over his sheets. Which he would huff all morning when you leave like an addict, strangling his oozing morning wood with the panties you ‘accidentally’ left in his room til he spills all over them like a wretched dog in a rut he can’t control.
Occasionally you both would go out for nightly walks and catch fireflies to keep in jars, sometimes you’d play hide and seek—you inwardly found it morbidly funny that he only had one eye to find with in the darkness.
Yet he always won whether he was the seeker or the hider.
—-
And one day, you called for him—your sweet voice spilling from your delicate lips.
His name.
The only thing you’ve gotten used to saying over and over without stuttering.
He still remembers the day when you spoke his name for the first time, he had instantly gone rock hard, body locking up before an orgasm shot through him.
He inwardly moans at the memory, even now as you got used to calling out his name—the effect hasn’t worn off, he doesn’t think it ever will as hearing you hum was enough to have him swell with desire. You speaking just his name instantly stiffens him with arousal, cocking already leaking pre like he hasn’t released for weeks yet he had just recently shot a load that morning when you rubbed your sock-covered feet all over it, all cute with lace flowers decorating the hem, alll over his disgustingly huge cock. Little feet massaging his worthless meat til you allow him to spill all over your delicate skin.
Before he begged you to let him use his tongue to clean up your dirtied up feet like a good dog.
Ah, good times.
Of course, you still didn’t let him touch you there, nothing beyond sweet kisses and heavy makeouts where his hands stayed at your waist like a gentleman despite the not-so-gentleman thoughts running through his head whenever your lips lock together in a dance that leaves him breathless and aching with desire for days.
Staggering to you, he kneels instantly, almost falling as he grips your dress.
Your breasts almost spill from the tight corset of your dress, creating a delicious view for his eyes only, yet his focuses his gaze on your eyes, beautiful and full of mirth. A delicate hand covered in many rings he’s gifted you clutches at your lower tummy, almost caressing it.
“What’s wrong, my love? Are you in pain?” His worried voice had you melting a bit—just a bit.
Before you lift your dress, another pretty one, in the colors pink and red. leaning back to help you push it further, “Is the wound here?” He comes face to face, to your white panties, an innocent color, yet the clear indent of your puffy clit from where he sucked it nonstop this morning was indecently still there. Pressed up as though seducing him for another taste—and his mouth waters for a second round til he notices something…
Blood.
There was blood where it should just be white where your slit was. At first, panic fills him. Thoughts of a hidden wound he never noticed causing you pain. About to ask you just that, he halts when he feels the slight shaking of your body and he realizes that you’re silently laughing.
Oh.
“Oh darling..” he murmurs, relief flooding him before nuzzling your thigh, “Have you started your monthly?” A nod tells him his guess was correct. Although you’ve had multiple periods throughout the months you’ve stayed in this mansion, you never once told him nor did he ask.
Months in the mountains had you finding ways to soak up the blood without the use of pads and if he ever noticed the missing expensive cotton sheets you’ve used and cut up to stuff in your underwear. He never commented.
But now…you don’t know why but you’ve decided to spare his poor sheets you know he’s had to replace multiple times—ones you know costs way too much for just bedsheets. Of course you wished you felt bad, but in a way it felt… cathartic. letting your ‘dirty’ blood stain his hard-earned money.
He feels grateful that you feel comfortable enough to let him take care of you even more, immediately asking you what you want him to do. “Would you like the maids to prepare you some food for strength? Or a warm compress perhaps? I heard it helps with stomach pains.” You shake your head no and he chuckles, “Well, I can’t read your mind my love, mind showing it to me?” slowly cupping his face with both hands before moving it to the top of his head—
And pushing it down into your cunt, right into his face.
His eyes widen, “My oh my….” He moans, breathing in the heady scent that is you, “Of course, my mistress, anything you need.” Mouthing you through your underwear before impatiently pulling it down to voraciously eat you out. Countless praises leave his lips while he pleasures you dutifully, moans of how your delightful taste and addicting flavor overflow in his mouth. Grinding his nose against your puffy clit, he nudges even closer as if trying to bury himself there—well he definitely wouldn’t mind dying right here, right now.
This was heaven.
He doesn’t stop sucking and licking you til you’ve reached your third orgasm, you wiggle for him to let go and he instantly moves away.
Face covered in blood and slick, he is filled with satisfaction. A grin is present on his face, showing off bloodied teeth as though he had just violently ripped into a bloody corpse, “Thank you, love.”
A happy sigh leaves him, “Oh I do hope you’re feeling better now.” A blush spreads across your face at his shamelessness but you nod down at him.
After that very incident where you had gifted him with a direct taste to your cunt for the first time, he became addicted, of course you still didn’t let his cock anywhere in you—he wasn’t worthy of that yet, or maybe never.
For now it was just a huge, useless hunk of meat that hung between his legs like a breeding stud.
One that—pathetically didn’t do any breeding.
Precious seed that could’ve been the next heir to his countless riches, heirs that people were waiting for, counting on to continue his prestigious bloodline—was spilled unapologetically daily at your command. He lets you do with him as you please, never once uttering a ‘No’ to whatever you wanted.
Did you want him to kneel before you for hours while he read to you? He’s already on his knees before you uttered a word.
Want him to eat you out every morning before you wake? a delicious toe-curling orgasm is the first thing that greets you in the morning, mouth obediently pleasuring you until you tell him to stop.
Are you in the mood to abuse his cock with whatever tool or torture method that piqued your interest that afternoon? He’ll provide you the tools and leave himself defenseless to your every touch.
—
One day he had come home to you, gifting him a handmade eyepatch in your favorite color—for the wound you preciously gave to him. He had eaten you out so ravenously that day, making you cum so many times you went cross-eyed. It was a miracle you could still feel your legs.
It was a known ’secret’ that you owned his very being. That you were now the new master of his everything. The holder of his heart and the owner of his soul.
He may be the lord of his mansion and countless faces that served him dutifully day and night, yet you are his one true goddess—his only reason for living.
The only reason he gets on his knees daily for worship, for confession,
For forgiveness.
Whether it’s between your legs where you bless him with your sweet juices, or letting him rut against your precious feet to get off like a desperate dog. And if he was really lucky, you would grant him with your golden shower, letting your sweet cunt release all over him when his begging finally pays off.
Dick hanging out of his pants untouched like an unwanted dirty thing, leaking all over the floor like an untrained mutt in heat while he licks up your pussylips, drinking up the slick and piss you allow him to. His lips latches onto your clit like a babe, sucking dutifully til you bless him with your cum, he comes just as hard as soon as your release hits his face. Cock twitching helplessly with every spray of cum that leaves his cockhead, leaving a nasty puddle underneath you.
He hopes you will order him to lick it up while you step on his head like the pig he is.
He loves the feeling of your spent filling his senses. Practically inhaling your cunt til you yourself have to yank him away lest he passes out due to the lack of oxygen entering his airways again.
He wants you to leave your mark all over him, permanent ones if you will, pleading you to press harder everytime you dig your nails ever so deep into his skin. Wishing you’d choke him til he lost consciousness and your marks are evident all over his neck which he’d wear proudly.
He wants you to break him.
God, he wishes you would just break him like he was nothing.
Reshape and mold him into the form that you desire.
And he knows it’s only a matter of time til you do.
He can’t wait for the day he truly becomes worthy of being ‘Yours’.
Synopsis: On your fifth wedding anniversary, Caleb's first love returns to Linkon City. That night, you catch Caleb masturbating in the bathroom, muttering MC's name.
Huh. So that's why Caleb didn't touch you in your five whole years of marriage.
Caleb: I promised MC I'd celebrate her birthday with her. I'm just fulfilling a promise I made a long time ago.
You: Okay.
Caleb: I'm going on a mission, MC will be acting as my assistant, she has experience as a Hunter, she's suited for the role
You: Go ahead.
When you stopped getting angry, stopped crying, and stopped making a scene, he's lost.
Of course you weren't angry anymore, because you were leaving too.
Warning(s): ANGST. 30k WORDS OF PURE HURT/NO COMFORT. Non-cannonical timeline/events (no evol shenanigans). I had an interesting time exploring Caleb's selfish, egoistical, possessive, but also oblivious sides. MC and Gideon are assholes. Liam and Yvette are shockingly the best couple. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.
29.9k words
A/N: This was a monster of a fic to write; I literally made myself cry in the process. Please tell me in the comments how much your blood pressure increased by reading this and how you'd like Caleb to die (or if you think he deserves some redemption). In the meantime, feel free to ship non-mc with any of the other LIs! Thank you to everyone who has been patiently waiting for this super long piece; I hope it lives up to everyone's expectations <3
T - 30 days
The sound of running water echoes from the bathroom.
Caleb is taking a shower.
At 3am.
He had just returned from god knows where.
You stand at the bathroom door, a little nervous, wanting to discuss something with him. Just as you are trying to figure out the best way to phrase it, you hear a strange sound coming from inside. After listening carefully, you realize with a gasp that he was taking care of himself…
Each breath and groan is like a heavy hammer blow, relentlessly pounding on your heart. The pain spreads like a tidal wave, leaving you sinking in it, unable to breathe.
Actually, today is your wedding anniversary. Your fifth year of marriage, and you've never consummated it.
So, he preferred to take care of himself rather than touch you?
As his breathing grows more rapid, he suddenly lets out a low growl, his voice strained with barely suppressed emotion, "Pipsqueak-"
That one word delivers the final, fatal blow.
Your heart pounds, as if something just shattered into dust.
You try to cover your mouth to stifle your sobs, and turn to run, but stumble on your first step, bumping into the sink and falling to the floor.
"Y/N?" Caleb's voice inside hasn't calmed down yet; you can tell he is trying to control himself, but his breathing is still heavy.
"I...I need to use the restroom, I didn't know you were taking a shower..." you stammer, clumsily grabbing the sink to stand up.
The floor and sink are wet. The more you try, the more helpless the situation becomes. By the time you finally manage to stand, Caleb emerges from the door, his white bathrobe hastily pulled on with the belt fastened tightly.
"Did you fall? Let me help you." He makes a move to pick you up. Tears well in your eyes from the pain, but you push his hand away, your expression a mixture of distress and determination. "No need, I can do it myself."
After nearly slipping again, you limp and stagger back to your bedroom.
No, "escape" is the more accurate word.
For the five years you were married to Caleb Xia, you've been doing nothing but constantly running away.
Running away from the outside world, from everyone's strange looks, and from Caleb's pity and sympathy—his wife is a cripple.How can a cripple be worthy of the brilliant and successful Caleb Xia?
You were not always like this...
Caleb follows you out, his voice gentle and concerned. "Did you hurt yourself? Let me see."
"No, I'm fine." You pull the blanket tighter around yourself, hiding your disheveled state under it.
"Are you really alright?" He sounds genuinely concerned.
“Mmm.” You nod vigorously, back facing him.
“So, are you going to sleep? Didn’t you want to go to the bathroom?”
“I don’t want to anymore now, let’s sleep?” You whisper.
“Alright," he pauses. "By the way, today is our anniversary. I bought you a present. You can open it tomorrow and see if you like it.”
“Okay.” The present is on the bedside table; you've already seen it, but you already know what is inside without even opening it.
It's the same size box every year, containing the exact same necklace.
In your drawer, there are already nine identical ones. This is the tenth.
The conversation ends there. Caleb turns off the light and lies down across from you. The damp scent of bodywash fills the air, but you barely feel the bed sink. In the two-meter-wide bed, you sleep on one side, and him on the other side at the very edge; there is enough space in between for at least another 3 people.
Neither of you mention "pipsqueak", nor what he had just done in the bathroom, as if nothing happened. You lie stiffly, eyes burning with pain.
Pipsqueak, or MC, was his adopted younger sister, his first love, his goddess.
Upon high school graduation, MC went abroad, leaving Caleb behind. He was devastated.
You and Caleb were classmates in middle and high school.
You admit that you had a crush on him at the time.
Back then, he was the school heartthrob, a cool and aloof academic star, while you considered yourself pretty ordinary. Not the most academically gifted, nor the most popular or pretty. You had a face everyone could recognize, but not many could describe. Besides, you had larger dreams back then. You were a dancer; started when you were young. The stage was where you felt the most at home.
So, it was just a secret crush for you; you never thought you would ever stand beside him.
Until you return home for summer vacation after graduating from the conservatory and encounter Caleb in a wreck.
That night, he was drunk, walking erratically, crossing the street without looking at the traffic lights. A car sped towards him, and you, worried and following close behind, pushed him out of the way, getting hit by the car yourself.
You thought you had done good for yourself up to that point, successfully completing your dance studies and hoping to get a position in one of the large dance companies in the city.
The accident left you with a serious limp.
You'd never be able to dance again.
Shortly after, he swore off drinking and married you.
He was forever guilty, forever grateful, forever soft-spoken, and forever showered you with gifts and money.
Yet at the same time, forever indifferent.
The only thing he couldn't give you was love.
In the beginning, you naively thought that time could heal all wounds, dilute all the pain.
But you never could have imagined that five years later, he would still remember the name "pipsqueak" so vividly, calling out to her when he is serving himself.
In the end, you were simply too foolish…
When Caleb gets up for his Colonel duties, you still pretend to be asleep. You hear him talking to the housekeeper outside: "I have a company dinner tonight. Tell my wife not to wait for me and to go to bed early."
After giving the instructions, he comes back into the room to check on you again. You hide under the covers, your pillow soaked with tears.
Usually, when he goes to any of the Farspace Fleet galas, you would prepare his outfit in advance.
But not tonight.
He goes to the dressing room to change himself and heads to work.
You open your eyes, feeling them swell uncomfortably.
Your phone alarm rings.
It's the time you set for yourself to get up and study.
Because of your leg injury, since getting married, you spend most of your time at home, rarely going out. You divide your day into blocks, finding something to occupy your time.
You pick up your phone, turn off the alarm and start scrolling aimlessly through various apps.
Your mind is a jumbled mess, unable to absorb anything.
Until, you suddenly come across a video on a certain social media platform.
The person in the video looks so familiar…
The account name: Pips_apple.
The posting time was last night.
You click on the video, and immediately, upbeat music starts playing, followed by someone shouting: One, two, three, welcome back Pipsqueak! Cheers!
It's Caleb's voice.
He broke his vow of abstinence from alcohol.
He's even a little drunk.
But would Caleb really shout like that?
The Caleb you remember from high school was a friendly, but aloof academic genius. Not only was he serious when doing course work, but even more so on the sports field; he paid no attention to any of the girls who offered him water bottles and love letters.
Later, the Caleb who became your husband was even more polite, his emotions so stable they were almost unwavering. He never smiled, never got angry. He was always detached, so detached that when you occasionally touched his fingers, even his body temperature was cold.
The camera pans across everyone's faces in the video. You see a slightly tipsy Caleb, his eyes sparkling, raising his glass and laughing loudly at the camera: "Welcome home, Pips!"
So, he could smile after all.
He could be passionate too.
He would call girls by their nicknames.
Just not you.
You close the app immediately, struggling to catch your breath. You open your email, and read the acceptance letter on your phone over and over again, at least a hundred times.
A graduate school offer from a foreign university, the thing you originally planned to discuss with him last night. You wanted to study abroad for a master's degree; was that okay?
But now it seems there is no need to discuss it with him.
Five years of marriage, countless sleepless nights.
You needed to get out.
If you didn't find something to do with your life now that MC is back, how would you pass the long hours? Would you spend your whole life waiting for Caleb to come home?
You had already waited for too long.
The pain of waiting... is unbearable now.
Today marks the countdown to you leaving him.
T - 29 days
Today your plans are a little different than the usual.
Your offer was likely part of the program's last round of admissions, so you wanted to confirm it as soon as possible. The first item on your agenda is to pay the confirmation fee to the school. You breathe a sigh of relief as your phone lights up with the notification from your bank card deduction.
In the evening, you change your clothes and prepare to go out.
Your housekeeper, Mrs. Chen, is surprised. "Madam, where are you going?"
Without Caleb's company, you seldom leave the house.
"Oh, friend of mine is performing at the theatre tonight and asked me to meet them," you say. Actually, you were going to stay in a hotel in the city. You have an interview tomorrow morning with an alumni of the program in the area. You were worried about traffic and not making it on time.
“But…” Mrs. Chen looks at your leg, “Shall I go with you?”
“No need, it’s a get-together with my girlfriends.” Your expression remains unchanged.
“Then I’ll inform the Colonel.” Mrs. Chen is uneasy, genuinely afraid something might happen to you, and didn’t want to take responsibility for whatever goes down.
“No need, don’t disturb him. I’ll call him after and have him pick me up.”
As you step out into the street, you instinctively lower your head and hunch your shoulders, hiding your face into the collar of your coat. Since injuring your leg, the confident and vibrant you on stage has disappeared.
Mrs. Chen always said that it was best if your husband goes out with you.
Caleb always said that you should stay home if he isn't with you.
Neither of them knew.
The only thing you were afraid of more than going out alone was going out with Caleb.
Because everyone who sees you looks at you with the same question: "How did someone like him marry a girl like that?"
T - 28 days
Your interview goes surprisingly smoothly. After slowly wandering around Linkon City alone for the first time in many years, you hail a taxi and head home. In the car, you silently gaze at the lights outside the window, when suddenly, you see Caleb's car parked on the side of the street.
"Wait, please stop for a moment," you quickly call to the driver.
Caleb's car is parked in front of a restaurant.
Yesterday before leaving for work, Caleb had casually mentioned that it was his turn to treat his friend group to dinner.
You get out of the car as if possessed.
Upon arriving, you tell the server at the front, "reservation under Mr. Xia," and give them the the last four digits of Caleb's phone number.
The waiter leads you to a private room. "Thank you," you say, hesitating in front of the door.
From outside, you can hear lively voices.
"I need to get home early today, I got home drunk last night and my wife was furious at me!"
"Come on~ Are we still tight? Who's the one that used to always toot "bros before hoes"? Now you're henpecked? Sounds like Caleb's the only real one left!" MC jokes, her voice cheery and light.
So this is the kind of person she was.
This is the kind of personality that Caleb likes.
Unfortunately, you are far from it; you couldn't even pretend to be if you tried.
Inside, Caleb's friend continues, "How can Caleb be the same as me? Y/N wouldn't dare raise her voice at him!"
"Hey, by the way," MC's soft voice rings out again, "Caleb, I heard your wife is disabled? Why?"
No one answers MC's question.
Your heart clenches.
Caleb's group of friends start talking amongst themselves.
"Seriously, Caleb, we feel sorry for you. Look at you, you have money, power, you're handsome, a real catch. What kind of woman couldn't you marry? Why did you have to marry a cripple?"
"Honestly, dude, you're the most outstanding among us. Now that you've married Y/N, whether you're at a meeting, a social event, a press conference, or any other occasion that requires a partner, you can't even take her out. Don't you think you're losing out?"
So that's how it is…
Caleb always said he didn't need you to get involved in his affairs; he was more than happy to provide for you. Everyone praised you for living a life of luxury, but as it turns out, it is simply because he doesn't think you are presentable enough.
A bitter laugh comes from Caleb. “She was so kind to me after all; I owe her.”
“You owe her? You've given her so much; you've paid it back ten-fold by now!”
“Exactly! You should have just given her a lump sum back then. Was it necessary to jeopardize the happiness of the rest of your life?”
“I'm telling you, you should really think about it. What can she do for you? She's useless at social events, and you'd even have to worry about her spilling water at home. "Caleb~ have some water" like this? Like this?"
A burst of laughter erupts from the room, mixed with MC's exaggerated gasp. "Caleb! Does your wife really walk like that?"
You feel all the blood rush to your head as the anger and humiliation tips you off balance. You force the door open and are immediately met with a roar of laughter.
T - 27 days
One of Caleb's friends, Gideon, carries a cup of water in both hands, walking with an exaggerated limp, and calling out in a high-pitched voice, "Caleb, Caleb, have some water, Caleb, ah—I fell down, Caleb, hug me—"
The mocking performance is a hit. MC, sitting next to Caleb, leans on his shoulder as she shakes from laughter.
You turn to look at your husband, hoping that the person you loved most would show some sort of reaction.
Caleb, however, remains completely silent.
Gideon turns around with a triumphant smile, "How does that sound, Cale-"
Before he could finish the question, he sees you standing in the doorway, and his smile freezing. "Y/N..."
Everyone looks towards the door.
They are stunned.
MC quickly removes herself from Caleb's shoulder, smiling as she reaches out her hand. "Ah! This must be Caleb's legendary wife! Please come in, I'm Caleb's childhood friend."
You look at everyone in the private room, heart turning cold.
Caleb finally stands up and walks towards you. "Y/N, what brings you here? They were just joking, don't take it to heart."
You stare at the man in front of you, feeling utterly unfamiliar with him, more unfamiliar than ever before.
He calls this joking? So he's actually siding with them?
"Yes, sister-in-law... sister-in-law! I'm sorry, I was just joking, don't be angry," Gideon apologized, putting down his cup.
Caleb walks up, intending to put his arm around you.
You suddenly remember MC laughing on his shoulder, his hands pleasuring himself in the bathroom, him calling out "Pipsqueak" as he came, and suddenly the thought of his hands on you is utterly filthy.
You dodge his arm. “Y/N,” Caleb looks at his empty hands in surprise and sighs. “I apologize on their behalf. Don’t be angry, okay? I’ll bring you something when we get back; whatever you want.”
MC glares at Gideon playfully. “Go on, apologize! You've made the Colonel's wife angry! Do you think everyone is like me, clumsy and clueless, letting you joke around like that?”
Gideon immediately gets defensive. “I already apologized! I didn’t know she'd suddenly appear out of thin air; I was just joking.”
“A joke is only a joke if the person it is about finds it funny.” You summon all your courage to spit out the words.
"Alright, that's enough," Caleb puts himself between you and Gideon.
"Y/N," Caleb's gaze is as calm as ever, "They mean no harm; they were just joking. For my sake, forgive them. Shall I have the driver take you home?"
"Sister-in-law..." MC pouts as she stands beside him, "If you're really angry, be angry with me. Don't ignore your husband. They only organized today's gathering because I came back... Caleb, why don't you ask your wife to stay for dinner? I'll offer her a toast as an apology."
"Sorry," you look at the two of them with a scorning smile. "I don't drink alcohol, especially not this tea-flavored liquor."
Caleb's expression turns serious. "Y/N, MC was trying to make it up to you, why are you so sharp-tongued?"
Make it up to you?
Only a fool would think so.
Is Caleb a fool?
No, he isn't. He is simply biased; whichever side his heart leans towards is right.
You look at the two people in front of you, and the several people behind them. They were all on the same side, while you are just an outsider who had intruded into their world. No, in fact, you've never truly entered their world; not even the periphery.
You struggle to hold back tears, letting out a soft "heh," before turning to leave.
Behind you, MC's voice calls worryingly, "Caleb, your wife!"
"It's alright, she's very understanding. I'll go comfort her when I go back." He sneaks a glance at your retreating figure and texts the driver to pick you up.
You wipe away your tears forcefully, gait getting more unsteady. Surely, they'll continue to laugh at you after you left, right?
You are crippled; you aren't good enough for Caleb Xia.
This realization had haunted you like a curse for the past five years.
By the time Caleb's driver arrives, you are no longer by the restaurant. Caleb frowned at the text from the chauffer. He calls you, but you didn't answer. He tries again, but your phone is switched off now.
His buddies speak up more. "Caleb, how did you manage to spoil such a girl? With your status and appearance? There's women willing to grovel at
feet! You're too good natured, letting your wife give you the cold shoulder."
Caleb doesn't say anything.
"Marrying her is already a huge blessing! Who else would want her if not you?"
MC quickly interjects at just the right second. "Gege, don't listen to everyone saying bad things about Y/N. They're just want the best for you. Don't take it to heart!"
"I'm not angry," Caleb puts away his phone. "It's alright, she won't go anywhere."
After all, for the past five years, you really haven't been anywhere except stay at home; you had nowhere to go.
T - 26 days
You don't go home.
You check back into the hotel you stayed at the previous day.
All the grievances and pain erupt the moment the hotel room door closes.
The image of Gideon limping, mocking you, kept flashing before your eyes, the laughter echoing in your ears like a curse.
Actually, you already know what Caleb's peers say about you in private, just never mentioned it to him before.
They were his ride-or-die colleagues, you understood.
He worked very hard for the safety of Linkon City; you understood.
Therefore, you didn't want to cause him any trouble or fallouts with his friends and coworkers
But now it seems that you were overthinking things.
How could he have a falling out with his friends because of you?
Those were his brothers since his DAA days!
And you?
Merely a debt he owed to himself as repayment for gratitude; a burden. Without you, his life would be happier.
"She's just a cripple! Who would want her if you didn't marry her?"
"What more could she ask for than marrying someone like Caleb?"
"If I were the Colonel, I'd rather be the one crippled by a car accident than marry someone like that."
Your heart and lungs ache terribly.
With trembling hands, you open a photo album on your phone you haven't dared touch in five years—a record of your training and performances during your undergraduate years.
Since you could no longer perform on stage, you sealed all your dance-related photos and videos here, password protected, and never opened them again.
Now, your trembling fingers randomly click on a video.
Perfectly in time with the music, you twirl, leap, and land lightly on your feet
Back then, you were radiant, graceful, and received thunderous applause…
So, was saving him a mistake?
Honestly, the moment you pushed Caleb out of the way, you never thought of marrying him.
He was the one who said he wanted to marry you and planned a grand proposal, knelt before you with a huge diamond ring, and gave you hope…
For the first time in five years, you collapse onto the bed and sob uncontrollably.
