#writingcommissions

Sunday was far too quiet for comfort.

You sat curled on the edge of your bed, your knees pulled tight against your chest, which was the very same position you’d been in behind the equipment sheds two nights ago. The night that literally everything about your life had changed forever.

You lived alone, so it was hardly a shocker the house was so quiet. Just the AC keeping you company. Highway traffic in the distance…

Every time you closed your eyes, you felt it all over again: the crushing weight of his forearm against your collarbone. His hot breath against the skin of your neck. The terrifying, glowing amber of his eyes.

It was just a nightmare, you tried to convince yourself, rubbing at your throat where the faint, tender phantom of his fingers still lingered. You panicked. You hallucinated. Big, scary star athlete Valko isn't a wolf. He's just a guy.

A heavy THUD rattled the glass of your second-story window.

You jumped out of your skin, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. You froze, staring at the sheer curtains fluttering softly over the frame.

It's a branch, you told yourself desperately. It's just a stupid tree branch.

But it was far from that. A long, slow, wet scrape came against the glass—like heavy, metallic claws dragging across the pane.

Before you could so much as let out a shriek, the window latch gave a loud, unnatural SNAP. The metal handle twisted like soft butter, bending completely out of shape as the window slid upward with a heavy, smooth glide.

A massive silhouette blotted out the moonlight streaming into your bedroom.

Valko crouched on your windowsill, his huge frame completely occupying the space. He was dressed in a dark, worn hoodie, but the hood couldn't hide the twitching, dark auburn wolf ears pinned low against his scalp. The thick, muscular tail draped over the wooden sill thrashed once.

His eyes burned in the dark—two piercing, predatory lanterns of molten gold, fixated solely on you. The person who had become his new favorite toy.

"You're awake," he said it a little too matter-of-factly given the circumstances.

You scrambled backward on the mattress until your spine hit the headboard, dragging the duvet up to your chin. "V-Valko—how did you—this is the second floor—"

"You smell nice tonight," he interrupted softly.

In a single, fluid movement that was far too fast and far too silent for a guy his size, he dropped from the window frame onto your carpet. The floor barely creaked, there was a weird kind of grace to it. 

He straightened up quickly, so he towered over your small bedroom, his broad shoulders practically blocking out the rest of the world.

There was a wildness to him in that moment. Total unpredictability, which was not exactly the sort of energy anyone living alone would ever want in their bedroom.

He took two slow, heavy strides toward your bed. You shrank back, your knuckles white as you gripped the blanket. "Please...don't hurt me. I didn't tell anyone, I swear! I haven't said a word! I promise I–-"

"Shut the fuck up, Jesus…I know," Valko growled quietly, leaning over the foot of your bed. His long, dark-furred ears pitched forward, tracking the frantic, erratic rhythm of your heartbeat. "I would have known if you did."

"Th-then why are you here?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

Valko paused. His sharp, amber eyes dragged over your face, down to the high collar of your oversized shirt, before settling on the trembling rise and fall of your chest. His nostrils flared as he took a deep, shuddering breath, pulling your scent deep into his lungs.

"Couldn't sleep," he admitted, his tone shifting into something thicker, darker. "Restless…so I came to see you.”

He crawled onto the foot of your mattress. The bed dipped heavily under his weight. You held your breath, terrified to move a muscle as he slid closer, moving with the quiet, deliberate grace of a predator approaching cornered prey.

"But here..." Valko murmured, rising up on his knees so he was hovering over you, his shadow swallowing you whole. He reached out, his massive hand—fingers tipped with dark, sharp claws—resting gently against the side of your neck.

You flinched of course, but he didn't squeeze or wrap his fingers round your gullet. He just caressed you softly in that way. As if to say I could, but I won’t. You should be grateful.

"Here, it's just you," he whispered, his hot breath brushing your cheek, and in his tone you could hear a purr. His wolf ears relaxed, dropping slightly. "I like the sound of your little heartbeat. Your breathing…”

"Valko...you can't be in my room," you pleaded weakly, though the heat radiating off him (and within you) was almost overwhelming, making your head spin. "If my parents—"

"Bullshit." he dismissed effortlessly, his golden eyes locking onto yours with absolute certainty. "Don’t lie to me. I already know they’re not around.”

He reached behind his back, slipping off his dark varsity jacket—the heavy leather-and-wool school coat with his high-school athletic letter stitched onto the front. He tossed it onto the foot of your bed, right over your legs. It felt heavy, warm, and washed over you in a wave of his scent: cold iron, cedarwood, and rain.

"What is this?" you asked, looking down at the jacket in confusion.

Valko leaned in closer, his sharp teeth scraping lightly against the shell of your ear, sending a violent shiver down your spine. His tail brushed against the edge of the mattress, curling slightly.

"You're wearing it to school tomorrow," he murmured, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "What?! No—everyone will see! Jenna and the squad, they'll—"

"Let them see," he snapped softly, his hand tightening just a fraction on your throat, grounding you to him. His amber eyes flashed in the dark. "I want everyone to know you belong to me now. If anyone touches you, or says a word to make you cry like you were on Friday...I'll rip their throat out."

You swallowed hard, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his thumb. "You're crazy."

A dark, dangerous smirk curved his lips, revealing the sharp glint of his elongated canines.

"Maybe," Valko whispered, pulling back just enough to look at you, his thumb sweeping across your bottom lip. "See you in the morning, sweetheart."

Before you could respond, he backed away, retreating as silently as he'd arrived. He launched himself out the open window, disappearing into the dark foliage of the oak tree outside without a sound.

You were left alone in the quiet dark of your room, trembling, with the window hanging open—and his heavy varsity jacket draped over your lap, smelling entirely like him.

On a sleety, miserable day like this, Zayne was in the kitchen, diligently brewing herbal tea. He always did this, because he knew it was a comfort to you.

Much of what he did these days was an effort to make you feel ‘comfort’. But even still, you struggled to recall what that sensation was truly like…

It had been six months since the day of the explosion. Six months since the dust had settled and Caleb was declared missing, presumed dead. Six months without him.

The pensive silence was broken by Zayne placing a delicate porcelain cup in front of you. He didn't ask how you were; he just squeezed your hand, his own skin cool and infinitely grounding.

"You should sleep soon," he said, his voice a low, soothing murmur. "You're still recovering."

You offered him a tired smile, though your heart was currently doing gymnastics. This—this quiet intimacy—was what Caleb had always wanted for you. When he was still alive, he was the storm; he was the laugh that came too loud and the hand that pulled you too fast. 

He had protected you, yes, but he also left you breathless. Zayne offered you something Caleb never could: peace.

When you were with Zayne, the phantom