You cry for a long time
So long that no more tears flow from your eyes, leaving only pain in your chest, burning and licking like flames.
Yet the more it hurt, the clearer you became about your situation.
You go the bathroom and wash your face thoroughly to calm down.
Looking at your lifeless reflection in the mirror, you silently tell yourself, "Crying once is enough. Don't cry anymore. Now please take care of yourself for once."
T - 25 days
Perhaps because you didn't sleep a wink the night before out of nervousness for your interview, you actually sleep quite well today. You wake up on time and turn on your phone.
Countless messages flood in all from one person—Caleb.
Walking alone on the sidewalk, head down, you review the student visa application process until a pair of leather shoes appear in front of you. You didn't expect someone to deliberately block your path, and bump into them.
If the person didn't catch you, you definitely would've fallen.
Unfortunately, that person is the last one you wanted to see.
Caleb.
"Y/N!" You can tell he is angry, but trying his best to speak in a controlled manner.
“Y/N, why didn’t you come home?” He holds your shoulders, voice softening as gentle and tender as ever.
You should know why I’m not going home, you think, hurriedly stuffing the notes you took from your interview back into your bag, fastening it tightly.
“What’s this?” he asks, looking down at your bag.
“Nothing, just some paper.” You feign composure, fingers gripping the bag so tightly they turn white.
“Give it to me,” he offers.
No, you can't let him see them.
You clutch the strap tighter. "Do you need something?"
"Give me your phone," he demands.
You hesitate for a moment, then take your phone out and hand it to him.
The phone is off.
He glances at it only once before handing it back. "I called you so many times and sent you so many messages. Why didn't you reply? Are you still angry?"
You breathe a sigh of relief. He wasn't asking where you were the night before.
If it's only about that…
You stay silent for a moment, and decide you didn't want to be angry anymore.
You just want to get away.
Seeing your silence, Caleb assumes you're still angry and sighs. “Y/N, you're supposed to be the understanding one. Why didn't you come home?”
You swear you didn't want to get worked up about it anymore, but Caleb's words are somehow innocent yet cruel enough to break even a saint.
“So you still think what happened yesterday was my fault? Was I being unreasonable? Should I have praised Gideon for such an accurate depiction as soon as I went in?!” You couldn't take it anymore.
Caleb's face slightly twitches in embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant. What I meant was, you can’t control what others say, so just manage your own reaction and pay them no mind.”
“I can’t control it, but you can!” you shoot back. “But what were you doing then? You and your pipsqueak, hugging and all over each other.”
“Y/N!" His expression finally changes into something that resembles anger, more intense than anything you've seen.
You laugh inwardly.
The name “pipsqueak” is his Achilles’ heel, an untouchable minefield. You have nothing else to say.
You clutch your bag, planning to walk past him, but he reaches out and pulls you close by the waist.
“I’m sorry, it's my fault. I raised my voice just now,” he says softly. “I just didn’t want you to misunderstand MC. We’re just ordinary friends, like everyone else. I treat her like my sister. She’s not married yet. Don't talk about her like that.”
You don't understand. They were the ones acting like that, MC brushing up against him so brazenly; why is he so afraid to admit it?
"Oh," you reply monotonously.
“Y/N…” Caleb can sense the coldness in your voice. “Why are you still angry? I haven't even confronted you about going to a hotel by yourself without telling anyone, about not reply to any of my messages and calls.
Yes, it's all your fault. You're the unreasonable one here.
Earlier in your marriage, hearing this from Caleb would have been your worst nightmare. But now? You don't intend on striving to be good enough for him anymore.
T - 24 days
Caleb insists on taking you out to eat to "smooth things over".
“Caleb, I’m not hungry.” You don't touch your chopsticks. “I have something to tell you.”
“What?” He smiles slightly. “I’ll go with you wherever you want. I’m free all day.”
You stare at his almost imperceptible smile, thinking hard about what you can say to those dreamy, purple eyes.
"Caleb..." your throat closes up, betraying your resolve.
“Hmm? Y/N?” He takes your hand. “What’s wrong? Want to cry? If you want to cry, just cry. Don’t hold it in.”
His voice is so gentle, so incredibly gentle.
Just like back then, when you first emerged from the operating room, the nurses wheeled you back to the floor. He stood by your bedside, his voice so gentle it was almost painful, saying, "Y/N, does it hurt? If it hurts, cry it out, don't hold it in..."
Back then, you thought such gentle care was a good remedy for pain. Unfortunately, it took you many years to truly understand that a man's gentleness and care could never be transformed into love...
"Caleb, let's get a divorce," you say softly, pulling your hand away.
He frowns; clearly, he didn't expect you to say that.
After a brief silence, he picks up a piece of fish, and gently removes the bones with his chopsticks, putting it in your bowl. "Y/N, I know you're still angry, but bringing up divorce is irrational. What will you do if you divorce me? How will you live on your own?"
T - 23 days:
Your breathing quickens
In everyone's eyes, for the last five years, you've been Caleb's dependent; without him, you were a pitiful creature, unwanted and unable to survive.
He thought so too.
"I can do it!" For the first time, you speak up against him, wanting to stand up for yourself.
He just smiles, still assuming you are being stubborn, and places the deboned fish in front of you. "Eat. You're allowed to be angry for a while, but you can't be angry until after you finish eating."
"I'm not angry, I really want a divorce!" How can you make Caleb understand that you mentioning divorce isn't just an emotional outburst?
“Y/N.” he puts down his chopsticks, “I canceled two meetings and a practice flight today just to come and spend time with you. I might not have that much time tomorrow or the day after. Let me say it again, MC is a good friend. I treat her no differently than I treat Gideon and the others. She also likes you a lot and has always wanted to be your friend. With your attitude… how can I bring her to you?”
“Then there’s no need for us to get close.” You don't think MC actually wants to be friends with you.
“Y/N!” Caleb's voice carries a hint of warning.
You focus on eating instead. Even if you were angry, it's not worth taking your anger out on your own stomach.
"That's right," Caleb's tone softens again. "Don't mention the word 'divorce' again."
You pause, then continue eating with your head down.
The next day, you book a physical therapy appointment at AKSO Hospital.
T - 22 days
You need to get used to going out alone, so you decide to do some window shopping. Wandering aimlessly through Universum, you spot a familiar figure at a designer jewelry store — MC.
Looking at the store name, a feeling of unease settles over you as you unconsciously walk closer.
“Buy it if you like it!” comes her friend's voice.
“I can't do that, Tara!" MC exclaims, "It's too expensive. Even though Caleb gave me his card and told me to use it as I please, I feel awkward buying such an expensive item!”
Your steps falter, too heavy to take another step.
“Since he gave it to you, it’s for you to use. When has your brother ever used pleasantries with you He's probably over the moon that you're willing to spend his money.” Tara replies.
“That’s true…” MC twirls, showing Tara the necklace she tried on at different angles. You see it too.
“Isn’t it beautiful, Tara? I really, really love this necklace! I liked it back in high school, and Caleb promised to buy it for me after graduation, but..."
But?
You laugh bitterly at the irony.
But instead, Caleb gives you this necklace every year for your birthday and anniversary.
Originally, you had thought that even if Caleb was heartless, at least he remembered your birthday and your anniversary; even if the gift he chose wasn’t thoughtful, it would at least be expensive.
But it turns out he isn’t heartless, nor is he indifferent; on the contrary, he is incredibly thoughtful and devoted. It’s just that what he holds dear has nothing to do with you.
T - 21 days
You try to talk about the divorce with Caleb again, this time taking the initiative to meet him as he gets off work. You walk into the grand foyer of the Farspace Fleet HQ, preparing to text and let him know you're here, when you hear his voice.
"And that concludes your orientation tour."
You slowly turn to see Caleb, his adjutant, Liam, and MC walk out of the elevator. You wait until they make their way closer to the front door to approach the group.
"It's been a pleasure showing you around," Liam adds, saluting to MC, "I look forward to working with you, Mrs. Xia".
You nearly choke on your breath, face red and still sputtering as you appear in front of Caleb. Liam looks at you with confusion. "I'm sorry, and you are...?"
Caleb's face morphs from surprise to horror, and you see the message behind his furrowed brows and pleading eyes: "don't say anything"
You remember the sneers, the joking, the pity.
"I'm a good friend of the Colonel," you say. "In fact, we have a dinner appointment tonight."
Caleb nods vigorously in agreement, quickly dismissing Liam as you, Caleb, and MC walk towards the parking garage.
When you arrive at Caleb's car, MC doesn’t move, smiling sweetly.
“Okay, Gege, you guys go home. I’ll take a taxi myself. Y/N, I’ll return Mr. Xia back to you.”
Back to you? What does she mean, back to you?
When did you ever agree to lend your husband out?
She takes the opportunity to cling to your arm, shaking it sweetly. “Y/N, don’t be angry. Today’s misunderstanding wasn’t intentional. Liam just assumed things because Caleb has never personally brought a cadet around before. I didn't have time to explain the situation."
Her eyes subconsciously flick to your leg before she continues.
“You won’t be angry with us, right?”
“Us?” you sneer. “Who is this ‘us’? Who exactly is with whom?” You hate strangers getting close to you — especially her. You pull your arm away.
You swear you only pull back lightly. You don’t shove her. You absolutely do not push her.
Yet she falls to the ground.
“Y/N!!” Caleb shouts your name.
MC reacts faster than both of you. She scrambles up and blocks Caleb completely — pressing herself against him. “Caleb, don’t be angry. Don’t blame Y/N, I’m just careless. She just gently touched me and I lost balance myself. Gege, please don't get angry at your wife because of me, it’ll make me sad…”
Only Caleb believes this act.
Especially when she deliberately raises her wrist — the scraped skin clearly visible — right in front of him, the glint of the necklace she bought yesterday, the same as yours piercing your eyes.
Caleb sees the scrape. His brows knit together, eyes filled with obvious concern.
“Y/N! What’s wrong with you? Why are you so prejudiced against her?”
“Me? Prejudiced against her?” you laugh. “What prejudice could I possibly have? After all, she’s Mrs. Xia now.”
“You—” He is momentarily speechless before lowering his gaze to MC. “Does it hurt?”
“No…” she whimpers, yet she lifts her wrist closer to his chin.
He actually lowers his head and gently blows on it.
You have never seen him look at you like that.
“I’ll put some medicine on it later. We can’t let it scar.”
Not even after your car accident. Not when you lose your leg. Not when your body is covered in scars.
Back then, he gently asked you, “Does it hurt? If it does, cry.”
But that wasn't heartache.
It was guilt.
He never caressed your wounds. When faced with your scars, he escapes. He avoids. He refuses to look at them.
“It’s okay, I'm really alright!” MC’s voice grows even softer
“Y/N,” Caleb calls, looking up at you. “Aren’t you going to apologize?”
“Why should I apologize?” A sharp sting rushes into your eyes, blurring your vision. You can barely see his face anymore. “Because she calls herself my husband’s wife, I have to apologize?”
“Y/N! Why are being sarcastic? Didn’t she explain? Liam simply misunderstood. Why are you holding onto this?”
He is angry again.
He always is, whenever you speak up against her.
You smile and shake your head.
“No, Caleb. You’re wrong. I don’t want to hold onto this at all. I didn’t even expose you two on the spot. Whoever wants to be Mrs. Xia can take the position. I already told you I want a divorce. You should just agree. Then everything becomes perfectly legitimate.”
You don’t expose them because there’s no need. Since you are going to divorce him anyway, why add more trouble to your life? It isn’t worth it.
“Your temper is getting more and more outrageous!” he snaps. “There’s a limit to throwing tantrums! Apologize right now!”
“I won’t.” You turn to leave.
“Stop!” He rushes forward and grabs your wrist.
“Where are you going? You pushed her. Her arm is hurt. You're not leaving without saying sorry."
You stare at the hand gripping you.
Despair crashes over you like a tidal wave.
You look into his eyes and say, slowly, clearly, word by word:
“Yes. All I have to deal with is being a cripple for the rest of my life. But oh no, she scratched her arm”
A flash of sharp pain crosses his eyes.
He loosens his grip and steps back.
The moment you are free, you turn and run toward the elevator.
No matter how disheveled you look, you don’t care.
You absolutely cannot let him see the tears streaming down your face.
From the day you were injured, through your wedding and five years of marriage...
This is the first time you use your injured leg to hurt him.
Before, you were so careful about protecting his feelings. You were afraid he felt guilt and remorse, so you never mention the accident five years ago. Even when you had to endure gossip and cold stares, you swallowed everything alone.
But now, is he in pain too?
You can honestly understand to a certain degree.
He is doomed to carry the burden of you for the rest of his life, unable to shake himself free. How can he not be?
His true love is right beside him, yet because of your existence, he can't even be with her openly. How can he not be in pain when the urge to let go is pitted against the torment of his conscience?
So, Caleb, please let me go, okay?
T - 20 days
You return home alone and lay your ten jewelry boxes out in front of you. You stare at the necklaces for a long time, lost in thought.
For a moment, you want to smash each one against the wall.
But you don't.
Impulse solves nothing.
After calming down, you download a secondhand resale app and start looking for sellers who buy luxury goods. You quickly find one in the city and arrange to drop them off tomorrow.
Having dealt with this, you turn on your computer and begin focusing intently on your visa application.
You have less than three weeks until you escape your personal hell.
T - 19 days
You are so engrossed in your work that you don't even notice Caleb's return.You hurriedly close your laptop when you hear "What are you doing?" coming from the
doorway.
Caleb returns, maintaining his usual gentle demeanor, as if nothing happened. He walks to your side and asks in a soft voice, "Watching a show? Studying? What's got you so hooked that you're still up?"
He's trying to make conversation.
You press your hand tightly against the laptop; the VISA webpage is still open. "You wouldn't care for it"
"I don't even know what it is? Here, let me see. You asked me to tutor you back in high school." He reaches out to try to pry the screen up but you hold on tightly, refusing to let go.
He assumes you're still angry, so he stops trying to take it from you. Instead, he sighs and squats down, staring at your profile. "Still angry?"
"No." You're not lying. You've had many feelings: anxiety, disappointment, despair, but definitely not anger.
Anger meant that as long as he coaxed you, things would be fine; there was still hope for your marriage. But for you, any last drop hope had already evaporated. Five years… that was enough.
“Y/N, MC and I really have nothing going on. We're just close childhood friends. She came back from abroad, and we all got together to welcome her. The misunderstanding at work today was purely accidental. You have to believe me.”
His voice grows increasingly sweet. You look into his eyes, unable to see the passion behind the soft words.
Gentleness is like a program written into his body, running on autopilot.
“Caleb” you finally say, “Aren’t you tired?”
He's taken aback, seemingly not understanding what you mean.
You give him a bitter smile. "You have someone else in your heart, yet you still fuss over me every day. Aren't you tired?"
Caleb's eyes widen. "I don't..."
"Caleb, stop lying to yourself! I know some things don't sound so honorable when brought up; it'll make everyone look bad. But actually, divorce is better for both of us. Really. MC is more like the Mrs. Xia you envision yourself with-"
"Y/N!" Caleb interrupts you. "Are you still holding onto MC? I've told you so many times."
"Caleb, the one who can't get over MC isn't me." You stare at him straight in the eyes. "It's you."
He freezes again. "Y/N..."
"We both know it, isn't that right?" You try to appear calm. You can't have him think you're just "throwing a tantrum". "It's time to put an end to our five years together, Caleb. Let's say goodbye gracefully. Let bygones be bygones."
Caleb stares at you for a while, then stands up. "Y/N, you're overthinking it. You'll see later that MC's return won't change anything. It's late, get some rest."
"Caleb Xia! I know you feel guilty towards me, but not anymore. I really don't need a marriage based on guilt. Let me go, and let yourself go too, okay?"
Before you even finish your sentence, Caleb takes off his coat and heads into the bathroom.
You look at his coat lying on the small sofa. In the past, you would've hung it up for him, then found his pajamas and put them by the bathroom door.
But this time, you don't move.
For the past five years, you had always thought that your legs were weak and that you couldn't contribute anything to your family. In fact, Caleb managed everything perfectly, making you feel like a mere decoration, unable to help him in any way. Yet, you still tried your best to take care of him when you could.
Honestly? You might have overlooked the core: perhaps what Caleb needed wasn't your insignificant care, but a presentable Mrs. Xia, someone who could stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him in front of the world.
So you truly don't understand what he's clinging onto, why he refuses to divorce you after all this…
Caleb comes out of the bathroom and goes straight to sleep, seemingly refusing to speak further.
You don't bring it up again. Forget it, every conversation is exhausting for you anyways. You're better off using that time to think about your future, strive towards what you have always wanted, and when you could leave. Whether or not the divorce is finalized by then won't matter.
You glance at Caleb beside you; he's already fast asleep.
In the dim light, you can only see a blurry profile of his face. The distance between the two of you seems endless.
Caleb, I've decided not to blame you anymore. I hope you have a happy life after I'm gone.
T - 18 days
You wake up feeling refreshed. As you finish getting ready and make your way down the stairs, you see the look of shock in the housekeeper's eyes.
You're wearing makeup today, and in your favorite dress.
For five years, you barely dressed up. Your leg, covered in scars, not only restricted your movement, but also your self worth and yearning for beauty. You didn't think you were worth dressing up.
“Very beautiful, Madam,” Mrs. Chen's admiring gaze doesn't lie. “Where are you going?”
“The theatre.” You shift your weight, a little nervous despite the excitement coursing through your veins. You even wore stockings so that the scars on your leg wouldn't be as visible. After settling your feelings, you decide to buy a ticket to see a ballet performance. The only thing you wanted to see at the moment, the only thing you knew would comfort you was dance.
You take a deep breath as you sink into the plush velvet seat in the dress circle. From your elevated view, you can almost feel the warmth of the stage lights and the buzz of adrenaline behind the colossal curtains, your heartbeat quickening as it gets closer to curtain call.
"Y/N?"
You nearly jump as you hear your name, looking wildly around to meet a pair of sea-blue eyes.
"R-rafayel?"
You squint as the name comes off your tongue slightly unfamiliarly. It's been nearly 10 years since you saw this old classmate of yours, but the tuft of dark purple hair gives him away. The two of you were never in same homeroom back in high school, but his name was very famous among the art students.
"It's been such a long time, how have you been?" He smiles and offers you a hand.
Your brain short circuits for a moment, not quite sure how to answer.
"My apologies," he quickly follows up his words. "I remember you were a performing arts student, and followed your career briefly after graduation. I know you stopped dancing and got married, married to the man that you saved."
You're even more stunned now. But before you have a chance to formulate a reply, the lights cut out, signifying the opening of the show.
Tonight's performance is by the Linkin City ballet, performing a classical piece that you've rehearsed countless times in the past.
As the orchestra strikes the first chord, the dancer deep within you is awakened.
Even though you're sitting in the audience with a real possibility you'll never be on stage again, your toes subconsciously tap lightly on the ground to the beat of the music—it's muscle memory etched into your body…
At the end of the performance, you can't help the tears spilling from your eyes. Sitting in the audience, listening to the thunderous applause, watching audience members go up one after another to present flowers to the dancers...
Not because of sadness, not because of pain, and certainly not because of despair.
But because of the dance itself, and the resonance you felt in your heart.
This was once your passion and your deepest love.
But you had forgotten it for five years.
You log onto your empty social media account for the first time in years, and simply post: Tonight belongs to my passion and my dearest love.
After the curtains fall for the final time, you turn to Rafayel, still gently clapping beside you.
"I've been unhappy since I quit dancing," you admit, gaze flickering at your bad leg. "But I've had enough of moping around and feeling sorry for myself." You wipe away any remaining moisture off your face. "Sorry, this just reminded me of how happy dancing made me feel. I'll be going abroad soon to get a masters."
You swear Rafayel's eyes light up slightly in the dim concert hall as he gives you a smile. "Y/N, Little Swallow, I believe you will soar high, even if your wings were once broken."
Back in high school, your nickname was Little Swallow, because you were best known for your somersaults and leaps; high and graceful.
Hearing the name again after so many years has your heart racing again, as if you are back in your youth, sweating profusely in the practice room.
A bundle is placed into your hands. You look down to see a bouquet of flowers, something Rafayel originally brought for one the dancers, probably.
Rafayel simply pats your head. "It's not shameful to have a leg injury, it's not shameful to have scars on your legs. What's shameful are those who laugh at you; they are the truly despicable ones! Kind people will only cheer you on." He turns away, but not before calling out, "Let's keep in touch! I'll be in the same city as your program for my next artist retreat. Let me know if I can help with anything." He emphasizes again, "Anything!"
You stand there, watching him disappear into the distance.
This is the first time someone has told you: your disability isn't shameful; what's shameful are those who mock you.
Words you've wanted to hear for nearly 2000 days, but never had spoken to you.
Tonight, it brings you a fresh wave of tears.
T - 17 days
You didn't think Caleb would be back after everything going on these days, but the sound of the door opening wakes you up from sleep.
Caleb stinks of alcohol when he enters the room.
He's been drinking again.
How much did he have to drink? He throws a chair against the door and collapses directly onto the bed.
You don't have anything to say to him anymore, whether it's to scold him to drink less or coax him to take a shower. You get up, intending to sleep in the guest room.
Just as you reach the door, Caleb's voice sounds behind you. "Where are you going?"
You don't answer.
The bed creaks behind you. Caleb gets slams the door in front of you closed and grabs your wrist. "Where are you going if you're not sleeping here?"
"I'm going to the guest room, let go of me."
You can't really argue with a drunkard. The more you struggle, the tighter he grips your hands.
"Stop fooling around, Y/N. What's the point? Since you've apologized, I'll make it up to you" his voice slurs.
You're dumbfounded??? What the hell is he referring to?
"When did I apologize?" You haven't even seen him, let alone apologize to him?
Caleb chuckles softly, mumbling, "Tonight belongs to my passion and my dearest? I'm back."
You scoff, wait, this guy actually thought you posted that for him?
“Y/N” He suddenly hugs you. “I know, I know you love me. You'd give everything for me, so no matter what happens, I will never betray you…”
You are stunned for a moment.
He's right.
You've loved him very, very much.
He had said these words at your wedding. At that time, you thought it wasn't a confession, but a promise.
He had given you a promise for a lifetime.
A lifetime is so long. Long enough that you thought one day he would fall in love with you properly. Even if he never loved you, it didn't matter; you thought your love for him would be enough…
“Caleb Xia.” You have something you want to ask him.
“Hmm?” His warm breath brushes against your ear, spreading out, carrying the scent of alcohol.
"But your Pipsqueak is back! What will happen to Pips if you're with me?"
"Pipsqueak? Pipsqueak..." He murmured the name, suddenly choking back tears. "Pipsqueak, I won't forget. I promised you, I won't forget..."
You feel as if you just got dunked in ice water.
Is he so drunk that he's mistaking you for MC?
"What promise? What did you promise Pipsqueak?" you ask numbly.
"Everything... Everything, Pips..." His arms tighten around you.
You gasp as he suddenly lifts you up and pushes you down on the bed, his breath, heavy with the smell of alcohol, glosses over your face, nose, and chin...
He tries to find your lips, but you avoid them.
The smell of alcohol makes you nauseous.
When his hands begin to tear at your pajamas, you immediately turn away.
"Pips, be good, okay? Stop making a fuss..."
Still calling you Pipsqueak...
You struggle fiercely, finally freeing a hand and slapping him hard across the face. A crisp sound rings out in the bedroom
"Caleb! Look carefully at who I am! I'm not your Pipsqueak!" you shout in the darkness, your voice hoarse.
His body stiffens briefly. Taking advantage of the moment, you forcefully wriggle out of his grasp.
He lies on the bed, still drunk, murmuring, "Pips, I'm sorry, I have to go home. I promised her I'd take care of her for the rest of my life... I owe her..."
You cover your ears. Those words have haunted you like a curse for five years; now, whenever they echo in your mind, your head buzzes as if filled with static.
You scream at the figure beside you, "I don't want you to owe me anything! Caleb Xia! Do you hear me!? I don't want you to owe me anything! I just want you to set me free!"
Caleb's phone vibrates at that moment.
You turn your head to see the name of the person calling: "Baby Apple."
Ha, Baby Apple…
In Caleb's phone, your contact is "Y/N"
When you were newlyweds, you had fantasized about the day Caleb would call you "sweetie," "darling," or any other nickname that was exclusively yours, or even just "Wife."
But no, whether in everyday conversations or in his contacts, it was always just "Y/N".
To reassure yourself, you convinced yourself that this was just his personality—not clingy, straightforward, and with a strong personality.
You were wrong.
The words "Baby Apple" on the screen are particularly glaring. You're torn between picking up or letting it ring, but you click on the green receiver anyway.
A soft, delicate voice makes your hand tremble.
"Gege, are you home yet? Are you alright?" MC sounds drunk too, her voice slurred and incoherent. Ignoring the silence on your end, she continues. "I know it's hard for you... I also... know that Y/N has sacrificed a lot for you... You don't need to feel guilty towards me... I... we're fine like this now... I don't care whether I'm your wife or not... I just... just glad that you remember me and treat me the same as before... let's stay like this Caleb... She can live in your house, and I can live in your heart, I'm content..."
The phone finally slips and fell to the ground.
She lives in your house, I live in your heart.
You stagger out of the room and go to the guest room.
You collapse on the bed, trying to squeeze all the sounds out of your head.
You never want to think about this again.
T - 16 days
When you wake up, it's Caleb's voice that you hear. He's talking to Mrs. Chen.
"Where did these flowers come from?"
"Madam brought them back last night."
"Madam went out last night?"
"Yes."
"Alone? Where did she go?" Caleb's voice rises noticeably.
"She said she went to see a performance."
"A performance? Who sent the flowers?" He seemed unconvinced.
"I don't know."
"What performance? Where did she see it? What time was it?"
Mrs. Chen hesitates. "Sir, I really don't know."
The guest room door is pushed open.
You immediately pretend to be asleep.
"Y/N, I know you're awake; your hand just moved."
You open your eyes, internally sighing.
"Who did you go to see the performance with yesterday?"
Why is he so fixated on this question?
You don't answer him, simply pulling the covers over your head and turn your back to face him.
“Y/N,” He sits down, “Be good, okay?” He reaches out to dig you out from under the comforter.
You remember him pinning you down on the bed last night, calling MC's name and telling her to be good. You feel utterly disgusted and forcefully slap his hand away.
He gives up, then suddenly changes the subject, "Y/N, what was the "passions and loves" you mentioned last night?"
"It wasn't you!" you huff.
His face stiffens for a moment, but it quickly turns into a knowing look. "Alright, stop being stubborn. I know you're still sulking and jealous. Didn't I come back as soon as I saw you post that yesterday?"
He seriously still thinks you're just throwing a tantrum when you said "not you"?
You poke your head out from under the covers. "I told you..."
Seeing you finally come out, his expression softens as he takes the opportunity to stroke your hair. "That's good. I'll be back tonight, but you don't have to wait for me. Just go to sleep if you're tired."
Without waiting for you to say anything more, he turns and leaves.
You don't care whether or not he comes home.
Actually, this scene is exactly the same as before.
Before MC appeared, he was always like this, speaking to you gently, telling you to go to sleep early, and stroking your hair.
You've never argued, not even once.
But so what? What does a marriage without arguments even mean?
If you were to describe Caleb Xia with a single word, it would be "good."
However, you know the truth painfully clearly: all the good things Caleb does don't stem from his love for you, but rather an act of atonement.
The words "never to dance again" were a devastating blow to both you and him back then.
You still remember Caleb's reaction upon hearing those words; after the initial shock, he seemed utterly ripped from his soul.
From that moment on, the vibrant Caleb died.
You were both simultaneously bound by the shackles of "forever"— you forever lost the stage, and he forever atoned for his sins.
"I owe her" these three words became the unbearable weight of his life.
From that moment forward, there was no more Caleb Xia; what lived was only your husband—a walking robot, devoid of warmth and emotion. A stagnant pool, mechanically fulfilling the duties of a husband, a partner.
But now he's alive again…
MC returned, bringing light back into his life.
He's started smiling again, his eyes sparkling with light and fire.
You sigh heavily. Even after all this, why wouldn't he let you go, and let himself go too?
T - 15 days
You step out of the taxi, heart pounding as you approach tall glass doors. After watching the ballet piece, you are once again filled with determination and decided to sign up for a beginners dance class. You've been going to your physical therapy sessions dutifully, hoping one day, with enough hard work and practice, you'll be able to stand on stage again. You smile at the wide range of participants already there. They greet you warmly, introducing themselves one by one before the instructor walks in.
As the class begins, you practice some very simple basics - posture, form, and stances. However, due to your injury, you quickly run out of stamina and spend a good portion of the class on the floor to rest inbetween. You're wiping the sweat off your brow with a towel and bidding goodbye to some new friends as a familiar voice calls from outside the studio door.
"Y/N!"
It's Rafayel?!
"What are you doing here?" you ask, suddenly feeling a wave of embarrassment as you're stuck wondering how much of your clumsy work he had just seen.
"The performing arts center commissioned a piece from me. It's going to be hanging on the top floor, so I came today to take a look at the atmosphere around here," he supplies, giving you a bright smile.
"Nice," you feebly offer.
Rafayel breaks the silence with a soft sigh, "Y/N, I can see the start of a rebirth."
You know what he's referring to, you starting to pick up dancing again. But can you really call what you're doing right now dancing? You could barely stand up straight.
"Don't be like that! You haven't practiced for five years, and you did really well today! I have a photo if you don't believe me." Rafayel takes out his phone, smoothly passing it to you to enter your number. It turns out he had recorded the last part of your dance lesson today.
"Ah, my phone died" you say, rummaging through your dance bag.
Rafayel shrugs and presses "send" anyways. "Here, let's go grab something to eat and you can watch yourself on mine.
The two of you head to a cafe, sitting outside on the patio as you make conversation over coffee and sandwiches. Rafayel shows you the video as you furrow your brows at your posture. You sigh dejectedly. Who would've imagined that the girl once known as "Little Swallow" would struggle like that?
While Rafayel's words of encouragement still doesn't allow you to forgive yourself for falling so far behind, you agree with his sentiment: you were going to grow new wings and explore higher skies.
It was at this moment that Caleb drives by, catching a glimpse of your smile brighter than the sunset, sitting next to Rafayel, your heads slightly leaned in together as you watch something on his phone.
T - 14 days
You feel a strange sense of oppression slowly growing behind you. You look up to see Caleb standing behind you, face partially covered by shadow.
His complexion is stormy; he looks exhausted, and his hair is somewhat disheveled. As he approaches you, the setting sun behind him seems to ignite, mirroring the flames in his eyes.
“I called you all day, and your phone was off?” He is clearly suppressing his anger.
You don't know where this anger came from. Isn't he very busy? He usually never calls you anyways; why would he be offended that your phone died? Afterall, you weren't even angry when he went to take care of MC, what right did he have to dictate how you spend your time?
“Oh, I didn't expect you to call,” you say calmly, stirring your drink.
"Didn't expect me to call?" Caleb glances at Rafayel sitting beside you, gritting his teeth. "I'm your husband. If I don't call you, who will?"
You shake your head, pulling yourself up using the armrest. "Who knows? I could have an ex-boyfriend," you say sarcastically.
His expression changes, and he frown deeply. "Y/N."
Rafayel simply smiles, and turns to address Caleb. "Colonel Xia," he greets him. "Have you ever watched your wife dance?
Caleb freezes. Despite being the High Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, trained in all kinds of interrogation and logic, he could not decipher the meaning behind those words.
Rafayel chuckles and bids the two of you goodbye, Caleb's gaze burning into the back of his silhouette.
"Y/N, I've underestimated you this whole time," Caleb says as you get into his car. "You're quite something." His voice carries a threat and suppressed anger.
Your mind flashes to the stench of perfume on his shirt, and scoff, "Not as good as you."
"Since when did you get in contact with him again? What does he do? I don't want to waste time finding that out myself." His hands rest on the steering wheel, his fingers long and slender. On his left ring finger is a new ring.
His wedding band has been off since the night of your wedding ceremony. What's he wearing now?
You smile faintly and hold out your hand.
On your ring finger is a jade ring, small enough for everyday wear.
You were the one to pick out your wedding rings. You wanted a small, non-flashy stone because you wanted to wear it everyday, forever. It was a custom pair; his was also jade.
The one on his hand is pure silver band.
Caleb watches your movements and subconsciously pulls his left hand back.
You place your hand on the dashboard. "Colonel, can you please explain when your ring changed color?"
T - 13 days
Caleb freezes for a fraction of a second, before muttering, "it's a formality, it's not that serious."
You nearly laugh out loud. Of course, what can be more serious than marriage?
Perhaps your observation ignited the tiniest shred of shame in him, for his tone softens considerably, his previous accusatory attitude gone. "I'm asking you this for your own good, Y/N. There won't be another man in this world who treats you like I do. Of course, I'm not perfect; I have my flaws. But I'm sincere, trusting, and unguarded with you. Your name is on all of my assets. It's hard to say what other people's intentions are."
You are immediately reminded of MC's words: She's in your house, but I'm in your heart.
You put on your earbuds, hoping to drown out whatever other demeaning things he has to say.
Seeing this, Caleb hesitates, then drives off.
He drops you off at home, saying, "I have more work to do at the office, don't wait up for me," before leaving again.
You stare at the door blankly. You forgot how you used to care so much about those things.
Slowly, you take the wedding ring off your finger. Since it obviously doesn't have any true sentimental value anymore, you might as well sell it for cash.
Actually, if you were going to sell it, might as well sell it as a pair!
You look high and low around the house, but can't find the other one.
Suddenly, you remember that Caleb keeps a safe at home, something you've never thought to open.
An idea strikes you.
You don't know the safe's combination.
You try Caleb's birthday, but it didn't budge. You don't even bother to try yours.
You think a little harder, hesitantly putting in the security code for the front door and garage.
It opens!
Inside are a stack of legal documents, property papers, and various other things that must be very important. You easily find the jewelry box with the same brand as your wedding ring, but there is another one in the very back, placed on top of a notebook.
You open the latter and see the another silver ring matching the one on Caleb's finger, along with a necklace with a small apple charm.
Your hand rests on top of the notebook, mind teetering between looking and not looking.
Ultimately, your self control wins, but as you move to put it back, a photograph slides out, falling to the floor.
It's a photo of Caleb and MC from their high school days.
Honestly, it doesn't mean much. You knew for a long time that Caleb had feelings for someone else before. But since you married him, at least when you married him, you told yourself you didn't care about his past.
You sigh, picking up the photo, and put it back in the notebook.
Fuck it, trying to protect your already shattered heart is pointless now. You open it to a random page, planning to just stuff the photo back in, but you freeze as your eyes land on the writing: 100 Little things about Pipsqueak.
The first thing listed is: Pips' birthday is May 1st.
Your hand slips, and the notebook falls to the ground.
The code to your house is 20501
The combination to this safe is 0501.
The air in the room seems to thin. You press your palm to your chest, gasping for breath.
The second line reads: "I finally bought myself a house. It's in the style that MC likes. The password is her birthday."
So, for the last five years, you've been living in the house meant for Caleb and MC...
T - 12 days
You bring the pair of rings to the antique watch shop, having scheduled a time with the owner. The owner is delighted, having previously bought the 10 necklaces you chose to part ways with as well. He ushers you to sit down in the private room behind the counter and pours you a cup of tea.
You excuse yourself to use the restroom, hearing the door open as more customers enter the store.
The voices are familiar.
Shit.
Looking behind you, you see MC's appear, with Caleb in tow.
You really manage to run into her everywhere, huh?
It's midday, right when Caleb usually has meetings. He sure has lots of free time now.
You go do your business, ducking behind the curtains as you return to avoid being noticed.
"Caleb, look! This store has so many of these necklaces! They're limited edition zodiac ones!" MC points to something in the display case. If you aren't mistaken, it's definitely one of the pieces you sold.
The old man takes it out. "You have a good eye, young lady. The necklaces were acquired recently. They only make a limited amount every year. These ones are no longer being sold."
Caleb looks closely and frowns. "Are they really that rare?"
"Yes, this limited collection began exactly 12 years ago, a zodiac edition with this year being the last edition. It's much more expensive than the regular model. I think I've got the only ten that exists in Linkon," the owner explains with a smile.
"No way..." MC exclaims, "can you prove their authenticity if they're really that valuable?"
"Of course! I've got the certificates as well as the invoices for each."
"These ten necklaces, did you receive them all at once?" Caleb, who has been mostly silent, suddenly asks.
"Yes," the owner nods with a smile, "from the same customer."
Caleb's eyes sharpen. "Show me the invoice."
The owner takes out the invoices and hands them to Caleb.
He stares at them harshly, suddenly letting out a cold laugh.
"Sir...?" The old man is taken aback, unsure what the issue was.
"It has nothing to do with you, just give me all of them." Caleb says gruffly.
Even MC sensed something was wrong and softly asks, "Gege?"
The owner notices you waiting for him. "You're back? Everything alright?"
Caleb and MC looks your way as well, seeing your figure in the back.
You're not sure if it's just your imagination, but Caleb's eyes almost seem to be filled with anger.
"Can you sit down for a moment? I'll show them the necklaces first, and then I'll look at your ring."
"What ring?" Caleb's voice is dangerously low, was full of suspicion upon hearing this.
His gaze falls to the pair of jade rings behind the display case.
"These two?" He taps the glass of the display case with his finger, his tone getting even more oppressive.
The owner clearly has no idea what is going on, why his customer was asking this, or how to answer. These were items provided by someone else; why is he asking about them?
You don't intend to put him in an awkward situation, so you answer Caleb directly. "Yes, these two."
Caleb's gaze is burning. "Mrs. Xia, you're really something."
It wasn't a compliment, but you reply calmly, "Thank you, you flatter me."
"Get over here!" he suddenly roars.
You sit down, picking up your cup of tea.
He walks over to you instead, looming in front of you.
Perhaps out of consideration for the outside world, he tries to suppress his anger, his voice full of sarcasm, "I never thought I'd experience firsthand what it means by 'it's hard to guard against a thief from within the family'. One day, I wouldn't even know if my entire house was robbed."
You ignore him.
"Are you short of money? Is the money I give you not enough?" he hisses.
"No, not at all," you say, "I've been decluttering lately, getting rid of anything useless."
"Useless?" He's furious, pointing to the rings in the display case, "You're saying wedding rings are useless?"
You look at him calmly, "Otherwise? If you say they're useful, have you ever worn it for a even day since the weeding ceremony?"
Caleb is speechless, indignant. "One day, you'll sell me off without me even knowing!" "
You laugh and turn to at MC. "Do you want this? I'm selling one Caleb Xia, secondhand! I'll even give you a discount, I promise the price is favorable."
MC is stunned.
Caleb however, clearly doesn't find this funny. He turns to MC and says, "Pipsqueak, you head back first."
She's unwilling, protesting, "but Gege!"
"We'll talk about the necklace later, you go back first!" His expression is serious. MC knew when not to push his buttons. He's in a bad mood, and she didn't dare to provoke him. Lips trembling, she says gently, "Alright Gege, I'll go back first. But don't be too angry. Y/N must have her reasons, please don't scold her."
You roll your eyes.
As soon as MC leaves, Caleb immediately presses you. "What exactly are you doing? Tell me!"
"I told you," you say calmly, "I'm decluttering things I don't want anymore."
You pause, then continue. "Including you, Colonel Xia."
"Are you serious?" His face is very unpleasant.
"Yes." You were never anything but serious about this.
"Y/N! I think you've been provoking me too much lately!" His eyes flash with anger.
You personally think that his temper has been a bit too volatile lately; the usually stable and gentle Colonel was gone, and MC was largely to blame.
He calls the owner over, harshly putting his black card on the table.
"I'll take all of them."
The owner wraps everything up, afraid of knowing too much about the uncomfortable relationship between the three of you.
Get in the car!" he demands, dragging you out by your wrist.
“It looks like I misjudged you,” he says once he starts driving. “I always thought you were a sensible and understanding, person, but now it seems you're getting too full of yourself. Look at Pips…”
“I don’t want to see her, ok? You can go spend your time with her if she's that great.”
You put on your headphones for real this time. You're in no mood to hear about how wonderful MC is to him.
He drops you off at the entrance of the neighborhood and tells you to get out. “I have a meeting later-”
You get out and slam the door shut. You don't give a fuck about what he's doing tonight.
T - 11 days
At 11pm, you hear Caleb enter the front door.
You shut down your laptop and turn to scroll lazily on your phone, overhearing him greet Mrs. Chen.
"I told you to cook it according to my wife's taste, why did you make it spicy?"
"Madam said...spicy." Aunt Chen's voice was tinged with panic.
"And she didn't eat a single bite?"
"Yes..."
"Get me a bowl of rice."
A few minutes later, Caleb enters the bedroom. His tie is loose, the top button of his shirt undone, the sleeves rolled up to his wrists.
"Aren't you going to come out and have dinner with me?" he asks, the anger from earlier seemingly gone.
For the last few years, he's always come home pretty late, rarely for dinner, but made sure to eat when he came home. You cherished those moments, bustling around him, serving up his food and keeping him company for the little time before going to sleep.
What good was your attentiveness in the end? Who knows, perhaps it only served to annoy him?
“What did you eat tonight? From now on, you don’t need to cook according to my taste. Tell Mrs. Chen to make what you like,” he says.
You roll your eyes. He really thinks you're still trying to gain his favor.
He pulls up a chair and sits down on the edge of the bed. “Y/N,”
What is it now?
He takes a deep breath. “MC really liked that ring. Since you sold it anyway, I gave it to her. I just transferred you some money. Take it and buy something you like.
Of course.
So that’s what it's about. No wonder he's suddenly being so friendly with you.
You have your back to him and simply say, "Oh," then add, "Okay."
T - 11 days until leaving Caleb Xia: He gave our wedding rings to someone else too. But I don't even want him anymore, so why should I care about the ring?
"So well-behaved today?" His voice softens. "I wanted to buy something for you, but you obviously don't like what I buy."
"Hmm."
"What's wrong? You're asleep already?" He frowns. "Are you feeling unwell? Let me see."
He leans over, wanting to see your face. "Don't tell me you're secretly crying?"
In his dreams!
You give no reaction.
After tucking you in tighter, he looks at your quiet form, hesitates, and finally says, “Y/N, I'm going on a mission tomorrow.”
A mission!
You immediately open our eyes. This means you can go in person to meet with a lawyer and get your interviews and forms stamped without him knowing!
You sit up, eyes shining brightly. “How many days are you going?”
“Three or four days, possibly up to a week.” He frowns, thinking your reaction is a bit over the top. What does this mean? You were letting him go?
“No, it’s okay. Who are you going with?” you follow up haphazardly, heart pounding with joy.
His expression grows increasingly hesitant. "Gideon." He pauses, then adds, "Maybe MC too."
"Oh." You lie back down. "Sounds good, tell me before you come back, I'll have Mrs. Chen prepare good food."
He looks at you incredulously. "You're not angry?"
You shake your head. "Go to sleep early, you have a business trip tomorrow, you need to get some rest."
"Y/N, trust me, a lot more of us will be going together..." He moves closer to you, but you push him away.
"Go take a shower, I've already showered, don't get too close to me."
He frowns. "What do you mean? You think I'm dirty?"
Well, he does reek of MC's perfume.
The next day, you're still groggy when Caleb gets up.
You had expected him to pack his things and go without leaving you with any words, but unexpectedly, he insists on waking you.
"Ugh, sleepy!" You smack his hand away.
"Mrs. Xia," he drawls, standing by the bed. "Your performance is falling. You don't feed me, give me mooncakes anymore, or ask me about my day, and now I'm leaving for a mission and you won't even help me pack my luggage?"
It's true. If this was before, you'd be fretting all over him, his luggage already prepared the night before.
You roll your eyes. Fine, you'll pack for him then!
You go into the walk-in closet, and start placing folded clothes and personal belongings neatly into his suitcase. Before you close the zipper, you head over to the bedside drawer, take out a box of condoms, and was about to throw it into the suitcase as well.
Your arm is grabbed roughly.
"Where did this come from?" Caleb demands, eyes darkening.
To be honest, you originally prepared it for your honeymoon though you never ended up using it. It's probably expired by now, but you thought it would be funny.
You smile. “I prepared this especially for you. Tell me, aren't I a wonderful Mrs. Xia?”
“You…” Caleb picks up the box and throws it forcefully into the trash can, “That'll be unnecessary! Even if I had a child, I could afford to raise it. Besides, I don’t plan on having one anytime soon!”
He zips up the suitcase, locks it, and leaves with a huff.
T - 10 days
You head to physical therapy again. While sitting in the waiting area for your appointment, your phone suddenly goes off. Your surprise turns into annoyance as you see the caller ID: Husband. Fortunately, there's not many people beside you. After picking up the call, you quietly say, "Hello".
"Why are you speaking so softly? What are you doing?" Caleb asks on the other end.
"I'm at the doctor's, it's not good to talk loudly." You quickly take out earbuds, further lowering your voice to a whisper. "Why am I getting so many calls these days?"
It's really annoying.
He seems even more offended on the other end, "Your own husband can't call you? Are you annoyed at me?"
More than annoyed!
You roll your eyes "No, not really, it's just quite unsettling. What's wrong?"
"Mrs. Xia!" He scoffs on the other end, "Can't I call you if there's nothing wrong?" "
You're speechless for a second.
This person is getting more and more irrational.
"What instructions does the Colonel have for me?" you roll your eyes, not believing him.
"You're kidding me!" His tone softens a bit, "I'm transferring flights, it's not boarding time yet, just wanted to see if you're up."
So he really is bored!
"Don't you have anything to say to me?"
You pop a grape into your mouth, mumbling an "oh".
"Y/N!"
??? Why does it sound like he's about to get angry?
"What are you eating that's more important than your husband's safety?"
You finally swallow the grape, "You... you've been attacked?"
A long sigh comes from the phone, "Never mind, you eat, just hearing your voice is enough, I'm about to board too." The call ended abruptly.
You look at your phone, listening to the dial tone, feeling utterly bewildered.
On the other end, MC glances at him several times. "Gege," she calls.
"Hmm? Let's go get ready to board."
"You seem to miss Y/N a lot. You've made so many calls since we left" she says tentatively.
Caleb doesn't notice her gaze, only frowning slightly. "Hmm, I don't know why, but I feel uneasy about this trip. I have a feeling something's going to happen."
"You...are you worried something might happen to Y/N? Then ask Liam or someone to go check on her."
Caleb sighs. "Y/N doesn't know Liam that well. I don't think she'd appreciate it anyway."
"Then what should we do?" MC asks worriedly. "Should I not have asked to come on this mission with you?"
Caleb glances down at her and smiles. "It's okay. I called her already. Hearing her voice is enough to put my mind at ease."
"Caleb, you actually...love Y/N very much, don't you?" MC asks with a smile, but a darker current ripples under her eyes.
He pauses. "Y/N can't live without me. She's my responsibility, so Pips..."
"I understand, Gege." MC smiles, interrupting his words gently and sweetly. "Don't forget, I'm the person who understands you best in the world."
T - 9 days
It's a peaceful few days without having to see Caleb. Instead of the anxiety that once filled you every time he went away, you feel calm. As you begin packing your things, you get an invitation from one of your old dance buddies. Mina is visiting home on her trip back from abroad, now a professional dancer on Broadway. You eagerly agree to meet with her, catching up over lunch as the two of you reminisce over the good old times. She's initially a little hesitant to show you photos of herself on stage, worried it'd make you sad, but you quickly reassure her that was not to worry about. Later, as she helps you down the steps of the restaurant, you ask what her plans are for the rest of the day.
"Oh! Umm, I'm actually getting dinner with a larger group of our old classmates..." She looks at you with a flicker of hope in her eyes. "If you don't mind... would you like to join us?"
"Of course!" You say with a smile. "I haven't seen everyone in so long. Do any of them know what happened with me?"
You're referring to your leg.
"That's where I need to apologize," Mina looks guilty. "I told them you injured your leg without asking your permission first... but nothing else!"
You understand. Your classmates, whom you haven't seen in a long time, would definitely ask how you were doing. Your leg injury was a fact, and you don't plan on hiding it forever.
"It's okay, really!" You're done feeling sorry for yourself. Your goal is to step out of the world Caleb had created for you, and in doing that, you will inevitably face all sorts of stares and judgement.
"Then I'll reply to them!" Mina says happily.
"Let's go! They said they're heading out soon". The meet-up location is nearby. By the time you and Mina get there, some of your classmates have already arrived. The enthusiasm they show you exceed your expectations. They mention your leg, even gathering around to examine it, but without malice, as if your leg wasn't anything serious, like a minor inconvenience like a cold. You liked this atmosphere; it's much better than deliberately trying to protect your pride. Everyone is treating you as a normal person, just with a leg injury.
It's a pleasant evening. The group sings old songs from high school on the karaoke. After three or four hours, you all get tired and sit down to chat, reminiscing about the past and having some drinks to liven things up. Even you, encouraged by everyone, drink quite a bit.
Among your classmates, some have had good times, others have experienced setbacks. Talking about the past, people begin talking about regrets.
Someone says, "If I had known this would happen, I would have studied harder in high school and not skipped so many classes."
Another adds, "If I had known he also liked me, I definitely wouldn't have been a coward on graduation day; I would have confessed to him. I've missed my chance all these years."
A good amount of sentimentality is triggered by the alcohol, and for a moment, everyone's eyes are filled with tears. From your teenage years to approaching thirty, everyone has had some regrets.
"Y/N, what about you? If you could do it all over again, what would you do?" someone asks you.
You hold a glass of wine in your hands, ruminating in thought.
The image of osmanthus blossoms from that Mid-Autumn Festival many years ago flashes before your eyes, twinkling like stars.
You smile faintly, "If I could do it all over again..."
Caleb pushes open the door to the private room.
"If I could do it all over again, I want to eat all the mooncakes from that Mid-Autumn Festival in our second year of high school by myself! I'm not sharing it with anyone!"
Was it the alcohol? The bitterness in your heart is amplified. You take a deep breath and look up, only to see someone standing in the doorway under the flickering lights.
Caleb.
Your classmates don't quite understand what you're referring to, and assume it is some old pastry shop that has closed, the mooncakes never to be tasted again. You can't see it, but Caleb's fists clench at his side, knuckles turning white.
"Hey, Caleb!"
Finally, someone notices him come in.
You're a little dizzy, seeing two Calebs approach you.
"Caleb Xia! You're so late, shouldn't you take three shots as punishment?" A classmate named Xavier places three glasses down in front of him. “Sorry, I'll have to decline.” Caleb puts his arm around you, looking down at your tipsy form. “I’m here to pick up my wife. I have to drive later.”
“Call a cab!”
Caleb gives a polite smile. “That won’t do. If I drink too much, who will take care of her?”
You are a little drunk, but still conscious enough to hear him and what's going on. Under the influence of alcohol though, your actions are more unrestrained. Your first instinct is to push Caleb aside, muttering, “I don’t need you to take care of me. Go away.”
“Y/N, you’re really drunk. Let’s go home.” Caleb tries to pick you up.
“No! I don’t want to go home…” You struggle in his arms.
“Do you hear that? Y/N isn’t going home!” Xavier pushes Caleb's shoulder, forcing him back down.
Mina senses something is off. Xavier had quite a bit to drink today and was probably drunk by now. Worried about the boys starting trouble, she quickly tries to break it up. "Alright, it's getting late. We've had our fun, let's start packing up."
"No way!" Xavier doesn't back down, gripping Caleb's shoulder tightly. "You're not leaving until you finish this drink!"
Caleb, as the Farspace Fleet Colonel, is incredibly perceptive. His expression darkens. "Xavier Shen, I'll let it slide since you've had too much to drink, but you'd better watch yourself!"
"Watch myself?" The rage in Xavier's eyes are now impossible to conceal. "Caleb Xia, I'm telling you, watch yourself!"
Xavier moves to grab his collar, but not before having his wrists clamped forcefully by Caleb. "Xavier Shen! Did you come here to cause trouble?"
"Yes!" He shouts, "I came here to cause trouble! Caleb, what the hell did you do to Y/N? What exactly did you do to her!?" He roars, his eyes bloodshot.
Caleb's eyes sharpen, his hand still gripping his wrists, veins bulging on the back. "Listen here, Shen. My wife eats well, sleeps well, lives in a mansion, and I pamper her like a princess. Who are you to concern yourself with our marital affairs?"
"Is that so?" An incredulous laugh follows. Xavier didn't believe Caleb at all, both men rising from the sofa. "Then tell me, how did Y/N become like this? What happened to her leg? She's a dancer! When she dances on stage, she's as graceful as a swan. What did you do to her? Take good care of her? Why then did she become like this after getting married? Five years, and you've been covering it up, saying she doesn't want to come out and socialize! You're lying! Do you beat her at home!?"
"My wife and I are doing just fine! Why her foot is like this is her privacy, there's no need for me to explain it to you, Xavier! Don't forget your place in front of me, and don't you dare try to play any tricks on my wife!" Caleb yanks harshly, pushing the other man away so hard the buttons on his collar pop off.
Already quite drunk, Xavier loses his balance, staggers a couple of steps, and falls onto the coffee table, knocking over a bunch of bottles and plates.
"Caleb, I've wanted to beat you up for ages!" He scrambles up and lunges at him.
Fearing trouble, rest of your classmates rush forward to restrain him. "Caleb! Take Y/N and leave! He's drunk, and you haven't been drinking - calm down Xavier! Don't cause any more trouble!"
Caleb tugs at his collar, giving Xavier one last cold look, then puts his arm around your waist and lifts you up. "Let's go, my wife. Don't come to parties like this again."
You're practically dragged and carried away by Caleb.
"Why didn't you let Y/N attend the class reunion!" Xavier shouts from behind you. "Caleb Xia, what skeletons do you have hiding in your closet?!"
Caleb stops. "I don't feel guilty about anything. You better not be the one with things to hide!"
"Me? Guilty?" he laughs. "Alright then, Caleb, I have a question for you! Were you the one who threw away all the love letters I put in Y/N's locker back then?"
Love letters?
How did you not know that Xavier Shen had written you love letters?
You glance back, only to be swept up in Caleb's arms and quickly carried out of the private room.
Everyone else is left exchanging bewildered glances: Xavier liked you back in high school?
Xavier struggles against the boys, shouting, "Let me go! I'm going to beat Caleb Xia to death! That fucking hypocrite!"
"Xavier, you're drunk, stop it." They don't let go, afraid he'd really chase after you.
“Call him back here!" Xavier demands. “I’m going to call him here! I’m going to teach him a lesson!”
“Xavier! Get your head screwed on straight!”
“Don’t stop me! Do you know how much Y/N loved to dance? She was in the practice room before class, after school, and weekends too! Sometimes she’ll even do a somersault while walking! She’s such a passionate dancer, a perfectly healthy person, and now her leg is injured - there's no way she's not heartbroken about it! That bastard Caleb Xia keeps lying to us, saying Y/N doesn't like going out. He's done something to her, I bet my fucking life on it!”
Caleb's already brought you to his car, carefully placing you in the passenger seat.
The minute he gets into the driver's seat, he catches you trying to open to the door, and he immediately locks it.
"Open the door! I want out!" You feel your head spinning, the alcohol really settling in."
"You're drunk, Y/N." He says, sighing.
"I'm not drunk!" You insist. You clearly heard many voices back there, and you heard Caleb call you his "wife." Something is wrong! He's never called you "wife" before, only ever by name, or at most "Mrs. Xia" when he's angry at you, and you can sense that he uses the term sarcastically. Moreover, you can tell he's in an unhappy mood right now!
He rolls down the window, letting you get some fresh air.
"What did you mean by what you said in the private room?" Caleb's voice sounds particularly cold in the cool breeze.
"What...what did I mean?" What was he talking about? You said a lot of stuff today.
"You said you wouldn't give your mooncakes to anyone else, what did you mean?" He rests his hands on the steering wheel, looking ahead, his eyes sharp.
"Um...not...not for Caleb Xia." Your head feels heavy, and you close your eyes tightly.
"Why?"
You smile, sad laugh escaping your lips. "Because I don't want to pursue him anymore...I gave my mooncakes to the wrong person..."
"Is that so? The wrong person?" Caleb leans closer, "Who are you going to give them to then?"
"Give them to..." Your mind is a little confused. Who else would you give them to?
"To Xavier?" He suddenly speaks as if interrogating you, his tone fierce.
The name reminds you that you had supposedly gotten multiple love letters. You frown, eyes getting hazy, looking at the face before you, murmuring, "Why did you throw away my love letters? They were from someone else."
"I'm the class monitor!" Caleb says sternly. "The school doesn't encourage early relationships!"
You furrow your brows... that reasoning...
You punch his shoulder hard. "What's it to you? You're just the class monitor, not even my homeroom teacher! The love letters he gave me are my privacy, what does it have to do with you! Why did you throw them away, you bully!"
Your eyes are blurry. Although your punches don't hurt much, each one lands with force, solidly striking his shoulders and chest.
"Are you angry?" He grasps your hand. "You're angry because I threw away your love letters?"
"Of course I'm angry! If someone wrote me a love letter..." You vaguely recall how you felt back in high school. The mess of hormones in early puberty, the insecurities you had, the self-consciousness about every little thing about you. Mina and the girls around you all received gifts and notes from boys, but you never did.
You weren't very close with your parents, having grown up by your grandparents' side. But it seemed to you that no one, not even your parents, loved you, let alone any boys. You weren't sad about not receiving any confessions, but if you did, it at least would have been an important form of affirmation; at least you were good in someone's eyes.
“What if you did? Would you date him?” Caleb presses on relentlessly.
Your frown deepens. When did you ever say you wanted to date someone?
“Let me tell you, those boys were all immature squirts back then! Whether it's Xavier or whoever else you wanted to give your mooncakes to! You're easily moved by anyone who shows you kindness! You'd only ended up getting taken advantage of!”
Your face contorts into a grimace. You're barely holding onto your consciousness and Caleb's stupid face seems to multiply into four in your vision. You shake your head, trying to shake the other three Calebs away. “No... Xavier isn’t that kind of person you’re describing.” The Xavier you recall is a sleepy boy, getting in trouble for napping in class, often found under the shade of trees with a stray cat in his lap.
“Then what kind of person is he?” Caleb suddenly raises his voice. “And the other person you had in mind, who is he?”
“He’s… genuine... and very kind. If he’s good to someone… he’ll always be good to them…” A flash of white hair enters your mind. You try to remember a face, thinking really hard, but only seeing the creases of someone's summer uniform. You didn't interact with him much in high school, but you knew he secretly kept a crow as a pet on his dorm window ledge—a pitiful little thing he picked up one day and never let go. "He's... a good person..." you mumble. ".... Q...qin..."
You black out.
T - 8 days
You wake up to a splitting headache, nauseous and parched. The midday sun is high in the sky. Stumbling down from the bed, you trip and fall with a loud 'thud'. You rub your eyes, trying to clear the fog still in your brain, but before you find your balance again, you're being lifted and put back into soft sheets.
Caleb stands at the bedside, looking displeased, but to your surprise, doesn't scold you about your clumsiness as he usually does.
You purse your lips, also not particularly eager to talk about what happened last night.
He brings you a try of light breakfast foods; some chicken soup congee, pancakes, and a few side dishes. "Eat. Mrs. Chen is off today. I cooked."
You stare at the food in front of you, head still in a daze.
The colonel... cooked for you?
This is the second time you've ever eaten something Caleb has made for you. The first since you got married.
Slowly picking up your spoon, your mind flashes back to the last time you experienced this.
You were only in your first year of high school, your homeroom had organized a camping trip.
Outside, all your classmates run around joyfully, like lambs in a field. Yet Caleb was already a quiet and reliable person, getting ready for lunch.
He was always clean and tidy, presentable and strong. That day on the camping trip was the most disheveled you had ever seen him.
He knew how to cook, but that didn't mean he was able to do it easily outdoors.
He couldn't figure out how to start the fire. He struggled earnestly, face and hands stained with soot.
You were different. When you were young, your grandparents brought you back to the village often. You built fires, scaled trees, and caught insects with all the other children over there. Despite being in a different group, you felt bad watching him struggle like that, so you go over, emptied his stove, and started a fire for him.
He stared at the blazing flames, momentarily stunned. Perhaps too self-conscious of his disheveled appearance, he didn't even thank you.
But afterwards, his performance became much more consistent. Judging from the way he cooked, it was clear he was used to doing domestic chores at home.
His group thanked him by saving the chicken leg for him. But he didn't eat it. As he passed your group, he places the drumstick in your bowl.
That was the moment your heart started pounding for him, despite being the first of only a handful of times you ever interacted with him.
That night, your dreams were filled with his image; his determined face, covered with soot, his slender fingers as he cut the vegetables, his meticulous and focused expression as he cooked…
The next day in class, you watch his profile as you absent-mindedly filled a whole page with his name, “Caleb Xia”…
Later, that piece of paper disappeared, but those words were etched firmly in your heart, impossible to erase.
The next time you ask him a question was after parent-teacher conferences. The teacher took note of students whose parents did not show up. You were one of them. Coincidentally, he was too.
Classmates whisper about what happened. A few of the students failed to inform their parents about the meetings, afraid of punishment for their poor grades.
But Caleb wasn't like that.
He was at the top of the class.
"Caleb Xia! You got first place in the entire grade, why aren't your parents here? If I got your score, my parents, grandparents, and even my dog would come!" someone yells.
Other students chimed in, "Yeah, Caleb, you got good grades, why aren't your parents here?"
He replies simply. "Don't ask, they're dead."
Later, you witness something you probably shouldn't have seen.
Caleb stands in an inconspicuous corner by the school's back gate. A dark car pulls up in front of him, the window rolled down, and he throws a wad of cash at the driver, hitting him in the face.
The person in the car points a finger at him, cursing, “You scoundrel! You think just because your parents offed themselves that you're safe with little old grandma?"
You're stunned. Unaware of his family's situation.
Caleb is stubborn, refusing to reply before he turns and walks away.
The driver calls after him shouting, "You'll join us one day, Caleb! Let's see how you survive!"
The sunset was blinding, bathing him in a golden light. He laughs defiantly, "Don't worry! I'd rather be bought out by a rich old lady than go with you!"
What kind of talk was that! Coming from a high schooler!
You don't know where you got the courage that day, but you walk up to him, eyes wide, voice panicked, "Caleb, whatever you do, don't sell yourself out like that!"
You don't know if you were imagining things, but you saw something that looked like glistening tears in his eyes in the setting sun.
They flash for a moment before he turns away, coldly smiling, "So, you're going to sponsor me?"
You fall silent.
That was Caleb's most irrational moment. Even now, more than a decade later, you never saw him as vulnerable again.
The next day, you take a math problem to him and ask how to solve it.
He raises a single eyebrow, not saying a word.
You thought he had refused, your head hanging low.
Finally, he tore off a piece of scratch paper and began to explain while drawing on it. He talked for the entire break before finally asking, "Do you understand now?"
You nod frantically. Then throw down five dollars and run back to your seat, completely unaware of Caleb's expression behind you.
You didn't have an allowance either, saving up those five dollars from running small errands here and there for other classmates and neighbors.
After school, Caleb blocked you on your way to the dorms. He stood under a sycamore tree, sunlight filtering through the leaves, casting dappled shadows over him.
You don't dare to lift your head, trying to walk past him.
He stands in front of you. "Why aren't you looking at me?"
The heat was unbearable, making your face flush. You're too embarrassed to say anything.
He scoffs, "you were quite bold earlier when you wanted to buy me out."
You lower your head even further. "I...I didn't mean..."
A five-dollar note is thrust in front of you. "Isn't this it? You think you can keep me for five dollars?
Before you can even clarify that you just wanted him to tutor you, he interrupts you, shoving the money back into your hands, swiftly leaving you behind with a single sentence: "I don't need your pity."
Your heart ached.
Later, he skipped three days of class. When you saw him outside school with a black armband pinned to his sleeve, when he returned to class and said, "Y/N, my grandmother passed away," your heart ached like that again; the pain crashing down like a tidal wave.
That Mid-Autumn Festival, everyone went home for a reunion dinner with their families and ate mooncakes, including you.
You went to your grandparents' house.
But he no longer had a grandmother to go back to.
After dinner, on your way back to school, the osmanthus trees near the dormitory were in full bloom, their fragrance rich and intoxicating.
By sheer coincidence, you see him standing there, alone.
You hand him a mooncake, filled with fresh meat, made by your grandmother.
That night, you sat together under the osmanthus tree, eating mooncakes.
Neither of you said a word. After finishing the mooncake, he went to the classroom, and you went back to your dorm.
The warm feeling from that night haunted you, driving you to accept his proposal 5 years later, despite not knowing each other well at all.
You once saw a comment online that said "Feeling sorry for a man will make you unhappy for life."
You didn't know what that meant back then.
Now, you understand.
T - 6 days
Today is the day you are scheduled to pick up your visa. You pack your purse carefully, pausing when the little rectangular piece of plastic that has always lived in your shared bedroom drawer is gone. Where did your ID go? You look everywhere in the room. Still nothing. Your pulse rising, you think back to the last few days. You haven't touched it at all. Caleb! He was rummaging through here this morning.
You immediately pick up your cell phone to call him. Shockingly, he answers on the first ring.
"Caleb, do you have my ID?" You ask, slightly breathless.
"Good morning to you to," he says sarcastically.
"Caleb! Is it with you!" You press on.
"Yes." His reply is short and straight to the point.
"Why did you take it?" You're exasperated, concerned you'll have to reschedule for later.
"Why do you need it?" He shocks you by turning your question against you.
"None of your business! I need it today."
A slight pause from him on the other end. "Come get it then."
"Get it... from your workplace?" You say incredulously.
"If you want it, come get it." He hangs up.
You stare at your phone dumbfoundedly. Then immediately call a cab to the Farspace Fleet HQ.
You've never really came to his workplace in the five years you spent together. The only other time you recall entering the building wasn't the most unpleasant experience for you either.
You text him as you enter, informing him of your arrival.
He doesn't reply this time.
You call, but it doesn't go through.
You frown. Was he in a meeting?
You don't have all day, so you are forced to go to the front counter and reveal your identity.
"The Colonel's wife?" The receptionist looks at you and laughs. "Young lady, everyone who comes here claims to be the Colonel's wife. If you're going to think of an excuse, find one that's less cliché."
"I'm serious. Call the Colonel, and tell him Y/N is here. He'll know to come down." You're not in the mood to play games.
"That's what they all say. If we did that, you'd think the Colonel wouldn't have time for anything other than dealing with people like you all day." The receptionist rolled her eyes and muttered.
"People like me?" You frown. "And pray, what am I?"
"Shameless women who want to climb the social ladder without working for it!" the receptionist laughs. "At least other women come here with presentable features, but now we're getting cripples? You should at least know your place!"
Is it really true that birds of a feather flock together? You can't wrap your head around her thinking. Why is it that no stranger outside of Caleb's circle harbor any ill will towards you and your leg, while everyone around Caleb is like this?
You're thinking of going home and getting your marriage certificate to prove your place; you certainly aren't going anywhere by talking to the workers down here.
Just then, the elevator door opens, and Liam walks out. Seeing the Adjutant, the receptionist immediately turns respectful.
"Adjutant Lin!" She greets him properly.
"Madam Y/N, I am the Colonel's Adjutant. Please come with me." He leads the way, letting you into the elevator. The two of you head straight to the top floor.
"The Colonel is in a meeting right now," he explains, leading you to a small office. "Please wait in here for now."
You thank him and put your bag down.
A few minutes later, a knock is heard, and a lady emerges from the door.
"Ms. Y/N, I am the Colonel's secretary. Would you like something to drink?"
"Anything is fine, or just water," you reply.
She returns with a glass of juice. "Is passionfruit drink ok?"
"That's wonderful, thank you." You take the glass.
"Just sit tight, I'll come get you once the meeting ends." She smiles, and closes the door behind her.
Fifteen minutes pass. Then twenty, and thirty.
You watch the time tick by, growing impatient. Finally, you get up to open the conference room door, only to find it locked from the outside.
Damn it!
You still need to pick up your visa this afternoon.
You frantically call Caleb's phone, but strangely, no one picks up despite the call going through. You're smart enough to know that this is most certainly a setup, but you don't have the time nor heart to figure out who orchestrated this entire thing or what their purpose was. You just wanted to get your visa.
You pound on the door, frantically, yelling, but no one answers.
You sit down and pick up the passion fruit lemonade, drinking it down in one gulp. Hands trembling, you quickly type out an email rescheduling your visa appointment.
Suddenly, your face begins to itch.
This isn't passion fruit lemonade at all…
You check the time: another ten minutes had passed. Neither Liam nor the secretary had returned, and nobody else knew you were here…
You feel your throat closing, as your breathing gets heavier.
You drag yourself, limping to the door, continuing to pound on it as you are no longer able to make any noise. You catch sight of a red box.
Throughout the office, everyone is methodically going about their work when suddenly, the building's fire alarms start blaring loudly.
"What's going on?" People run out of their cubicles and offices to see what's going on.
"Someone pulled the fire alarm on the top floor! Everyone evacuate!"
Caleb also hears the noise, and comes out immediately.
"What's going on? How can there be a fire up here?" His eyelids have been twitching all day. He had a strange, ominous premonition.
Thunk... thunk... thunk...
It sounds like someone is weakly banging on the door.
"Who's in there?" Caleb asks urgently, kicking the door.
MC appears from behind him, clinging to his shoulder. "Gege! Don't go in there! It could be dangerous!"
"Someone's in here!" Caleb shouts.
"Caleb... Help... help me... Caleb..."
A weak cry, barely audible over the commotion in the hall.
Caleb's eyes widen in shock. "Y/N! Y/N! Is that you in there? Y/N answer me!"
He forcefully shakes off MC's hand, barging against the door with his shoulder. "Someone! Help! Open the door!"
With a loud bang, he breaks the door down.
You're on the floor, fallen to the side. Body red, face nearly turning purple.
"Y/N!" he cries, quickly picking you up. "Call an ambulance!" His roar echoes throughout the entire floor.
His voice startles you, as you weakly open your eyes, looking at the familiar yet unfamiliar face in front of you. You want to raise your hand to check if it is real, but your arm refuses to move.
You try to speak, but no sound comes out. You manage a weak smile and barely manage to mouth the words: "if... I'm dead... won't... owe me anything... you'll... free.."
"Stop it! You won't die!" Caleb runs down dozens of flights of stairs.
You close your eyes. You don't mind saying goodbye to all of this.
"Y/N, don't sleep on me, ok? Wake up! Wake up, you hear me?" The last thing you her is Caleb's frantic voice.
T - 5 days
You wake up in the hospital after getting an acute dose of epinephrine. Zayne gives you a thorough examination, and finds no other acute problems. After determining you're stable enough to step down to the observation area, he scolds you seriously. "Walking around without an epipen with a serious allergy? You could've died from anaphylaxis! How could you be so careless?"
Caleb is still somewhat shaken by it all. "An allergic reaction? Y/N, what did you eat that caused this?"
You sit there silently.
"Let's observe her a little longer. There are still a few results pending. We'll see what happens when the results come back," Zayne says before leaving.
Caleb sighs and sits down beside you, continuing to carefully dab at your neck and shoulders with the cotton swab.
It stings a little. You frown and turn away.
"Don't move, Y/N. I'm trying to clean it. Don't want any infections from your blisters."
The words sound familiar. In the early days after your injury, he had said similar things. But it was that gentleness, this feigned gentleness, that gave you false hope and expectation in him.
He's acting so kind again - what's he trying to do?
You no longer trust anything he says.
“I remember you’re allergic to apples. Did you eat apples before coming to the HQ today? But Mrs. Chen knows not to buy them... Did you eat something new on your way here?”
His tone is like coaxing a child…
You purse your lips, giving him a cold laugh. “I didn’t eat anything. I’m calling the police.” your tone is firm.
“Call the police?” Caleb frowns.
There's a rustling sound outside the room. You turn around to see that MC had arrived.
T - 4 days
MC stands outside holding a bouquet of flowers, looking cautious and timid. "Caleb, how is Y/N? I wanted to come see her, but I was worried she wouldn't want to see me."
"Y/N's fine, she just needs some rest," Caleb says, knowing you indeed dislike her. "I appreciate your sentiment, but she's in a bad mood right now, you should go back."
"Hmm..." MC purses her lips, eyes rimmed with tears. "Caleb, I'm sorry, it's all my fault. As your personal assistant, I was careless, causing Y/N to suffer like this. I'm so glad she's alright, otherwise... otherwise, I don't know what I would do..." She starts crying.
You, still in the room, hear everything. MC joined the Farspace Fleet as Caleb's personal assistant? So that's why she went on the mission with him. However, since she's his assistant, everything that happened today makes sense now.
You grab your bag, turning on your phone.
"What are you doing?" Caleb comes back seeing you enter your password.
"I told you, I'm calling the police." You successfully unlock it.
MC rushes into the room, Gideon behind her now. "Y/N, tread carefully. This is the Farspace Fleet HQ we're talking about. Are you sure the authorities will respond to this? What happened in the meeting room was an accident, I swear."
"Oh? And how would you know it was an accident?" you scoff. "Were you the one who locked the door?"
MC's face immediately turns pale. "How could you say that about me! It was Secretary Lu who led you to the conference room, she was the one who brought you the apple juice. She said the door was locked from the inside!"
"Apple juice?" You look into MC's flustered eyes. You have a pretty good idea of what's going on now. "I never said I drank apple juice, how did you know it was apple juice?"
MC avoids your eyes. "No, I... As Caleb's personal assistant, I checked everything before coming here! Secretary Lu explained everything that happened from picking you up to asking you to wait in the conference room."
"Is that so?" You turn to look at Caleb. "There aren't many people in this world who knows I'm allergic to apple juice. Not even my parents."
Only your grandparents. And Caleb.
Caleb's face stiffens.
You remain unusually calm. "Caleb Xia, your secretary kept telling me she gave me passion fruit juice. How did it turn into apple juice? Did Secretary Lu deliberately tamper with it, or did someone switch the drink around? And Caleb, who have you told about my apple juice allergy?"
MC's face is deathly pale.
You don't wait for her to reply. "And the doors? There's security cameras all over the Farspace HQ. A quick check will bring everything to light. Of course, if the cameras were tampered with... that's a whole different issue. So I'm going to have to call the police about it".
Caleb's face drops, his expression changing drastically. "Pips... did you really...?"
She runs forward to grab his arm. "No Gege! I swear! It wasn't me, it must've just been a joke!"
"A joke?" you sneer. "Your group seems to love joking around the most. I've lived for over twenty five years and never knew that you guys had jokes that could kill people!"
"No, no, no.." MC shakes her head violently, "Gege, listen to me! It wasn't me, I promise-"
"She's lying" you say flatly, dialing the tone.
Gideon, unable to contain himself any longer, smacks the phone out of your hands. "Who's lying! You're the one lying, for your own selfish reasons, slandering an innocent person!"
His line of thinking is really quite creative, giving everyone else a new inspiration to ride off of.
"Y/N," MC cries, looking at you with disbelief, "I can't believe you hate me this much, that you'd put your own life in danger to frame me! If you hate me that much, just kick me out! Don't torment Caleb like this! Do you care for him at all? Do you know how terrified he was? I never thought it'd all be staged!"
Gideon scoffs, "isn't acting pitiful her specialty? Wasn't her saving Caleb five years ago the same thing? She wanted to force him into marrying her!"
You knew all too well how cruel Gideon could be, and how little he thought of you. Yet you never expected him to say something so shameless: that you saving Caleb five years ago was self-sabotage to trick him into marriage!
Sometimes, when anger reaches its peak, it paradoxically turns into calm.
You look at Caleb, despite knowing time and time again that he won't side with you.
But in this moment, you just want to ask him one question: if he thought the same as Gideon.
Then it wouldn't just be a matter of you being foolish. You would've been better off saving a dog five years ago.
"Caleb," you stand, not a ripple of emotion behind your eyes. "Come here."
Caleb, sandwiched between Gideon and MC, looks at you.
"Caleb, don't go!" Gideon and MC say it almost simultaneously.
His gaze meets yours. After a brief silence, Caleb stands up and walks to you.
You look at the man you had risked your life for, the man you "traded" your leg for.
You calmly ask, "Do you think so too?"
He doesn't speak.
"You also..." you stare into deep amethyst eyes, the echo of the conversation you had with him after he interrupted your physical therapy still ringing in your ears. "You also think that today's events were done on purpose? You also think that I saved you five years ago expecting you to marry me?"
Something in Caleb's eyes narrow, and he looks away.
"Say it, Caleb! Look at me!"
A minute of silence passes.
"Yes."
You gasp, as if that would force you to swallow the pain, but your vision still blurs uncontrollably.
The quiet but resolute "yes" feels like a boulder crashing into your chest, the lingering pain still reverberating over and over after the initial damage.
How could someone who has been hurt to this extent still be sad?
smack!
Your handprint remains on Caleb's face where you slapped him; your fingernails leaving a thin trace of blood, particularly striking on his handsome features.
"Get out."
"Y/N-"
"Get the FUCK out or I will."
You don't even wait for him to make a decision - you stumble out of the room without looking back.
T - 3 days
You collapse onto the bed when you get home, your body still throbbing with pain. Mrs. Chen calls you for dinner, but you're too exhausted to move.
"Bring it in," say. Except for the initial period after your accident when you were bed-bound, you never got into the habit of eating in bed.
You cherished your home with Caleb so much that you couldn't bear to see anything dirty or out of place. Looking back, you laugh at your stupid thinking. What good is a house if you don't use it?
After you finish eating, Mrs. Chen takes the plate away and asks if you want to take a bath.
You nod. "Please run me some water, and then change the bedding to clean ones."
"Okay." She leaves to start running the water.
You try to get out of bed and make your way to the bath yourself, but after only a few steps, your legs feel weak. Your body's overexertion and emotional outburst from earlier don't make your condition any better.
Mrs. Chen comes back out and is worried to see your trembling, unstable figure. "Madam, shall I help you?"
You take a deep breath and nod.
She helps you to the bathroom and didn't let go until you're comfortably seated in the bathtub.
"Thank you," you say.
You lean back, the warm water soothing every inch of your skin, easing the soreness and making you feel much more comfortable.
After a while, the water cools, and you call for Mrs. Chen again. You still don't want to open your eyes.
Footsteps approach and stop at the edge of the bathtub, but you hear no movement afterwards.
You frown. "Mrs. Chen..." You open your eyes to see Caleb.
"Why are you here?" You're startled, instinctively covering any part of your body above the water. "Get out!"
You call loudly for Mrs. Chen.
"Mrs. Chen won't come in." He looks down at you, his gaze deep.
"Mrs. Chen!" you continue to call, unwilling to give up.
"You think Mrs. Chen is going to listen to you, or the person who pays her salary? He leans down, his face suddenly very close to yours, so close that you can clearly see his bloodshot eyes and your own reflection in his pupils.
"What exactly do you want?" You grip the edge of the bathtub tightly, your defenses fully raised.
He reaches into the soapy water, grabbing your shoulders and lifting you entirely out of the tub.
You feel a chill run down your spine. This is the first time you've been completely exposed in front of Caleb. Humiliation and panic overwhelms you in an instant.
"Let go of me, you dirty bastard!" You begin to struggle in his arms, but it's an useless endeavor.
“If you want to fall and get hurt, then keep being stubborn!” His deep voice carries a threatening tone.
You come to your senses and slowly stop. You can't risk getting hurt now. You're leaving in a couple days. You can't afford to have any more accidents.
“Not moving anymore?” he asks, revealing no emotion.
“Caleb Xia, don't make me hate you.” You say.
He gives you a bitter smile. “Don't you hate me enough already?”
You remain silent.
Your relationship with Caleb has indeed reached a point of no return.
He snorts coldly, wrapping you in a bath towel, and walks out of the bathroom back to the bedroom, placing you on the bed. He sits you on the edge and goes back, reappearing with a hairdryer.
As he plugs it in, blowing hot air into your wet hair, you're momentarily stunned.
What's he trying to do? Apologize? Make it up to you? Or is it just all for MC again?
The only sound in the room is the roar of the hairdryer; neither of you speak.
After he finishes, he rummages through the bedside drawer, clumsily tying your hair up into a knot.
Several bruises on the top of your back and shoulders from falling reveal themselves
He stares at them for a moment, then forcefully rips away the towel wrapped around you.
"Look at yourself! What are you doing to yourself these days, doing that stupid rehab?!"
What does this have to do with him at all?
You quickly pull the blanket back over herself, glaring at him with hostility. "Caleb, believe me, I really will kill you."
He sits down opposite from you, his eyes filled with sarcasm. "We've been married for five years, and this is your attitude when I try to touch you?"
What else does he expect? What attitude should you have?
You smile mockingly. "Caleb, I told you. Your hands are dirty. Also, if you touch me, aren't you afraid your Pipsqueak will be heartbroken?"
He doesn't reply, only pushing you down onto the bed, but doesn't move to pull away the blanket.
You feel his warm hand on your calf.
He's massaging your scars again?
You give up struggling, already somewhat familiar with his methods.
Unsolicited kindness is always suspicious; he must want something from you.
He continues applying ointment to your bruises, from your leg up to your arms, then your back.
Once he's done, he covers you with a blanket, meeting your cold gaze.
You look at him with no hint of gratefulness, just waiting.
He tucks you in more tightly, forcing a bitter smile. "Y/N, how did we get to this point?"
He's asking you why things had come to this? Didn't he know?
He sighs deeply. "Y/N, let's talk about this calmly."
You consider it for a moment. Since MC appeared, you've always been calm, never wavering. It's him, on the other hand, who was always emotional because of MC.
“Caleb Xia, I don’t know what we have to talk about anymore,” you say indifferently. “I’ve already made myself clear.”
Caleb's hand reaches under the covers to find your hand and grasps it tightly. “Y/N, I didn’t want this. From the beginning until now, I swear I've been sincere in wanting to live a good life with you.”
“Is that so?” you sneer. “From the beginning? Didn't you think I was a venomous woman who used a self-inflicted injury to force you to marry me?”
Caleb closes his eyes, remaining silent for a long time.
“Colonel Xia,” you smile, “Please let go of my hand and get me a bottle of disinfectant”
When Caleb opens his eyes, the bloodshot veins are particularly noticeable.
He doesn't ask why, just gets up to fetch it, and hands it to you.
You prop yourself up on the bed, and begins methodically spraying it on your hands, arms, legs, stomach, back—everywhere he had just touched.
Caleb's expression instantly changes. "What are you doing?"
"I'm disinfecting myself. I told you, your hands are dirty." You finish spraying and calmly place the alcohol bottle on the bedside table.
"You…" Caleb is aggravated again.
You simply turn over and lie down to sleep.
After a while, Caleb finally speaks to you again, his voice soft. "We've been married for five years. In these five years, I haven't wronged you, have I?"
Five years... your heart clenches. You don't want to look back on the past five years.
"I'm so grateful to you for saving me back then, and for giving me a chance to atone. For the past five years, I've given you everything I could. So can you do just one more thing? If you agree to this favor, I'll do anything you ask from now on."
Here it comes…
"You want me to drop the case and reconcile with MC and your two cronies?" You cut to the chase.
T - 2 days
Yes," Caleb says, his voice utterly broken. "I'm sorry, Y/N, I have to protect MC. She was the only light in the darkest moments of my life."
Your heart sinks to the bottom of the ocean.
What in the world is Caleb thinking? Telling his lawful wife that another woman is his only light, and expecting you to help him?
"Y/N," he continues, "you know that my grandmother was the most important person in my life. MC was good friends with Zayne, an upperclassman whose parents were doctors. Through her connections was how my grandma was able to get treatment after she fell ill. One evening, when I visited Grandma, there was a bottle of origami cranes beside her pillow. The nurse said it was a gift from a volunteer. They said that with the blessing of a thousand cranes, Grandma would definitely recover.
Caleb chokes up a little. "Grandma didn't recover. The blessing of a thousand origami cranes only stayed a myth. But Y/N, do you understand the loneliness of that time when my world was completely dark, and I was struggling to bear everything alone? The girl who helped me share the burden while I was taking care of Grandma, the girl who lit up my dark world with origami cranes, was MC. I thought I would never see her again after she left, but she ended up coming back to me. I'm sorry Y/N. No matter what kind of person MC is, in my heart, she will always be that light."
You listen silently, finally unable to help but smile.
Caleb Xia, are you really sure that the girl who folded the origami cranes was MC?
T - 1 day
What was it like to have a crush on someone in your youth?
It was having your heart feel empty when he didn't come to class; even though there was only one empty seat, the whole world became hollow;
It was the world suddenly brightening when he steps into the classroom. The sunlight outside the window shining like gold, but it couldn't possibly compare to the radiance surrounding him at that moment.
It was when his smile warmed your heart, and when he frowned, your heart clenched;
It was the satisfaction in watching him from afar, letting time quietly slip by, wanting to give your everything to him but not wanting him to know…
That year, when you learned that the weariness and pain Caleb tried so hard to hide was because his grandmother was seriously ill and hospitalized, every weekend, you'd wear a mask and get up before dawn every morning, catch the bus to the hospital, and help his grandma with breakfast and keep her company. You lied about your identity every time, simply saying you were a volunteer.
You weren't sure if paper cranes could actually make wishes come true, but being young and full of sincere wishes, you secretly folded a bottle full of paper cranes for his grandmother.
There certainly weren't a thousand total, but the bottle was full. It took you a long time folding, and you wrote a blessing on each piece of paper before carefully folding it inside.
While wishing Caleb's grandmother a speedy recovery, you also prayed for her own grandparents' health.
At that time, you felt that you and Caleb had so much in common.
None of your parents were in the picture.
You both depended on their grandparents' for survival.
You were both struggling to grow up against the odds, trying your best to maintain your lives, your pride, and self-respect.
You once thought that you and Caleb were like two trees growing side by side, far apart, your branches never intersecting in the air, yet your roots in the soil were always tightly intertwined.
In the end, you've been deluding yourself.
You just smile without speaking or explaining anything to him.
If it were before, perhaps you would have explained to him that you were the volunteer.
But now, there is truly no need.
You traded your leg for his life, saving him from being run over by a car. If in his eyes, it was all a ploy, a way to trick him into marrying you, then what would the origami cranes you folded all those years ago mean to him? Were they, like the mooncakes from that Mid-Autumn Festival, just a means to woo him as well? Even if he didn't think of you as so calculating and despicable, what difference would it make?
He simply doesn't love you. You've tried for five years already. The fact is, you saved his life. Regardless of his motives for marrying you, the end result is the same: he doesn't love you. So why add another layer of trouble? You've known him since you were twelve. 15 years now. If love could truly change people, you would have done so long ago. The truth is, no matter what you did for him, it wouldn't change a thing.
Besides, you already have a clear future and plans. You'll cut ties completely with this person and stop this entanglement for once and for all.
Only a smile remains on your face.
A smile that is both laughable and pathetic.
"What are you laughing at?" Caleb was probably lost in his own memories, so it's understandable that he felt a bit resentful that his heartfelt story is met with nothing but a laugh.
You lower your eyes, a faint smile still on your lips. "It's nothing, I'm just very touched. I'll do as you wish under one condition."
He looks at you expectantly.
"I'll have my lawyer send over some papers. At long as you sign them, MC is off the hook."
"You... really?" Caleb isn't sure if you're being sarcastic.
"I'm serious." You lie on the bed, looking up at him, the faint sadness in your eyes gone, replaced by a genuine smile. "I wish you a long and life."
T - 0 days
When Caleb leaves this morning, he tells you to wait for him at home, the same as usual.
However, he lingers at the door for a minute longer, gazing at you with eyes filled with an unfamiliar emotion.
There's no point thinking about it anymore. Nothing in the world will convince Caleb Xia that his wife would want to leave him.
Will he realize you're truly gone when he sees the empty closet?
It won't matter if he doesn't; your letter, the lawyer, and the divorce papers will tell him.
You look back one last time at the home you lived in for five years.
You write one last line in your notebook: "0 days until I leave Caleb Xia: Goodbye, I'm going to fly higher."
You turn off the lights and close the door.
You stick a paper crane on the door; let this paper crane wait for him in your place; perhaps, it will tell him the answer.
***
T + 6 days:
Caleb feels like he's actually gone insane. The first night you don't come home, he plays it off as another one of your temper outbursts. Afterall, the paper crane on the door was your way of mocking his past with MC, wasn't it?. The second night he blows up your phone. Nothing goes through. By the third day, he is contacted by your lawyer with the divorce papers prepared and already signed by you. You ask for none of his assets and no compensation. He nearly destroys the office table in anger. After another two days to calm down, the panic and unease in his chest grow to new lengths. He stalks the entire city. Tries going after your telephone records, search history. He finds your preparation to leave him starting long, long before he suspected anything out of the ordinary. He looks at himself in the mirror and wants to laugh at the pathetic sight before him. He can't possibly go to work in this state, so he turns around to go home instead.
He takes a shower and sits in the chair in your bedroom, lost in thought.
This is the chair you used to sit in.
You'd sit here watching dramas, reading, oh right, probably studying how to get away form him too.
Your belongings are still on the table: pens in the pen holder, and several books you read, the most recent being art history, lying on the desk. Fiddling with the paper crane.
He opened a drawer, which was also full of books. Digging through its contents, he finds a notebook.
He pulls it out and opens it.
The contents read: Countdown to leaving Caleb Xia.
T - 22 days: The jewelry he gave me were all mementos of someone else.
T - 11 days: He gave our wedding rings to someone else too. But I don't even want him anymore, so why should I care about the ring?
His eyes sting.
"I don't even want this person anymore…"
So, from that moment on, you truly wanted a divorce.
Every time you brought it up, it was from the heart. It wasn't a tactic to keep him, nor was it a way to force MC to leave. You genuinely wanted to leave him…
Looking further, you had recorded every single thought that, in the month before you left, seemed trivial to him. With each passing day, your heart seemed to die a little more.
He lowers his head, forehead resting on the notebook.
His eyes ache terribly.
In those 20-odd days, if he had even a few moments of empathy, if he had considered things from your perspective, he might have still had a chance to salvage the relationship. But he didn't.
He went down a path of no return, finally leading to a complete break between you.
He thought you would never leave him, never leave this home, which is why he stood on MC's side time and time again.
He thought, "She's my wife, she's family, she'll never leave. No matter when I come back, she'll be waiting at home..."
You loved him so much, you've liked him since high school, even risked your life for him. How could he have believed that you really wanted to divorce him?
T + 24 days:
Caleb sighs, a bitter smile on his face.
He doesn't know what was wrong with him; why everything had been so bitter lately.
The food he eats taste bitter, the water tastes bitter, even the air around him seems to carry a faint bitterness.
That afternoon, Liam comes to his office, inviting him out to dinner with Gideon.
Sitting behind his desk, Caleb feels listless. "Forget it, I'm too tired. You guys go ahead, I'll cover it."
"Colonel," Liam protests, before switching to addressing him by name. "Caleb. Do you think I'm starving? I can see you're unhappy these days, and I figured getting together with you and Gideon would allow you to have some fun.
Caleb shakes his head, hating how his hairs bristled at the mention of his friend. "I hate crowds, forget it."
"Caleb, what's wrong with you?" Gideon pops in, looking at him, his eyes filled with worry. "You used to love being with your brothers, having fun together. As long as the crew is together, your worries would disappear. I can invite MC along too, she'll make you feel better."
Caleb freezes.
What is wrong? He didn't know what was wrong either. It's just an instinctive reaction; he didn't want to go.
Later, at the bar, Caleb is still trying to think of why he feels uncomfortable.
"Maybe... I'm getting old?" As you get older, you grow weary of crowds and want to be alone in peace and quiet.
Liam laughs. "You're old? You...you're old? What am I then?"
Well, if not, then Caleb couldn't find a reason.
"Caleb, what's wrong with you?" Gideon sighs. "We all know you didn't want to marry Y/N in the first place. You didn't love her. Isn't it better that you're getting a divorce now?"
"Yeah..." Caleb's eyes glaze over. "Isn't it supposed to be better? But, Gideon, why am I not okay? I'm really not okay at all."
"Is it just that you've gotten used to it? It's hard to let go of someone suddenly in your life, like when I had a dog when I was little. I had it for years, and one day it got into an accident and passed. I cried for a long time." Liam tries to help.
Caleb shakes his head. "That's not how it works, Liam. Didn't you love your dog? You cried."
Liam is stumped. "Oh, right. I definitely loved it."
All three of them fall silent.
Liam thinks for a long time before slowly saying, "Caleb, you didn't fall in love with Y/N, did you?"
Caleb feels as if he's been struck on the head. He had never considered this question before.
"Let me ask you this," Liam continues, "you're single now, right? If you had two choices: one, go back to Y/N, and she'd still be your Mrs. Xia; two, marry MC. You could marry MC if you want to! Which would you choose if you had these two options in front of you?"
Caleb doesn't hesitate at all. "Liam, what are you saying? When did I ever plan to marry MC? Since she came back, the thought of marrying her never even crossed my mind!"
Liam is stunned. "I literally thought MC was your wife the first day you brought her to the headquarters! Wasn't it because you had Y/N before? Now that you're divorced, you're still not considering MC?"
"Liam, MC and I are a thing of the past," Caleb says with a small laugh, "What are you thinking?"
"Then, why are you so good to her?" he stammers.
"Am I not good to you?" Caleb retorts. "Am I not good to Gideon?"
"Then...how...can this be comparable?" Liam didn't know what to say.
"How is it different? The two of you are my brothers since we were trainees at the DAA, and we've all worked our way up to our positions now. When MC was with me, she was still a high schooler, encouraging me on when I was was nothing but a new recruit. She didn't get to reap any of the benefits of that work, she had a hard time abroad. Of course I have to pamper her when she comes back, she's my little sister, right, Gideon?"
"Uhhh.... Anyway..." Liam thought it was VERY different.
"Of course it's different!" A voice booms from behind. It's Yvette.
Liam quickly stands up. "Darling, why are you here?"
"I came to see what nonsense you're spouting, you idiot!" Yvette's face darkens. "You guys are still talking about that two-faced bitch?"
"No...wife, please... don't say such nonsense. How could MC be two-faced?" Liam quickly looks at Caleb, fearing for his job.
“Try saying another word for her” Yvette points at Liam's nose, as if she's about to slap him into oblivion
“No, I won’t say anything… I won’t…”
Yvette's anger finally subsides. “Let’s go home!”
Liam hesitates. “Darling, how about we have dinner with the Colonel today?”
“No way!” Yvette's temper flares again, pointing at Liam once more “I don’t hang out with your kind of people! You’re going home to eat too! He deserves it! He’s not worth wasting time on!”
Liam looks troubled, hoping his wife would show some mercy.
Strangely, Caleb doesn't seem offended at all. He asks Yvette with a smile, "What kind of person am I?"
Yvette turns to look at him, scoffing. "I didn't want to talk about you, because you scumbags and bitches get angry and it's bad for my baby. I don't want my baby to see the ugliness of this world while still in my belly. But since you're asking like this, I've changed my mind."
Liam sweats profusely. "My darling, no, let's just let our baby grow peacefully. Don't change your mind."
"No!" Yvette declares. "I've decided to teach our baby to distinguish right from wrong!"
She turns to face Caleb again. "Colonel Xia, I'm not trying to be mean, but stop acting like you're some sort of saint. What's with all this talk about MC being there for you when you were down on your luck, about her suffering abroad and wanting to compensate her? Is it so hard to admit you're a cheater? Aren't you just trying to cover up the fact that you're greedy and have always looked for something better?"
Caleb's face turns ashen. "I didn't, MC and I didn't..."
Yvette's spirit is still high. "I don't give a fuck if you and MC slept together or not! That's not my business. I only care about Liam! But Caleb, this isn't about physical cheating!"
Liam is getting increasingly anxious hearing his wife absolutely tear through his boss without any restraint. Was this something she could just casually say? Out in public?? He immediately covers her mouth.
"Let her talk!" Caleb's expression darkens.
"I'll say it!" Yvette slaps away Liam's hand. "Colonel Xia! I told you you're a cheater! The ultimate scumbag! You enjoyed Y/N's wholehearted love while flirting with MC under the guise of "taking care of a sister? What brother buys you a house, bags, and luxury goods? What kind of siblings share a room together while out on a business trip? Oh right, Liam used to get that privilege when you were cadets, but is the stuff in your brain the same shade when you sleep with MC?!"
Liam tries really hard not to laugh. "The stuff in your brain isn't the same color"? His wife's mouth was really something…
But then again, even he didn't believe Caleb and MC's brains were pure when they were together…
"What are you laughing at?" Yvette turns around to scold her husband. "Your boss doesn't have a brain, it's filled with tofu! You think you're so great? Yours is filled with tofu dregs!"
"Darling, please;;; if you want to scold me, let's go back home to do it"
"Let me finish!" Yvette hadn't wanted to say all of this, but since she was asked to, she wouldn't be happy until she was finished. She glares at Caleb. "With your filthy thoughts, ask yourself, with your non-existent conscience, when you sided with MC again and again like no tomorrow, wasn't your heart soaring? Like you were back in your youth! Wasn't that right? An old man like you, suddenly rediscovering the feeling of pure love, wasn't your life full of passion? And then what? Clearly, you were emotionally unfaithful, I don't know if your filthy body has cheated on her! But whether it's emotional or physical, it's still cheating! And yet you still insist that there is nothing between you and MC. Caleb Xia, if you openly admit to cheating, I'd respect you as a man. But to cheat and then pretend to be deeply in love, I can only give you one word: scumbag! No, add another: despicable!
Finally done, she glares at Liam, "Aren't you leaving?"
"Oh, oh, oh." Liam apologizes to Caleb with his eyes, quickly removing himself from the premise.
T + 25 days
Caleb checks his personal set of security cameras at work. You weren't lying. MC is clearly seen talking to the secretary, putting the apple juice in her hands. Gideon walks in, and Caleb slams his laptop shut.
"Colonel?"
A shudder runs down his spine as he meets Caleb's dark gaze.
T + 31 days
Yvette's brutal words live rent free in Caleb's head.
Five years ago, when MC first left, it was during a period of setbacks for him. He spent his entire youth preparing to get into the DAA. But now that he was there, he realized with a start that he, a small town boy, was so woefully unprepared compared to his peers. Years of hard work were on the verge of being wasted. He had a habit of shutting others out when he was struggling. MC knew it. And did her best to call him out of her own accord, always checking in, trying to make him feel better.
But it came the day she couldn't take it anymore. She up and left him, cutting off all communications suddenly.
He wasn't stupid; of course he knew the reason why. However, he also had the self-awareness not to drag her down with him.
Later, he heard that a wealthy second-generation heir had gone abroad with her.
He knew all of it.
His depression during that period was partly due to the breakup, and partly due to his career setbacks—a mixed bag.
He got drunk sometimes, but not entirely out of despair. Most of the time, it was from entertaining his peers, or trying to network with higher-ups, practically begging and pleading for a chance. However, the night you saved him, he was truly heartbroken. He had faced rejection after rejection, losing all confidence and almost giving up.
Then you saved him, trading your leg for his rebirth.
From that moment on, he carried the weight of another person's life on his shoulders. It was at that moment that he told himself: I absolutely cannot give up, I cannot give up. There are still people waiting for me to take responsibility for, waiting for me to support them.
Fate can be truly miraculous sometimes.
It was after that car accident that things suddenly took a turn for the better.
When you got discharged from the hospital, it was also the time his performance soared.
After that, his missions only ever returned successful. Offers and promotions came in waves, and his power increased exponentially.
And then, MC returned.
Somewhere deep in his heart, he faced her with resentment and bitterness, thinking: "The person you looked down on back then has now made it big, standing proudly before you. How do you feel?"
He would never admit it though.
Just like the necklace of MC's dreams. The first birthday he spent with you, he thought to himself, "so what? The decorations MC liked, the style she fawned over, I've given them all to another girl. I can afford to do so."
So, five years later, when MC returned, he carried this resentment, enjoying her adoration and affection, feeling a childish satisfaction. The person who abandoned him back then was now obediently fawning over him, trying to please him, and the resentment in his heart finally subsided.
But the scales in his heart had been tipped.
Just as Yvette said, he despicably indulged in two relationships, becoming lost in this ambiguity.
He basked in MCs adoration and retaliated by showering her with affection and indulgence, as if this would prove to his former, down-on-his-luck self: I've made it big, I'm omnipotent.
He never even considered it love or lack thereof.
He simply wanted to frantically prove to MC his power, his influence, that he could spoil a woman to the extreme if he wanted.
Of course, in doing so, he hurt you.
But at that time, he didn't think about any of that; he was simply gradually losing himself in his relationship with MC.
He explained to you that he was only remembering MC's kindness from when she made the paper cranes and that nothing ever happened between them.
Perhaps this reason held some semblance of validity? He always needed a plausible excuse to mask his dark and despicable psychology.
But it was also true. He could do anything for MC, except betray you —by betraying you, he meant maintaining boundaries and not doing anything physically inappropriate.
But Yvette said that emotional infidelity also counts as infidelity.
Does it?
Did he cheat on you?
He wasn't sure himself.
He couldn't distinguish whether his feelings for MC were of resentment or love.
The only thing he was certain of was that you loved him, loved him to the point of self-sacrifice. So, no matter how his heart swayed, you would always be his Mrs. Xia, and that would never change.
That day after he told you the story about the paper cranes, MC tried to embrace him from behind at work. In that moment, he realized: he couldn't possibly cross any physical boundaries with her.
His destiny belonged to you.
That night, he wanted to see you more than ever.
So, he returned without delay, even before dinnertime.
But you were already gone.
So even you could leave him too…
Even with the wealth and luxury and everything he could give you, you could still abandon it so easily.
That's right, he laughs at himself, why would you care about money?
That silly girl who used to live frugally, worrying about his financial situation, trying to pay him $5 for every math problem he tutored you in - how could you care about money?
He was wrong…
He'd been too arrogant for too long, forgetting the path he'd come from, neglecting the most important person in his world.
How ridiculous, only realizing you were the most important person after losing you.
And before that?
It seemed everything came before you.
Work was more important than you, because he needed to develop his career, earn money, and support you for life;
His pride was more important than you, so he absolutely couldn't lose face in front of MC, forcing you to apologize, even though you were never actually in the wrong.
His thinking was simple: even if he had wronged you, it wouldn't matter. You loved him so much; all he had to do was sweet talk and make it back up to you.
In fact, many times, between you and MC, he chose to side with MC simply because he knew you would forgive him…
But you didn't.
You wouldn't forgive him forever, nor would you wait for him forever.
T + 52 days:
Liam stops by Caleb's office. It's past midnight.
"Colonel..." he starts, stiffening as Caleb's dead gaze shifts onto him from the screen.
"You've been here for the past 5 days straight. I think... you should go home now..."
Home? Caleb laughs, a hollow sound, devoid of any positive emotion. Where would he go now? What is home to him?
He admits that in the past five years, he didn't love going home as much.
Mainly, when he first got married, he was afraid to go home and face you, your overwhelming love, and your injury. Guilt and remorse weighed on his heart like a brick, so much so that he couldn't even be intimate with you. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but just seeing your leg overwhelmed him with guilt, making it impossible to continue.
And this created a vicious cycle: the greater the psychological pressure, the less he tried, and the less he tried, the greater the pressure…
He even saw a therapist for some time, but it didn't help.
Over time, he became increasingly adverse to returning home to see you, and staying at his office until midnight.
He had many excuses: logistics, planning, meetings with important stakeholders, out on missions, and most often, just being busy with work.
He did indeed spend most of his time working, but no matter how late, he always had a direction in his heart—home.
Whether it was his conscience or something else, going home every night was a routine, just like his work.
And now, his home was still there, but he didn't know where he should go after you left.
He always told himself that it was his responsibility to be good to you for the rest of his life, but he didn't even know when it started to become more than just a responsibility.
It turned out that when the girl who always smiled at him like a sunflower was no longer there, home was no longer home, and going home lost its meaning.
But you had promised him that you would never leave him, whether in poverty or wealth; you had promised him that you would leave a light on for him no matter how late he came home.
He truly believed that this light would illuminate him forever, so he gradually took advantage of you, until ultimately, he became the one who extinguished it.
T + 93 days
Caleb's phone rings. Looking down, it's Zayne.
“Caleb, what's up? I can't come out for dinner, but feel free to talk on the phone. I'm busy, I have to work overtime.”
“Oh…” he says wistfully, “Then it's nothing.”
He just had nowhere else to go and wanted to find a place to talk about the past, about people he once knew.
“Oh, by the way, do you remember Sylus Qin?” Zayne suddenly askes.
“I remember…” A name that wasn't so pleasant.
“He's gone.”
Caleb is taken aback. "Gone?"
"He passed away. He actually passed a while ago, abroad." Zayne sighs. "It was an accident, don't tell Y/N."
He's... gone?
A voice echoes in Caleb's mind again:
"Hey, Caleb, that Y/N from your class..."
"Get lost!"
Zayne remembers something else. "Oh, right, you can't tell Y/N anyway, otherwise you wouldn't be asking me to dinner and rambling on and on about your past."
Caleb remains silent.
Lately, he keeps dreaming about when he was sixteen or seventeen, so he would occasionally chat with Zayne about it.
Zayne only ever told him the same thing: "Only those who are unhappy reminisce about the past; those who are full of vigor only stride forward. Caleb, let Y/N go. She deserves a better future."
Caleb feels a sudden, sharp pain in his heart, and his vision blurs.
Now, he couldn't let it go even if he wanted to…
But he had no right to not let it go…
“Zayne,” he says in a barely suppressed voice, “I regret it so much…”
The more spirited and arrogant he had three months ago, the more desolate and regretful he feels now.
“Caleb Xia,” Zayne sneers on the other end, “You deserve it. Don't play victim with me now, look at your sordid affairs. How to spoke to her in front of me, in front of everyone else? You think none of us notice? How you had absolutely no respect for your ex-wife as a person?"
“Zayne, I can't…”
Before he can finish speaking, Zayne hangs up the phone.
Caleb immediately dials him back.
After the third call, Zayne picks up again. A long silence ensues, until Zayne asks him, "Anything else to say? If not, I'm hanging up. I'm busy!"
Caleb chokes for a moment before finally saying, "Zayne, if I said I love Y/N, would you believe me?"
"Bullshit!" Zayne curses, a rare occurrence. "Stop your pretentious nonsense! You don't love anyone but yourself; you're a selfish, self-serving piece of shit. Ask yourself honestly, who do you truly love? Whether was your mistress or Y/N, you only love whoever you need. Did you really even love MC or only what her reactions gave you? I wouldn't have cursed you if you hadn't said that, but hearing you say it out loud disgusts me! You bastard!"
T + 136 Days
Caleb goes back to his hometown. Somewhere he hasn't been in many years. He traces the steps he once took to school, watching teenagers shout happily as they play with each other.
Somehow, he finds himself in front of Sylus' house. To pay respects, he tells himself. He hesitates for another second before bringing his hand up to knock on the door.
Two young men greet him. They can't be much older than 20. They stare at Caleb with the same, beady eyes. "Who are you?"
"An old classmate of Sylus." He offers, taking his high school yearbook out from his backpack as proof. "We played soccer together. I know its a few years late, but I wanted to come pay my respects."
The twins lead him down to the basement, where many boxes of Sylus' belongings remained. Caleb flips through old textbooks and worksheets, jerseys and field-day awards, CDs and comic books from their youth.
Something small and pink falls out from a book in his hands.
He bends over to pick it up: a single paper crane
Paper cranes?
He picked up the fallen origami bird, its image overlapping with his memories of paper cranes.
The page he turned to was a tutorial on how to fold paper cranes.
Sylus had written notes on it with a pen.
"Some silly girl is folding paper cranes for that Xia boy, and she won't let me help! How long will it take for her to fill that jar? Silly girl!"
"Haha! I secretly stole one from her pile! Mischievous act of the day complete!"
"Hehe, this silly girl writes something inside every single paper crane. I wonder what she wrote on the one I stole?"
"Written something?" Caleb frowns, picking up the paper crane from the ground and quickly unfolds it. Sure enough, there's a small line of writing inside: 'No matter what happens, you must be happy!'
Caleb's mind goes blank for a moment. He reads the words on the page again, then turns and runs.
The noise he makes downstairs alerts the twins, who ask him if everything was alright.
"Sorry Luke, Kieran. I have important work to do. I have to go back," Caleb says urgently, bidding farewell to the boys.
He drives nonstop to Skyhaven, taking the stairs to the top floor and enters his office.
He opens his desk drawer. Inside is a small glass box containing a paper crane.
He had buried all the other paper cranes with his grandmother, leaving only this one as a keepsake.
The unfolded paper crane he had taken from Sylus' house lies open on his desk. The handwriting was all too familiar to him—yours.
The other paper crane, which he had kept in the small glass box, was clearly made of the same paper but a different color.
He takes a deep breath, and without further delay, unfolds it with trembling fingers.
The orange paper crane reveals writing on it as well.
This one reads: Grandma, you must recover. Caleb only has you.
The same handwriting.
The way you write is distinctive, always rounded and plump, with a kind of innocent charm, completely different from MC's.
Looking at these words, his heart sinks as if it's been chained to an iron anchor, falling lower and lower into a bottomless abyss.
He had lost far more than he imagined…
Folding the two pieces of paper together, he finally breaks down in tears.
Y/N, I'm sorry…
He sits in his office, the whole world utterly silent.
If this were the end of time, how wonderful that would be; he no longer looked forward to waking with the sun the next day…
But he could only stay awake, waiting for the night to pass.
But the nights are too long.
His life is only darkness now.
T + 613 days
You carefully make your way onto the stage, eyes momentarily blinded by the sharp glare of stage lights. The applause is thunderous as a bouquet of flowers are presented to you from the dancers. Your thesis project, a fully choreographed piece, was being performed on stage by a full cast for the first time. You insisted on giving yourself a very small role, just a few small steps in the beginning as your leg continues to heal, but it was already more than enough to fill your heart as tears of joy threaten to spill from your eyes.
Caleb watches your brilliant smile on his phone, in the darkness of his room. It's true that in the 1800 nights he was married to you, he has only wished you the best. Now you're out there, accomplishing your dreams. How much he wishes to be able to proudly say, "that's my Y/N!". But he cannot. Not now. Not that he ever had the right to say it. He reads the comments on the live stream religiously and replays your small segment of dance over and over until his vision blurs.
Tonight, Caleb dreams of high school.
Back then, all of you were naive and full of youthful exuberance. It was a time of awkwardness and passion, everything direct and intense.
He dreams of Rafayel Shen.
Rafayel loved to draw. Caleb had found Rafayel sketching you in the middle of class, and tore up his drawing after school. The two ended up having a fight, still a sore spot in their relationship to this day.
He dreams of Sylus Qin.
They were playing soccer together, and you would watch them play from the most inconspicuous spot in the cheerleading squad on the playground, always leaving silently afterward.
Sylus puts his arm around Caleb's shoulder, his gaze fixed on your retreating figure. "Hey, Y/N from your class looks real sweet."
The young boy instantly knews what the other was up to, coldly announcing, "Get lost, I won't hesitate to beat you up if you mess with her.
Some boys would try to slip confession letters into your locker.
You never received any, because Caleb always stopped them.
Some boys would put treats in your desk.
You never got to eat any, because Caleb always kept them for you, glaring at all the other boys in warning.
It was once a childish but pure love, as bright and clear as morning dew.
Why did it change like this?
Caleb is lost in his dreams, unable to find the answer.
He lost you.
He meets Zayne and ask him why you were missing. Zayne simply says, "Caleb Xia, you scumbag."
He meets Rafayel, who grabs him by the collar, and the two get into a brawl.
He meets Sylus, who smiles and says, "You bullied her, so I hid her. You'll never find her now."
He sees many, many people, but you are nowhere to be found…
"Caleb!"
A clear voice suddenly rings out behind him.
He turns around and sees a girl with a bright smile perform several somersaults, appearing before him.
"Y/N!" He opens his eyes, but all he sees is an empty ceiling. He lies on the bed, his phone still clutched in his hand, battery dead.
A dream.
His Y/N is gone forever.
Tag list: @quill-for-glory, @flameo-hotman, @chyukiz, @royale-skeleton-key, @placeofsupercooltopics, @madnesslusy, @kiwiwiiiwiwiw, @younghideoutberserker
Summary: Theodore never wanted children. The day his mother died was the day he had sworn off any semblance of a family. That was until a child appears before him, claiming to be his daughter.
A/N: This is the second part and since you waited so patiently i included 3 bonus scenes teehee posting it early for my babies
Special mention to @for-the-love-of-puppies and @luffysprincess who predicted this turnout lol our brains are in sync
Credits to @dividers-are-us for the divider
Part 1
Bianca was a blur of movement by the Great Lake.
She darted along the grassy bank, boots thudding softly against the earth as she zig-zagged around rocks and half-buried roots, stopping every few seconds to crouch down and inspect something with intense focus before bolting off again. A stick became a wand, a pebble became treasure, and the reeds at the water’s edge were clearly hiding something very important.
You watched her with a fond smile, arms folded loosely as you leaned back against the cool stone.
“She has too much energy.” You said, though there was no real complaint in your voice—only wonder.
Theo huffed a quiet laugh beside you, eyes never leaving her, “She’s a firecracker.”
Bianca shrieked with laughter as she nearly tripped over her own feet, caught herself at the last second, and then stood very still—carefully regaining her balance before continuing on her way.
Theo tilted his head slightly, watching her, “She takes after you.”
You laughed, startled, “Are you crazy?”
He glanced at you, amused, “What?”
You nodded toward Bianca. “Look at her. She’s observant. Thoughtful. She watches everything. She’s lively, yeah—but she hardly ever leaps without looking first.” You smiled softly, “That’s all you.”
Theo went quiet at that, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his mouth.
He watched Bianca sprint past a patch of wildflowers, slow just enough to avoid stepping on them, then take off again.
“…Maybe.” He conceded.
A moment later, he added, half-thoughtful, half-teasing, “She’d be a good Chaser.”
You snorted, “Of course you’d say that.”
“Did you see that turn?” He said, nodding toward her as she swerved sharply to avoid the water’s edge, “She'll be a star quidditch player.”
You hummed, considering it. “I don’t know,” You said slowly, “I kind of see her as a Magizoologist.”
Theo glanced at you, “Yeah?”
“She’s gentle,” You said, “Curious. She doesn’t just want to look—she wants to understand.” You smiled as Bianca crouched again, whispering something to a very unimpressed-looking duck, “I think she’d love creatures.”
Theo’s expression softened.
“Whatever she chooses,” He said quietly, “she’ll be brilliant.”
The words lingered between you.
The lake rippled softly. The breeze carried the scent of water and grass. Bianca’s laughter echoed across the shore, bright and unburdened.
And then—slowly, inevitably—the conversation faded.
Neither of you spoke.
Because the truth settled in like a weight neither of you wanted to name.
There were futures you were imagining that you wouldn’t get to see. First matches. First discoveries. First failures. First triumphs.
Theo swallowed.
You hugged your arms closer to yourself, eyes fixed on Bianca as if memorizing the way the sunlight caught in her curls.
For a moment, it was almost peaceful.
And for a moment, that made it hurt so much more.
Bedtime was always a gamble.
There were nights when Bianca conked out long before she was meant to, curled boneless and warm in Theo’s arms, and you and him would exchange a silent look before jointly deciding it wasn’t worth the risk. No pajamas. No teeth brushed. Not if it meant waking her. You’d just lay her down as she was and hope she didn't wake up.
Some nights, she went down like a dream—padding excitedly toward bed because she was looking forward to the story that Theo read to her. When it was your turn, Bianca would read to you instead, you'd study the pictures with exaggerated seriousness, and make enthusiastic oohs and ahhs at all the right moments while Bianca beamed in pride at her reading skills.
And then there were the nights she refused.
It would almost be easier if she weren’t tired—at least then you could burn the energy off. A walk around the castle usually did the trick. More often than not, she’d be asleep in Theo’s arms before you even turned back toward the common room, her cheek pressed into his shoulder, breathing slow and even.
But the worst nights were when she was exhausted and still couldn’t sleep.
Overtired, overstimulated, and furious about it.
The crying cut through you in a way nothing else did—sharp and relentless, scraping along your nerves until you felt hollowed out. Theo held on as long as he could. When it became too much, he’d quietly excuse himself.
"Ten minutes." He promised, "I'll be back."
But when fifteen passed and he still hadn’t returned, you didn’t go looking for him. You knew where he was—the common room, breathing, grounding himself. You let him have those extra minutes.
You held Bianca instead, her small body tense in your arms, her face damp with tears. You hugged her close and rocked back and forth, humming softly at first, then singing—a lullaby from a film you used to love as a child.
Gradually, the sobs quieted.
Her breathing evened out.
And when you were absolutely certain she was gone—truly asleep—you tucked her into bed, smoothing the blankets, lingering just long enough to make sure she didn’t stir.
Only then did you leave.
You closed the door quietly behind you and let out a long breath.
“She’s finally down.” You murmured, collapsing onto the couch beside Theo like your bones had simply decided they were finished.
He looked up from the parchment spread across the coffee table. His hair was mussed, sleeves rolled up, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come back up.” He said quietly.
Your head tipped against his shoulder without thinking. “It’s okay, Theo,” You replied softly, “You deserved the break after the fight to get her into pajamas.”
He exhaled—a deep, exhausted sigh—and let his head fall forward for a moment. The common room was dim, fire crackling low, everything wrapped in that hazy, end-of-day quiet where the world felt temporarily paused.
After a beat, Theo straightened slightly, shaking his head like he could physically shake himself awake. “Okay,” He said, gesturing to the parchment with his chin, “Do you want to start writing the Charms essay?”
You nodded, eyes already heavy. “In a second,” You murmured, “Just… give me a second.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
The fire crackled. The room softened. The parchment remained untouched.
And sometime in the night, Theo’s head tipped gently against yours, his breathing evening out as sleep finally claimed him too—the two of you tangled together on the couch like you belonged there.
Morning crept into the Slytherin common room slowly.
Pale light filtered in through the tall windows, casting faint shapes across the stone floor and catching on the dying embers in the fireplace. The room was quiet in that in-between way—too early for students rushing to class, too late for true solitude.
Sometime during the night, the distance between you and Theo had disappeared entirely.
Your head was tucked beneath his chin now, his arm slung loosely—but securely—around your waist. One of your legs had somehow ended up tangled with his, your body curved into his like it was the most natural thing in the world. His cheek rested against the crown of your head, breath warm and steady, fingers curled faintly into the fabric of your sleeve.
You looked… settled.
Theo hadn’t slept that deeply in weeks.
The first voices shattered the quiet.
“Oi—what the hell?”
Blaise stopped short just inside the common room, halfway through a yawn. Mattheo, behind him, followed his line of sight—and froze. Then a slow, shit-eating grin spread across his face.
“Mama y papà.” He said cheerfully.
Theo stirred at the sound, brows knitting together. You shifted too, burrowing closer on instinct, your face scrunching in your sleep in that exact way Bianca did when she didn’t want to wake up yet.
Theo’s eyes fluttered open.
It took him a moment to piece things together.
The couch. The dying fire. The weight against his chest.
You.
His arm tightened before he could stop himself.
Draco let out a low whistle. “Merlin,” He drawled, “You leave one kid with him for a week and suddenly he’s playing house.”
Theo’s eyes snapped fully open, “Shut up.”
Lorenzo folded his arms, unimpressed but unmistakably entertained, “Are we interrupting something?”
You shifted again, mumbling something soft and unintelligible into Theo’s chest. Your hand slid up, fingers curling into the front of his shirt like it was a lifeline.
Theo held his breath.
For a moment, he stared up at the ceiling—at the stone arches, at the faint greenish light—fully aware of his friends staring like the two of you were a particularly scandalous exhibit in a zoo.
And still, despite himself, his eyelids felt heavy again.
“Bianca?” He murmured, voice barely there.
“Still fast asleep.” Mattheo supplied easily.
Theo didn’t even fight it.
His eyes slid shut again, arm tightening just a fraction more around you as his head tipped back against the couch.
Out cold.
There was a beat of silence.
Then—
“Oh my God,” Blaise whispered, “He’s actually asleep."
Lorenzo stared, "My old man used to do the same too. Fell asleep through a whole movie once."
The Slytherin common room was almost unnervingly quiet at that hour.
The fire burned low in the hearth, casting slow-moving shadows across the stone walls, green flames reflecting in the tall windows like something alive beneath the lake outside. Most of the lamps had been extinguished, leaving only a soft pool of light near the couches where you and Theo sat—books spread open, parchment littered with notes, ink smudges marking the evidence of three solid feet of Transfiguration essays each.
You were officially on a break.
You shivered, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders just as Theo stood, rolling his neck once before moving toward the small table where he’d set up the kettle. You watched him quietly as he brewed tea—precise, unhurried, like the ritual itself grounded him.
When he returned and placed a cup in front of you, you couldn’t help the smile that curved your lips.
The teabag was still steeping.
You took a careful sip. It was perfect. Strong, but not bitter. Exactly how you liked it.
A soft chuckle slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Theo glanced up, “What?”
You shook your head, lifting the cup slightly, “Nothing. Just—thank you.”
He nodded once, but his mouth twitched like he knew there was more to it.
Then, almost without thinking, you said, “You know… before meeting her, I didn’t think I’d ever even look twice at you.”
Theo’s quill froze mid-scratch.
Slowly, he turned to face you, one brow lifting. “Wow,” He drawled, “I feel incredibly flattered.”
You winced, “No—wait. That came out wrong.”
He studied you now, the teasing edge fading, curiosity sharpening his expression.
“I just mean,” You continued, fingers worrying the hem of your sleeve, “before Bianca, I honestly thought we’d graduate and pass by each other without ever really being in each other’s lives.” You hesitated, “But now…”
“Now what?” He asked quietly.
You gestured vaguely between the two of you—the firelight, the late hour, the way his knee brushed yours and neither of you moved away.
“You know exactly how I like my tea,” You said softly, “And I know how you like yours. I’m allergic to smoke, and you stopped smoking before this even became…” Your voice trailed off as you ducked your head, unsure how to name what sat between you, “Whatever this is.”
“Whatever this is,” You finished, almost to yourself, “It’s funny, isn’t it? How sometimes things just… happen. Completely out of order.”
Theo leaned back slightly, watching you like you were something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“She changed things.” He said.
“Yes,” You whispered, “She certainly did.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.
“I never thought about it before.” He admitted finally, voice low.
“About what?”
“Any of this,” He said, “A family. A future. I didn’t think I was capable of it, to be honest.” His jaw tightened. “Thought I was too screwed up to deserve one.”
Your chest ached.
“And now?” You asked softly.
“Now,” He said, barely above a breath, “I want it more than anything in the world.” His eyes met yours, “Bianca. And you.”
Your heart stuttered painfully.
“I don’t know when it happened,” He went on, “Or how. I just know that somewhere along the way, I stopped yearning for my past—and started anticipating the future instead.”
The fire popped, sharp in the stillness.
You looked at him—really looked. The shadows beneath his eyes. The tension he carried like armor. The boy who had let himself love without realizing how deeply it would cut.
“I think,” You said, voice trembling just slightly, “I feel the same way, Theo.” You swallowed, “I want a future with you.”
You reached for him before fear could catch up, your fingers brushing his wrist. He went utterly still at the contact, breath hitching like you’d struck something vital.
You hesitated, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you lifted your gaze to his—and then your hands began to tremble when you saw it. The want in his eyes. Bare. Unguarded.
Theo leaned in slowly, deliberately—giving you every chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
His forehead rested against yours first, warm and steady, grounding you both.
“Ti amo.” He whispered.
You didn’t need to understand Italian to know what he was saying.
The kiss started softly, tentative—his lips brushing yours like a question he was afraid to ask too loudly. When you responded, just as gently, his breath shuddered, relief and emotion tangling together.
He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. Like he was learning you. Like he was afraid that if he rushed, the moment might fracture.
His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as if anchoring himself. You melted into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater, the firelight warming your skin as the world narrowed to this—this quiet, impossible thing that had found you both.
When he finally pulled back, it was only by a breath, foreheads still touching.
You really did love him.
Theo had been in a mood.
It settled over him the moment the owl arrived—thick parchment, precise handwriting, the professors’ seal pressed into the wax like a finality. You’d read it together at the kitchen table in the common room, Bianca swinging her legs beneath the chair, humming to herself as she colored, blissfully unaware.
We believe we have found a way to reverse the spell.
Preliminary tests indicate a high probability of success.
We are confident we can return the child to her proper time.
Ever since then, something in Theo had gone quiet.
Not angry. Not cruel. Just… withdrawn. As if he’d folded inward, brick by careful brick, building walls he refused to name. He spoke less. Smiled less. When Bianca reached for him, he held her a little tighter, a little longer—like he was memorizing the weight of her, the way she fit against his chest.
You told yourself you understood.
Of course he was going to miss her. You were going to miss her too. Somewhere between shared breakfasts and bedtime stories, scraped knees and tangled curls, Bianca had taken root in your heart. The thought of watching her vanish—of returning to your normal lives and pretending these weeks hadn’t rewritten you—made your throat ache in a way you didn’t know how to soothe.
That night, Bianca went to bed easily.
Too easily.
She pressed a sticky kiss to your cheek, murmured something sleepy in Italian, and curled beneath her blankets without protest. No fuss. No tears. Just acceptance.
It felt like a bad omen.
Theo waited until the door clicked shut behind you before he spoke.
“What if we don’t send her back?”
You turned slowly, the words not quite registering, “What?”
“What if we keep her here,” He said, voice low and urgent, like if he spoke too loudly the idea might shatter, “What if we just—don’t go through with it. We have time with her. Real time. Why should we give that up?”
Your stomach dropped.
“Theo,” You said carefully, “What are you talking about?”
“We’re her parents,” He said, like it was obvious. Like it had always been obvious, “And if we send her back, we’re sending her to a life where she doesn’t have a mother. At least this way—” His voice cracked, just slightly, “—at least this way she has both of us.”
“Theo—”
“I know it hasn’t been perfect,” He rushed on, stepping closer, words tumbling over each other, “But we’re learning. We can do this. We already are. You see her—she’s happy here. She’s safe.” His eyes searched yours desperately, “She doesn’t have to lose you.”
Your chest burned.
“I know we could do this,” You whispered, “I know that. But Bianca isn’t our child. Not really. No matter how badly we want her to be.”
His jaw tightened, muscles jumping beneath the skin.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” He said sharply, “To grow up without a mother. To wake up every day knowing there’s a hole in your life you’ll never fill.” His voice dropped, rough and raw, “If she stays here, she doesn’t have to lose you. Whatever it is—whatever happens to you—we can catch it early. We can fix it.”
Your vision blurred.
“If Bianca stays here,” You said, voice breaking, “the you in the future loses his daughter forever. He’s already lost his wife, Theo. Don’t make him lose his baby girl too.”
Something in him snapped.
“Screw him.” He said hoarsely.
He reached for you suddenly, hands cupping your face, thumbs brushing beneath your eyes like he could stop the tears if he tried hard enough. He pressed his forehead to yours, breathing hard, like he was holding himself together by sheer will.
“I have everything I’ve ever wanted right here,” He whispered, “Right now.”
Your sob escaped before you could stop it, fingers clutching at his sleeves like an anchor.
“Theo,” You breathed, “you know as well as I do… she isn’t meant to be here.”
He sucked in a breath—and this time, he couldn’t hold it back.
The sob tore out of his chest, raw and broken, his grip tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“Don’t make me give you up, (Y/N),” He choked, voice collapsing on your name, “Please. I can’t— I can’t lose you too.”
His forehead stayed pressed to yours as his shoulders shook, grief and fear and want spilling out all at once. He wasn’t just pleading for Bianca.
He was pleading for you.
For the life he’d tasted and already couldn’t bear to lose.
And you held him there, crying quietly into his collar, knowing that love—no matter how real—was not enough to change fate.
The second Theo entered the hospital wing, every instinct in his body screamed the same reckless, impossible thing.
Grab you. Grab Bianca. Apparate.
Disappear so completely that no one would ever find you again.
His mother had family in Italy—old blood, old names, people who still believed hospitality was sacred. They would open their doors. They would help you. They would protect you.
How hard could it be, really, to end up on their doorstep with a frightened child and a woman he loved?
Too easy.
Too selfish.
You didn’t even look at him when the thought flickered across his face. You simply squeezed Bianca’s hand and guided her forward, gentle but firm. You knew if you looked back at him, you would be all to convinced to leave together.
Theo swallowed hard, the bitterness rising sharp and ugly in his throat.
All he wanted—all he had ever wanted—was for the three of you to be happy. Together. Why was that such an impossible thing to ask for? Why did it feel like the universe kept dangling it just close enough for him to taste before ripping it away?
He knew the truth, even if it tore him apart.
Bianca belonged with his older self.
The man who chose to have her.
The man who could protect her.
The man who could stay.
But she was his daughter too—damn it. Flesh of his flesh. Blood of his blood. And the thought of letting her go felt like carving something vital out of his chest.
You knelt in front of Bianca, pulling her into a tight embrace. You kissed her forehead, whispered words she couldn’t possibly understand, and said as little as you could. Her fingers were small and warm in yours, but they grew slick with sweat as she glanced around at the unfamiliar adults. She tightened her grip, grounding herself the only way she knew how, holding onto you like she could anchor the moment in place.
Theo watched, throat burning.
Then he knelt too.
He’d done it a thousand times—tying her shoes, wiping tears from her cheeks, crouching to her level when he needed her attention—but this time his knees hit the stone floor harder than usual. Pain flared and vanished, eclipsed by something far worse. His hands trembled as they came up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing over her skin slowly, reverently—like he was trying to memorize the exact warmth of her.
“Hey.” He said softly.
His voice cracked immediately.
He closed his eyes, jaw tightening, and tried again, “Bambina.” (Little one)
Her eyes lifted to his.
Just like yours—wide, glassy, endlessly deep. Like looking into a pool of pearlescent ink that reflected too much truth.
“Ti vedrò presto, amore.” He said gently, brushing a curl back from her face. (I’ll see you soon, love.)
“Le cose saranno un po’ diverse…” His breath hitched, “Ma devi avere pazienza, va bene? Andrà tutto bene.” (Things will be a little different… but you need to be patient, okay? Everything will be fine.)
Bianca studied him with grave seriousness, like she was weighing his words carefully.
Then—suddenly—her face lit up.
“Oh!” She said brightly, “Come quella volta.” (Oh! Like that time.)
Theo blinked, “Come quando?” (Like when?)
“Come quando sei andato via con la mamma.” She explained easily. (Like when you went away with Mama.)
His chest tightened, “Quando?” (When?)
“Quando siete andati in ospedale.” She continued, rocking on her feet. (When you went to the hospital.)
"E poi sei tornato a casa felice." (And then you came home with happiness.)
Theo’s breath caught violently.
The room tilted.
"Felice?" He asked quietly, feeling like hell. (Happy?)
The word felt wrong in his mouth.
A cold, sickening thought slithered into his mind.
Was he happy when you passed?
His chest tightened, panic blooming sharp and fast, bile rising in his throat. His hands trembled where they rested, heart pounding so hard it hurt.
Then—
Bianca tilted her head, frowning slightly—confused by his confusion.
“Quando sei tornato con il mio fratellino, Felice.” She said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. (When you came back with my little brother, Felice.)
The world went very, very still.
Blood rushed through Theo’s head so fast he swayed, knees locking as though a feather could knock him over.
“Tuo… fratello?” He repeated hoarsely. (Your… brother?)
She nodded, curls bouncing. “Sì.” (Yes.)
“È piccolo,” She added solemnly, “Piange tanto.” (He’s little. He cries a lot.)
The hospital.
You being sick.
Too sick to carry her.
Too sick to eat breakfast.
The reason Bianca hadn’t seemed sad.
The reason she’d been so independent.
Not because you were going to die.
But because you were making room for someone new.
Felice.
Happiness.
Everything slid into place with sickening, breathtaking clarity.
“Oh." Theo breathed.
Bianca reached up, cupping his cheek with her small, warm hand.
“Non piangere, papà,” She whispered. (Don’t cry, Papa.)
He hadn’t even realized he was crying until that moment.
Salazar—this was mortifying. Breaking down like this. In front of professors. In front of you. In front of a three-year-old.
And yet—he couldn’t stop.
Tears spilled freely now, hot and unrestrained.
Because now he knew.
He would be happy.
He would love you.
And you would love him back.
You would build a life together. Two children. Maybe more. A family so warm and whole that Bianca would speak of it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
His children would never have to imagine a future without their mother.
He would never have to watch them grow up with that hollow ache he’d carried his entire life.
He would never have to watch you get sick, watch you leave this world, leaving him alone to raise your daughter, the last remaining memory of you.
Theo pulled Bianca into his chest, holding her like he could imprint the feeling into his bones—her weight, her warmth, the steady beat of her heart.
“Ti amo.” He choked, “Ti amo tantissimo.” (I love you so, so much.)
Her arms wrapped around his neck—fierce and small.
You stared at the pair of them, heart aching, mind reeling. You felt for Theo—deeply—but shock quickly overtook sympathy.
Because between the two of them, you had absolutely not expected him to be the one crying.
“…Wait,” You said slowly. “What’s going on?”
Bianca turned her head as best she could while still buried against Theo’s chest.
“Papa says he loves me, mamma,” She announced cheerfully, “You’re too slow these days.”
Both of you froze.
“…You speak English?” You and Theo said in unison.
bonus:
The room was finally quiet.
Bianca was gone—sent back to a future that suddenly felt more real than the present—and Theo’s bedroom felt too large without her small presence filling it. The curtains were half-drawn, moonlight spilling across the sheets in pale silver bands. You lay on your side facing Theo, your head tucked beneath his chin, his arm resting loosely around your waist.
Theo was on the cusp of sleep, just as he had been for the past hour, but your incessant thinking refused to let him go.
“But if Bianca hadn’t come back,” You murmured, staring up at the shifting shadows on the ceiling, “we would’ve just… gone on with our lives.”
He hummed softly, half-asleep but listening, his thumb tracing absentminded shapes into your side.
“And we wouldn’t have fallen in love,” You continued, the words tumbling out faster now, like if you didn’t say them you’d drown in them, “And if we didn’t fall in love, she wouldn’t exist. Which means she wouldn’t be able to come back and make us fall in love in the first place.”
You turned your face into his chest, your voice muffled, “So at the center of the loop—at the very beginning—there had to be a version of us that fell in love and had Bianca without any intervention at all.”
Silence stretched between you, heavy but not empty.
Then Theo sighed, fond and exhausted and deeply amused in that way that meant he loved you too much to be irritated.
“(Y/N), my love… amore mio,” He said gently. He had taken to repeating everything in Italian after English so it would help you learn faster. You felt his chest rise as he spoke again, slower and deliberate.
“My future bride… la mia futura sposa. It is four in the morning.”
You groaned softly. “I know,” You sighed, “I just… I miss her.”
His arm tightened around you, grounding and warm, “Me too.”
For a moment, that was all there was—breathing, moonlight, and the quiet certainty that somewhere, somehow, the two of you were happy and whole.
Then Theo shifted.
You felt it before you saw it: the subtle slide of his hand, warm fingers sneaking beneath the hem of your shirt like he thought you wouldn’t notice.
“Say the word, dolcezza,” He murmured, his voice dipping into something unmistakably dangerous, “and I’ll bring her back to us.”
You slapped his hand away without even looking.
“It is four in the morning.” You said flatly.
He chuckled, low and unapologetic, eyes still closed like this was all part of his master plan, “Italiano, per favore.”
You hesitated, “Um… sono...sono le… una, due, tre, quattro… quattro del mattino?” (Um...it's....one, two three, four....four in the morning?)
“Perfetta,” He said smugly, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “Your accent is getting better.”
bonus bonus teehee:
The front door closed with a quiet, final click behind you.
For a moment, you just stood there.
The house felt different somehow—too still, like it had been holding its breath. Sunlight spilled through the front windows, dust motes floating lazily in the air. The sofa. The stairs. The framed photos waiting to be filled with memories that hadn’t happened yet.
Home.
You looked down at the bundle in your arms, your baby boy wrapped in impossibly soft blankets, his face pink and sleepy and perfect. Tears blurred your vision before you even realized they were coming.
Theo stepped in behind you, arms full—hospital bags slung over his shoulders, a car seat awkwardly balanced against his hip. He froze when he saw your face.
“Hey.” He murmured gently.
You turned, blinking hard, then leaned into him anyway, pressing a soft kiss to his lips—slow, grounding, full of everything you didn’t have words for. Then you kissed Felice’s tiny forehead, breathing him in like you’d been afraid he might disappear.
“Bentornato a casa, piccolo,” You whispered, voice shaking, “This is where you’re going to grow up.” (Welcome home, baby boy)
Theo swallowed, eyes shining. He reached out, brushing one finger over Felice’s cheek like he couldn’t quite believe he was real.
And then—
“MAMMA!”
Footsteps thundered down the stairs.
Bianca came flying into the hallway, curls bouncing wildly, socks half-slipping off her feet. Mattheo, her godfather, was right behind her, laughing and reaching out uselessly like he could actually stop her.
“Bianca—piano, piano!” He called, “Slow down—!”
Theo reacted instantly.
He dropped the bags without a second thought and scooped Bianca up mid-run, lifting her clean off the ground just before she could crash straight into you. She shrieked with laughter as he spun her once, relief spilling out of him in a dozen breathless kisses pressed to her cheeks, her temple, her nose.
You watched them with a soft, aching smile.
Your heart lurched at the sight of your baby girl in his arms—hair wild, eyes bright, whole and glowing with excitement. You had missed her more than you’d allowed yourself to admit during the last few days. Every quiet moment in the hospital had carried the echo of her laughter, the absence of her small weight climbing into your lap.
You had been waiting eagerly to acquaint your children.
Theo had insisted it was better this way. Better for your recovery, better that you didn’t have to juggle between children so soon. He’d been gentle but unmovable about it, the same way he’d been your entire pregnancy—this one and Bianca’s.
At the first sign of discomfort, he’d been apparating you straight to the hospital wing or summoning your healer for a home visit without hesitation. You’d teased him once that your obstetrician must be thoroughly sick of him by now.
But judging by the way Theo paid—promptly, generously, without ever blinking—and by the fine silk scarf and expensive purse he’d gifted the healer who brought both of his children into the world, you suspected annoyance was the last thing they felt.
If anything, they were probably fond of him.
“Hey—hey—hey,” He murmured into her hair, “Careful, amore mio. Papà’s got you.”
Theo finally stopped spinning, still holding Bianca securely against his chest. He pressed one last kiss into her curls and rested his forehead briefly against hers, eyes closed like he was grounding himself.
And you realized, with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness—
And despite the 36 hours of grueling labor, you realized that, for this man, you would do it all again in a heartbeat.
Theo shifted Bianca onto one hip, still holding her tight as if she might vanish if he let go. Her laughter softened into a happy hum as she curled into him, arms looped around his neck.
Then her eyes finally landed on you.
On the bundle in your arms.
“Mamma?” She whispered, voice suddenly small.
You felt your throat close instantly.
“Vieni qui, amore,” You murmured, smiling through the sting behind your eyes, “Piano, va bene?” (Come here, love. Easy, okay?)
Theo crouched, keeping Bianca safely lifted as he guided her closer, one protective hand braced at her back. Mattheo lingered a few steps behind, unusually quiet, waiting for the family to have their moment.
Bianca leaned forward, peering into the soft folds of the blanket.
The baby stirred, tiny fingers flexing, lips puckering in a half-sleepy frown.
Her gasp was barely a sound.
“È… piccolo,” She breathed, "He's smaller than me."
Theo huffed out a soft laugh, eyes glassy.
You tilted Felice just enough so she could see his face properly. His eyes fluttered open for a brief second—dark, unfocused, brand new.
Bianca’s hand twitched like she wanted to reach out, then froze mid-air.
“Posso?” She asked, glancing up at you for permission. (Can I?)
“Yes,” You whispered, “Gently.”
Felice shifted again, a soft sound leaving him, and Bianca’s eyes went impossibly wide.
"He spoke to me." She gasped.
Theo pressed his lips together hard, eyes shining as he bent to kiss the side of Bianca’s head, then yours. His free hand came up to cradle you, thumb stroking slow, careful circles like he was afraid the moment might shatter.
“This,” he said quietly, voice thick, “is Felice, your little brother.”
Bianca straightened immediately.
“Felice,” She repeated, testing the name. Then she smiled, bright and sure, “Ciao, Felice. Io sono Bianca.”
The baby slept on, oblivious.
Mattheo cleared his throat, rubbing at his eyes like something had gotten in them, "Merlin, enough to make a grown man cry."
And standing there in the doorway of your home, with laughter in the air and your children between you, you knew—
This was it.
This was the life Bianca had promised.
Happy.
bonus bonus BONUS scene for my patient babies:
The one thing about living in Italy was that you missed the company.
Not the weather, not the food—certainly not the wine—but them. The loud, sharp-edged comfort of people who knew you before the life you’d built now. The friends who felt less like friends and more like family, forged in dungeons and late nights and shared survival.
The friends you’d left behind at Hogwarts.
You thanked every higher power you could think of that Mattheo had moved here a few years after Bianca was born. It softened the ache. Made the distance feel survivable.
And now—now that it was Bianca’s sixth birthday, the first child in the entire group to hit that milestone—the rest of them had descended to Italy like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Thank goodness Slytherins were rich.
Draco and Blaise were already deep in conversation near the terrace doors, voices low and animated, catching up like no time had passed at all. Lorenzo and Mattheo, meanwhile, had somehow been tricked—lured, really—into assembling Bianca’s princess castle in the middle of the sitting room.
That would teach them to bring gifts that required instructions.
Bianca hovered nearby like a general overseeing her troops, crown slightly askew, offering entirely unhelpful instructions. Felice, on the other hand, had claimed the discarded wrapping paper as his own, even though his uncles had been kind enough to bring presents for him as well.
Instead, he toddled around the sitting room, triumphantly dragging the empty box the princess castle had come in behind him, until Theo scooped him up at the last second—saving him from the scattered screws as Mattheo struggled to put the thing together.
Theo hovered near you like a shadow, as he always did these days. One hand rested habitually—possessively—against the small of your back, grounding, warm. The other balanced Felice on his hip, your son’s face still slightly sticky with cake frosting as he played absently with the little tie you’d put him in today.
Then the front doors flew open.
“MISS ME, YOU MISERABLE BASTARDS?”
Pansy Parkinson’s voice sliced clean through the manor.
Theo barely had time to turn before she was already there—flinging her coat into Draco’s arms without looking, heels clicking furiously across the marble floor. Her eyes found you instantly.
Her face lit up.
“Oh my God—” She started, already smiling—
Then she stopped.
Her gaze dropped.
Paused.
Lifted.
Dropped again.
You barely had time to blink before—
SMACK.
Theo yelped, jerking back, hand flying to his arm, “What the hell—?!”
Pansy rounded on him like a woman possessed, “Can you PLEASE stop climbing on top of this poor woman?”
You laughed helplessly, one hand instinctively moving to your stomach.
Theo stared at her, scandalized, “Excuse you—”
“Salazar’s balls,” Pansy cut in, eyes wild, “How many children are you planning on having? Fancy your own Quidditch team, do you?!”
“How many children we decide to have is none of you—”
“And she is not an oven to keep popping out your buns,” Pansy said sweetly, patting his shoulder like she was doing him a favor, “Control yourself.”
Theo spluttered, “It’s not like I could carry them myself, now could I?!”
“You’re a wizard,” She snapped back, “I think you could figure it out!”
You tried—tried—to regain control, “Pansy—”
She turned on a dime, expression melting instantly as she crossed the space between you and pulled you into a careful hug.
“Oh, come here,” She murmured, “Look at you. Absolutely glowing.”
You laughed against her shoulder.
“I get it,” She added thoughtfully, pulling back to look at you again, “If I were Theo, I’d be filling you up with kids too.”
Theo opened his mouth.
SMACK.
“Do not.” Pansy warned.
To be added to a taglist, please send me an ask! (I might respond to you in comments but I can’t guarantee that I won’t accidentally miss it)
warnings: matriarchal society, lots of made up ceremonial customs, mentions of clan abuse, smut, neji saying no like an anime girl (because he doesn’t know its an orgasm and thinks its peepee, but then asks you to continue), penetration (neji receives obviously), mentions of male pregnancy, some sprinkled hurt/comfort.
wc: 6.3K
AO3
a/n: this took me foreverrrrr to write (I CANT HELP IT I NEEDED TO EXPAND ON EVERYTHING IM SORRY), but its finally here. I put my HEART, MIND, and PUSSY in this shit so y'all better leave me some love 🔪 🖤
You sat at your desk, opening your lunch to reveal your salad. You sighed, looking at the round tomatoes, the carrot strips, the red onions, and the peppers popping out against the green. You wanted a burger, a box of pizza, anything besides the grass in front of you. You hid your groan as you saw your colleagues walk past your door, the smell of their food bullying you. At least this is for you, you thought, rubbing your growing stomach. But, damn, it’s still annoying. You were trying to eat healthier, but you always fell short: whether giving in to your cravings or buying food yourself. Or, being spoiled rotten by your husband, because the word no is not in his vocabulary when it comes to you. You opened the salad, beginning to eat it begrudgingly. Probably, today might be the day when you finish your lunch. You felt your stomach churn, though not from the nausea that comes with pregnancy.
Leon was sick, infected was what he told you, and he wasn’t getting better. You could see it in his eyes, the darkness, the guilt when he looks at you. And how he looks at you: concentrated, as if there’s a timer on your back for when you would be taken away from him. There’s an urgency within him, as if he were already dead, randomly checking if things were properly working around the house, making sure that your daughter’s room would be complete. You haven’t been sleeping, kept up by thoughts of losing him. You would watch him sleep, listening to his breathing. You would check his infection each time to see if it had spread. You didn’t know what you were looking for, you just wanted it to stop. To disappear entirely. He held you those nights, whispering that everything would be okay, as you silently cried. His words didn’t do much, you were convinced that you were being held by his corpse. You didn’t want him to go, you need him here.
Your phone began to ring, Leon’s name appearing. You gathered yourself, putting on a smile to hide the hopelessness that you were feeling. You had to be strong for him.
“Hello, Dr. Kennedy,” Leon’s face peered over his phone, the camera pointing towards the ceiling.
“Hello there,” you said, “I can’t see your face. What are you doing?”
You heard the flipping of papers and a grumble of frustration coming from him, before he picked up his phone. He winked at you before turning the camera to the half-built crib, which was surrounded by the other pieces and tools. He flipped the camera back, smiling, “It’s coming along, right?”
“Yes,” you smiled, “I thought we were going to work on it together though.”
“I don’t wanna overstrain you,” he smiled again, “And besides, I need to get this done.”
There it was again, that desire to finish future projects as if he won’t be around. He was practically speed running his daughter’s room, building everything as you watched from the rocking chair. The instructions in your hand are long forgotten. Every time he looked around the room, his eyes would linger: on the small shelf that was filled with picture books and stuffed animals, on the wall that was decorated with picture frames of the maternity shoot and her ultrasound, before finally finding you. He looked as if he were taking this moment for the road, trying to fit in as much detail as possible. If only you could exchange the experience, you thought catching a glimpse of the infection at the shifting of his collar.
“Salad, again?” Leon asked, his attention on the crib once more.
“Unfortunately,” you said, “She better appreciate it.” Leon laughed, reassuring you that she will. As he laughed, your mouth felt heavy, burdened by wanting to ask the question that you’ve been constantly asking: Are you okay? It was hard to laugh, hard to eat. You were jealous of his ability to stay calm.
“How was your lecture?” Leon asked, “They paid attention?”
You thought back to your students’ faces, some were taking notes, engaging with you and the others hid behind laptops. “Mostly, though I’m thinking they’re waiting for when we go asynchronous, which should be around the corner,” you said moving around some loose papers to find your calendar.
“Next week,” you smiled, “And I’m your responsibility until we become a trio.”
“Can’t wait,” Leon smiled, before growing quiet. He rubbed his neck, his hand lingering over the spot of the infection. He doesn’t think that he’s going to see her, and you feel sick all over again. You wanted to reach through your phone and pull him in for a hug. Once again, you wanted to change his experience, take the infection away.
“I bet she can’t wait for you to hold her,” you grinned, “To see your face, to feel your love.”
Leon smiled again, getting the same shine back in his eyes. You had to end the call, seeing that one of your students came in, asking for clarification on their assignment.
-
You came home to Leon clicking away on his laptop at the kitchen table. He didn’t look up, kissing your hand, and then telling you that he ordered your favorite pizza. You leaned forward, kissing his cheek, your eyes catching the screen. Multiple files were open, each one hidden behind the other. The newest one read Raccoon City Syndrome, and you didn’t know what you were reading. You began to skim, noticing that his infection had stages. Before you could pin a stage to Leon, he turned off his laptop, turning to face you.
He pulled you in between his legs, his arms wrapping around your waist. He kissed your belly and then rested his head there. He closed his eyes at the touch of your fingers running through his hair. Instantly, you saw the worry fade, as if you were his sanctuary. His religion can only offer peace. You have to be his peace, and you have been failing more often than not. The day he showed you his infection, you were anything but a source of hope. He assured you, he promised you that everything would be fine. He said that he was going to stay. Constantly pouring into you, you were useless. At least, you thought that you were.
“Just be here with me,” was what he told you then, “That’ll be more than enough.” His words were spoken so gently, so genuinely. They never made you feel adequate.
“We’re going to be okay,” you whispered, though for his sake. It was a double-edged sword: it could mean that Leon would find a cure for this, and this moment could just be a memory. Or, you’re giving him the peace of knowing that you and his daughter will be fine without him. The thought left you stuck. You were in a race against time, and each quiet moment was a reminder that you were losing.
“Yeah,” he looked up at you, nodding, “Yes, we are.”
You couldn’t sleep that night, watching your ceiling fan turn. Leon slept next to you, his hand holding yours. You looked over at him, listening to his labored breathing in between coughs. His health seemed to have deteriorated in a matter of moments after the conversation the two of you had. It happened while the two of you were on the couch, Leon was restlessly flipping through channels, constantly checking his phone, and you were grading assignments. He had a coughing fit, falling to his side as his body was trembling. You won’t forget the wheezing, the blue tint in his lips, or cleaning the small red specks off the couch and his skin. He looked so much older than his age at that time, everything that you loved about him became a warning.
You began to move, no longer being able to lie down. Leon tightened his grip, “Where are you going? Did you hear something?” His voice was heavy with sleep and dry from his coughing.
“Need to get some water,” you replied, kissing his cheek, “I’ll be right back.”
You sat at the kitchen table, opening Leon’s laptop. You stared at the screen, debating whether to type in the password. You wanted to respect his privacy. But, everything was spinning out of control, and if you knew what was wrong with him, there was some control. At least the facade of it. He said that he’ll be okay, and you know that you need to trust him, but you can’t. On cue, you heard him cough, before falling silent again. You closed the laptop, not feeling okay with snooping through his files. Though the pit was undeniable, growing wider. You’re bound to fall into it, with nothing there to catch you. You walked back to your room, your fingers sliding against the wall, feeling each memory in the unevenness of the surface.
“Hey baby,” Leon said when you got back into bed, “You okay?” His voice lacked any sleepiness, he waited until you got back in bed.
“Yup,” you say, lying on your side, facing him.
He held your hand, kissing it before trailing up your arm, ending on your nose. In the stillness of the room, it was easy to forget what lies beyond it.
-
“Raccoon City Syndrome,” Leon said, as you were looking at his hand.
The infection continued its spread, causing his hand to become a mess of dark streaks, similar to the area on his neck. You first noticed the spread when he dropped a glass, causing it to shatter across the floor. You rushed into the kitchen, seeing him holding his hand, cursing. And now, you were sitting across from him, listening to him list off his symptoms.
“They have my blood samples,” he began, “They’re using that to find a cure, but nothing has been successful.”
“And, there’s still no leads?” You asked, turning his hand over, seeing a rough patch of dark purplish blue.
His silence was an answer, and you quietly said okay. You got up, walking back into your kitchen, to clean up the broken glass. You needed a distraction, something normal.
Leon’s hand stopped you from sweeping, “I’ll take over from here.” You didn’t have the urge to argue, you nodded and walked away. Unable to look him in the eyes without your throat tightening.
In your room, you opened the closet to reveal a safe hidden away. There wasn’t money, or expensive jewelry in it, but something much more valuable. You messed with the dial, thinking about the letters inside of it. Letters that he has written for you before each assignment he goes on. Letters that shouldn’t be read if that unfortunate event happens. It was so easy to ignore the safe, he had always come back. He’s always been okay.
Now with his infection, the safe felt like a looming threat.
Leon stepped into the room, walking up behind you and wrapping himself around you. He kissed the crook of your neck, while his hands rubbed gentle circles on your stomach. You leaned against him, before he turned you around, facing him. You couldn’t escape his face, feeling his hand keeping you focused on him.
“I can’t promise you a miracle,” he said, “But, I can promise that I’m doing everything in my power to stay with you.”
“I’m still here,” he smiled, resting his head against yours, “There’s no need to open that safe. And I’ll try not to give you a reason to. You just gotta trust me.”
“Yeah,” you breathed, “I know. It’s hard to though. This situation, seeing you like this. I’m scared.”
“We’ll make it through,” he held you closer, “Even if it feels like everything is crashing down. We will make it through.”
He hated seeing the worry on your face, the doubt in your eyes. He should be the last person that you’re worried about, especially now. He cleaned your eyes, hoping that his words had gotten through, that you’ll believe them when he can’t. He smiled when you kissed him, taking that as a sign of your trust.
-
You watched Leon prepare his weapons for his assignment from the door in your garage. He was informed of a lead an hour ago and has been preparing since. He seemed to have a newfound sense of vigor since the update, as if life was shot into his veins. He moved with confidence and purpose. You listened to the rain, wishing that he didn’t have to go so late. You hated staying home alone, the house and your bed, seemed so much bigger when he was not there.
“That’s a fancy gun,” you smiled, watching him check the ammunition, “You should let me shoot it.”
“Too much recoil and too big for you to handle,” he teased, “Sorry, baby.”
You rolled your eyes, “I’ve shot your guns before. Handled bigger things before.”
“You’re right,” Leon said, walking back to you, his eyes on your body. He placed his gun in his pouch, before embracing you. You ran your fingers through the back of his hair, the soft strands being broken up underneath your touch. He kissed your neck, his hands sliding underneath your shirt.
“No,” you laughed, grabbing his wrists, “Not right now. You have to be somewhere.”
“I can spare a few minutes,” he kissed you again, slowly. This time, you felt him playfully bite your neck. You took a deep breath, folding so easily underneath his touch.
“After,” you pulled away from him, “After you find yourself a cure, then this conversation can continue.”
“Yes ma’am,” he smiled.
You watched him put some spare items in his car, as a silence was beginning to fall over the two of you. You could tell that he was stalling, not wanting to leave you at that moment. He kept asking you variations of the same question as his car was running, he kept wanting to check if the doors were locked, if your gun was in the designated area. But he had to go, his infection wouldn’t let him stay.
“This will lead to a cure right? The start of one?” You asked, cautiously smiling.
He couldn’t tell you no. He couldn’t convey just yet that his time was coming to an end. That this mission was an obstacle in his last moments with you. Each second of not being in arms length of you was wasted time. He didn’t want to leave you, to be alone when he takes his last breath. There was no cure, Leon was sure of it. He came to terms with it the moment he began to cough blood, it was moving too fast.
He couldn’t kill that hope, even if it was false. It was better than nothing. “The start of one, yes,” your smile grew at his words, and that twisted him.
“Be safe,” you kissed him, “Please.”
“I always am,” he said, “Love you.”
“Love you too,” you smiled, kissing him once more. You hated this part, watching him leave. But, he had to, and you had to trust him.
Time always seemed to crawl when Leon was away, when it was just you and your thoughts. He last updated you a couple of hours ago, telling you that he was going to a care facility, and that he’ll check back in soon. Soon, or more accurately, when he can. Wherever he was, you wished that you could be right next to him, be the person in his ear. Your thoughts were occupied by him as you read paper after paper. Words were blurring together, the concepts sounding like a different language. And your phone, no new messages. You were going crazy trying to keep from thinking the worst. You closed your laptop, nothing will be getting graded anytime soon. You did everything to keep your mind occupied: exercised, napped, and finished putting up pictures in the baby room. But your worries were growing stronger with the sun’s descent across the sky.
Hey, are you ok? I hope you are. Love you, you turned off your phone after you sent the message. He’s been gone for nearly a day, and you don’t know if he’s coming back any time soon. A paralyzing thought. You were in bed, lying in his shirt, trying to be comforted by anything that he had at home. You turned on your phone, looking at your lock screen, smiling softly. It was a selfie of you in bed, with Leon sleeping on your chest. You would do anything to be in that moment again, to be held by him. Please be okay, you silently prayed.
The sun was just peaking on the horizon, when Leon called.
“Hey baby,” Leon said, “Sorry for not responding. I finally became free.”
“What happened? Are you okay, has the infection spread any further?” You asked.
Leon looked at himself in the mirror as he drove to his destination. The infection did spread, the dark streaks across his face. Coughing up blood hours before. He wasn’t doing well, and returning home was becoming a slimmer possibility by the second.
“No,” he said, “I’m still feeling great.”
He squeezed the steering wheel at your sigh of relief, hating himself. You don’t deserve to be lied to, but you also don’t deserve to be alone. To have someone like him who could be taken away from you so easily.
“Where are you going now?”
“Raccoon City.”
Silence. He’s told you about it in pieces, never the full truth. Just enough for you to know its importance. “How do you feel?” You asked.
Leon considered your question, pressing his foot against the gas. The feeling of speed reminds him of the joy rides that he would take you on: your smile, his hand on your thigh. Hurling you both to a future together. Now this speed is hurling him to a place that he could never forget. It was part of him, mixed into his being.
“Like I need to make things right,” he said.
“I know that you will,” your words caused him to smile, “You always do. Just come back home, okay?”
“Of course,” Leon said, “I love you.”
“Love you more,” he could hear your smile. Leon relished it, realizing that this could be the last time he heard your voice. At least, this is all for you. If he could end Umbrella’s madness once and for all, then you would be safe. Dying for that doesn’t seem so bad at all. Leon looked out the window to see a city in ruins, desolate. The giant crater a symbol of the end. He took another breath to steady himself, fighting the urge to call you again. Fighting everything in him to turn back around. Before he knew it, the shadows of buildings that were still standing, towered over him.
Looks like he made it home.
-
I’ll be going underground for a bit. Text you when I can, love you, the message from Leon lit up your phone. More hours of silence, more hours of trying to fight off the worst. You texted him back, sinking into the couch. You didn’t know what to do, besides stare at the clock. Nothing gets done when he’s away, and you thought that you had moved past this habit. When he went on an assignment when the two of you had officially gotten together, it was hell. Not knowing where he was, if he was okay, the sporadic messages. Not being able to ask any meaningful questions. You had to hope that he made it back in the midst of sleepless nights.
Cling to a hope that was devoid of warmth. It didn’t make your bed feel smaller, it didn’t fill your home with noise. It was devoid of everything that made Leon. You felt as hopeless as the first time. You guess that you didn’t change at all. You walked to the patio door, looking at the pale moon. You wondered if he had looked at the same one before going underground, making the same wish as you. You knew that he was a fighter, he always came back. But, the thought was becoming useless against the fear and anxiety slowly growing around the edges.
Another monster out how many down? Leon couldn’t tell, each step was a chore. A token of his life. His coughing episodes were becoming longer, deadlier, and forcing him to his knees. In his coughing episodes, he could see you, hear you. Standing in front of him, always out of reach. Longing for you when you were miles away. He doesn’t know how much is left in him, he just knows that he has to move forward. He shot down a licker, moving forward means taking down as many of them as he can. Moving forward means saving Grace, getting to you.
Moving forward was impossible.
His mind was sluggish, his body was exhausted. Putting his body in a place of pain and reality, as if it were a double consciousness. He stumbled into the elevator, the room blacking out and swirling around him. He fell against the elevator walls, his hand was in and out of focus, the smell of blood a deep permeation.
He saw you again, standing across from him in the elevator, he reached out for you, but you didn’t move. “I’m sorry, baby,” he coughed. You faded away once he reached his floor.
Leon couldn’t see, couldn’t walk, couldn’t breathe. His blood was everywhere: on his gloves, coating his lips. He tasted the iron in his mouth. He stumbled to the door, another cough causing him to violently shake. He crawled, pulling himself forward with fisted hands. This was it, he failed you. Just come back home, you said. That was all he had to do, and he failed. He positioned himself against the door, the bright yellow of the room, making it seem that he had arrived at the pearly gates.
Leon coughed again, causing more blood to fall. He thought that he had more time, he thought that he was ready to die. Being surrounded by it all his life, he was unfazed. Or so he thought. He didn’t have you then, crossing the line meant nothing. Now, there’s everything to lose, and he doesn’t want to go. He doesn’t want to be alone. At least you weren’t here to see this, to see a body beyond recognition. One that tried to fight, to make it home to you. He hopes that you won’t be disappointed in him, that you know that he tried. His heart was becoming heavy, each slow beat a threat of being his last. Leon pulled out his phone, dialing your number as the numbers swam on the screen. The call never went through, and Leon cursed again. He won’t be able to hear your voice again or say goodbye to his little girl.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, feeling a tear fall, “Y/N, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” you said, “I’m here now.”
Leon closed his eyes, leaning into you. He felt your hands run through his hair, smelled your perfume. He was in your arms again, and you were here. He opened his eyes again, to see you smiling. He reached out, to touch your face, confused at first to feel nothing, before feeling you again. You were so beautiful in the light of the in between, where time meets eternity. He was falling all over again, and if given a chance he would fall in love with you all over again. You were so beautiful, and it seems that he realized it too late. You leaned down, your hand holding his as you rested your head against his. Leon closed his eyes again, breathing you in. He hopes that you will remember him, tell his daughter about him, and how much he loved her as she grew through the months.
“Leon,” you said his name, “Leon, get up. Hey.”
“Hey you,” he smiled again, seeing darkness dance at the edge of his vision.
Then you were gone, fading away like mist in the sun. Grace was there, looking anxious as ever. Leon sat back up, coughing again. Grace let go of a breath she was holding, smiling. She revealed that she had a plan, which includes helping him. She helped Leon to his feet, and he went along with what she had in mind. He trusted her, whether she succeeded or not. He was going to be there. He was going to save her.
Releasing Elpis and securing the anti-viral did help Leon survive. Trusting Grace helped Leon survive. Forever indebted, because of her he can see you again. Healthy, being everything that you need him to be without delay. He would be on his way to you, if Umbrella’s headquarters hadn’t crashed down on him.
“I’m sorry Leon,” Grace said, pulling her legs to her knees, “There’s no way out.”
Leon looked around, seeing nothing but rubble and debris. The body of Nemesis lay there, crushed by the remains of Umbrella. Leon looked at his arms and hands again, still not being able to believe that he had been healed. That’s one problem solved, at least you’ll be happy about that. But this, Leon kicked a loose rock, you won’t be happy with. Leon turned back to Grace, feeling a sense of failure. She helped, cured him, and now he can’t even save her.
You can’t save anyone, the note from the ruins of the police department came to his mind, weighing down his heart. She shouldn’t be stuck here with him, she should be walking above ground. She shouldn’t be sorry.
“No,” Leon said, taking a seat next to her, “I’m sorry for not being able to get you out.”
He rubbed her shoulders, smiling at her when she met his eyes, “Can’t get rid of me though, I’m staying right here.” If he can’t save her, then he can be with her. He’ll be with her till the end.
“You need to go,” Grace said, “She’s waiting for you.”
“Who?” Leon asked, though he knew what she meant, you’re the one waiting for him.
“Your wife,” Grace said, shifting to dig into her pouch, “When I found you, you were saying her name, and apologizing. You also dropped this.”
“Thank you,” Leon smiled, “She definitely would have killed me if I lost this.”
He held the ring in his hand staring at it shine in the flickering lights. He grew quiet, a frown appearing on his face. He wouldn’t leave Grace alone for the world, yet he can feel the hopelessness begin to settle in once more. Leon could have dealt with the sickness, at least he would be able to see you and hold your hand until the end. If he had known that he wasn’t coming back home, he would have held you tighter and closer that night, kissed you longer. He would have read to his baby one last time. Leon smiled to himself, thinking about how he thought it was ridiculous, but extremely cute when he would catch you reading. Then one night, he decided to give it a try, relieving your voice after a day of lectures. He couldn’t finish reading the book, feeling undeserving of the life that you had given him. The safety, the simplicity. He was so afraid that he would break it, that he would bring the violence back to you.
And now he did.
He closed his hand around his ring, beginning to mourn for what he would miss settling in. The nights when you would practice your lectures before you taught them the following day. Leon wouldn’t listen then, too mesmerized by you. He would be caught up in your voice instead, the confidence in your words making his head spin, with a never-ending smile. He would be too focused on how his shirt loosely fit you, yet catch in the right areas. He’s going to miss the mornings when he would wake up before you, kissing your forehead, watching your face crinkle. His mind was on you, how you’ll be stuck picking up the pieces that he broke. You’ll have memories of him, not only in the letters that he leaves behind in case he doesn’t make it home. But in your child. He hopes that you would hear him in her laugh, see his eyes when her eyes would hit the sun a certain way.
Pieces of him in her.
The lights gave one last flicker, before washing him and Grace in darkness. He felt Grace move closer to him, their shoulders touching. “I’m sitting right here with you, I’m not going to leave you. Promise,” he smiled.
“Thank you, Leon,” she said.
It was quiet once again, and Leon felt his throat tightening. He closed his eyes, placing his ring finger against his lips. The ring felt heavy, not having your usual presence. It felt as if it were a weight, a broken promise. He was thankful for the darkness, feeling a tear fall. Dying was fine, it meant that you would be safe. That he finally did his job. But this was worse. The waiting, the seconds leading up to when the chasm will be devoid of oxygen. Sitting with the realization that he’s not coming back to you. That is what scares him most, not dying, but leaving you. And this moment is leading to that. The moment when you find his letters, breaking down, longing for assurance from words that don’t have arms. Longing for assurance from his ghost. He wanted to protect you from this future, but he was too selfish to let you go.
“You deserve something good, to be selfish. Please let me be that something. Please let me be yours.” You said those words to him when you found him drunk in his house, after he called off the engagement. He swore that he was going to end up hurting you. D.S.O, fighting bio-terrorism, it was all part of his D.N.A. That violence would surely lead back to you.
But you were a peace, a melody to his old and battered soul. And that scared him.
He didn’t want to rob you of your music, but he craved everything that you provided: love, safety, simplicity. He needed those things, he needed you. You promised to stay that night, with your forehead resting against his, in his lap. He held you that night, fiercely. He held you as if trying to prevent a dream from slipping away. Close and desperate. He held you, promising that he won’t go.
And he broke it.
“Hey, Leon,” Grace’s voice broke the silence, “You there?”
“Yeah,” Leon said, though his voice was just above a whisper.
“What does she look like?”
“A dream come true,” Leon said, cleaning his eyes. He turned on his flashlight, before digging into one of his innermost pockets. He pulled out a wedding photo, handing it to Grace. You were facing forward, sitting on his leg. Leon’s face was mostly hidden, which Grace could assume that he was kissing your shoulder. You did look beautiful, ethereal in your white dress.
“How did you meet her?” Grace asked.
“At a coffee shop,” Leon said, the memory causing him to smile, “She was running late as hell to her job,” Leon told her the story, feeling a calmness settle over him. It felt as if you were there.
You were going to be late, your class started in five minutes, and the barista was still on the drink order ahead of you. That would have been fine, if the person ahead of you hadn’t ordered a household's worth of drinks. You tried to keep down your annoyance by drafting an email to your students saying that class isn’t cancelled, you’re just running late. Finally, you heard your name, and you grabbed your drink, with still time to spare. You quickly said thank you” before you weaved through the crowded shop.
Leon sat in his car, seeing the line press against the shop’s doors, threatening to spill out. He was definitely considering leaving, no coffee is ever worth this much hassle, and he was pressed for time. His meeting started in thirty minutes, and it would take him all of that just to get to the cashier. But, Sherry wanted this coffee specifically, and he wasn’t going to show up without it. He opened up Sherry’s text message, sighing with a smile as he read her essay of a coffee order. Yeah, he’s definitely going to be late. He placed his phone in his pocket, checked for his wallet, and got out of the car. Leon saw it all happen: you running out of the coffee shop frantically, looking at your phone. And the dumbass who thought that going 90 in a parking lot was a good idea. The car stopped right before you were injured, but it gave you a scare. Your coffee flew out of your hands and onto the stranger’s car.
“I’m sorry,” you began, “I didn’t-“
“You stupid bitch,” he cut you off, “Did you not see my fucking car?”
“Bitch?” You said turning around to see if anyone was behind you, “No, I didn’t see your bitch ass car because it was going 100 in fucking a parking lot.”
The man put his car in park, and his seatbelt came loose. You stood your ground, feeling for your pepper spray on your key ring. Perhaps, I should cancel my class, you thought. You didn’t notice another man steadily making his way towards you. “What the fuck did you say?”
He got out of his car, towering over you, “Say it to my fucking face again, stupid-”
“Everything okay here?” Another man, older, with sharp blue eyes stood in front of you. His voice had an edge, as if he had just told the man a warning.
The man didn’t take notice, instead growing bolder. He stepped closer to him, spitting on the ground. He looked at you still, his eyes finding any means to get through the man in front of you. You were suddenly grateful for the man standing as your barrier.
“This bitch- What the fuck man!” The man doubled over holding his nose.
Your eyes widened, seeing the blood drip on the pavement. The other man shook his hand, before turning his attention to you. Your breath was still, being snatched right out of you. He was handsome, the wind was in his hair, and his eyes, which were once so sharp, softened. Concern filled them, and that caused you to take a step back, you have never been looked at this way before.
“Are you alright? He didn’t hurt you?” The man asked.
“No,” you said, “The only thing that’s messed up, is my coffee. Thank you for stepping in.”
“Of course,” he smiled, “Let me buy you another coffee.”
“Oh no,” you said, shaking your head, “It’s fine, I have to go anyway. I’m late for class.”
“Class?” He asked you, seeing something in his face slightly change. You quickly explained that you were a professor at the university nearby. You felt relief seeing his old expression back, one that lacked guilt. He offered to buy you coffee again, and this time, you accepted. In line, you learned that his name is Leon Kennedy and that he works for the government. You didn’t want the line to end, finding yourself going quiet and just staring. The wrinkles around his eyes, the stubble on his face. Even his jokes were funny. It was an instant crush, a seed unknowingly being planted.
Leon walked you to your car to make sure that no more cars tried to hit you. As the conversation was beginning to drain, you felt yourself running out of time. You needed to say something before he told you goodbye.
“Let me repay you for the coffee,” you said, “We can go to another coffee shop or get lunch.” You held your breath, hanging on to his next answer. You noticed it again, that brief moment of guilt before it was gone. There it was again, that smile that made you want nothing more. He agreed, and the two of you exchanged numbers.
Lunch happened a week later, causing Leon to feel dread. He felt himself slipping, slowly unraveling when he would text you. The thought of you was repairing him, causing him to feel whole. He knew that he should cut you off, stop your vines from encasing him, but he couldn’t. You were a cure, something that he desperately needed. He wants to fade into you, get lost to the point where he can’t be found. If he weren’t so fucked up, he would surely love you. Make you his, forever. Lunch was perfect, you looked beautiful sitting across from him, an angel that was causing him to burn like hell. As you talked, Leon didn’t know who he was. He was wrapped around you, feeling possessed. Each word of yours, each accidental touch of your foot against his leg caused a point of disengagement. He was falling to pieces, DNA being torn at the seams. But would you ever love someone like him? Someone whose soul is full of aches? An answer that he desperately wanted, but a question that he’s unable to ask.
Leon didn’t let you touch the bill, or even see it, immediately handing his card over to the waiter. He walked you to your car again, your arms interlocked. He opened your car door, as you thanked him for paying, despite the outing being your idea.
“Leon,” you said, “I .. there’s a music festival in the city soon. I have an extra ticket, and I was wondering if you wanted to go. No pressure.”
Leon heard that small voice in the back of his head. The one who told him to run, that anything further with you would result in heartbreak. He wanted to run, but he was so tired of happiness slipping through his fingers. He wanted something nice, he just wanted to hold you.
Besides, he’s already been hurt. He can handle whatever trouble that he brings. He can weather the voices of doubt.
“I’d love to,” his answer made you smile.
“Great,” you kissed his cheek.
“A kiss,” Leon smiled, “Things must be getting serious.”
Yeah, he’s going to miss you. Miss seeing your face, how you would light up in the late nights when he would come home. Miss how you would play with his hair as he slept away whatever hell he endured in your arms. He just hopes that you’ll forgive him for not coming back to you. The memories of you will be enough to sustain him, and he swears that he feels you around his shoulders.
It made the darkness easier to handle, it made this situation less painful. And then the cavern opened up.
-
You stared at the safe from your bed. It was taunting you, along with your phone. It constantly buzzed: notifications from your coworkers, university updates, and your students, emailing you for extensions and more notifications that they turned in their assignments. The whole world was talking to you, everyone and everything, but him.
He’s been radio silent since he arrived in Raccoon City, and the worst took place in your mind. Flooding it like a tsunami. You didn’t want to open the safe, knowing that was the last thing keeping him alive, that part of him untouched. Once you open it, reality will set in. He said don’t open it unless you know that he’s not coming back, and he has never given you any reason to open it.
He always came back to you. Tired, and bruised, but in front of you nonetheless. You were convinced that no grave could hold him, he always found his way home. Now, it wasn’t just for you, you placed a hand on your stomach, he had to return for her.
You got up, walking towards your closet. You played with the combination lock, purposefully missing the password by one digit. You can’t imagine a world without him, you can’t imagine the moment needing to open the safe and read the letters that he wrote for you. But now, it’s staring at you. You closed your eyes, feeling yourself sink further into his shirt.
You were at a borderline between hope and despair. The ring on your finger was a promise. He hasn’t broken it yet, so why would he now? You closed the closet, choosing to trust him. He’ll be home soon, you’re just going to have to do the hard part: waiting. You looked at your laptop, time to get to work.
Your phone vibrating on your desk caused you to finally look up from your computer screen. You felt like you had made progress, half of the papers were graded. You rubbed your eyes, before picking up your phone. You nearly ended the call trying to answer it too quickly. Your heart was pounding, threatening to break free from your chest.
“Leon? Leon, are you okay? What happened?” You asked, “Do I need to come get you?”
“Whoa,” you heard him laugh, “I missed you too, baby.”
You took a breath, his laugh alleviating all your fears, “You sound better, did you find something to cure you?”
“Yeah, the anti-viral is working better than a charm. I feel like I’m twenty years younger,” you could hear his smile, “Can’t wait to finish the crib, and decorate with you.”
You sighed, not saying anything. You felt a droplet fall on your hand, before you cleaned your eyes. You tried to hide your sniffles, trying to find strength before you talk, but you couldn’t. You were overwhelmed, extremely grateful.
“You okay?” Leon asked, “Talk to me.”
“I thought you weren’t going to make it,” you finally said, “I was so scared that I had to open that thing.”
“You know that I wouldn’t leave you,” Leon reassured you, “My love, I’ll always come back to you.”
Your cheeks warmed at his words, smiling like a teenager. “Thank you Leon, I love you. Oh, is the FBI agent okay? You were able to find her?”
“Yes, she’s fine,” Leon said, “She’s the reason why I’m healed. She was the key.”
“What? Can I talk to her?” You asked. Once she was on the phone, you thanked her profusely. You simply couldn’t thank her enough. You invited Grace to dinner, though inviting was the nice way to put it. It was more comparable to not giving her the option to say no. You were going to thank this girl one way or another.
You felt another upcoming responsibility: finding the perfect gift. That’s fine, you thought, I’ll just ask Leon a million questions. It’s the least you can do, she saved your husband. For that, there will never be enough thank yous. There will never be enough gratitude.
“I’ll see you when I get home,” Leon said, “Love you.”
And when he did arrive home, he didn’t want to let you go. He dropped to his knees, greeting your daughter with a kiss on your stomach. He then kissed you, chasing your lips like a promise. He needed this, he needed you.
“Rough mission?” You asked, stroking his back.
Leon let himself be cared for, closing his eyes. He loosened his grip, allowing himself to be held. He listened to your easy breathing, feeling himself be carried away into a sweet oblivion that was known as you. He can stay here, drifting aimlessly in your sea.
“Rougher than most,” he kissed you slowly again, “I thought I wouldn’t make it back. Everything felt so different.”
“I’m just glad to be back,” Leon smiled, “I love you, baby.”
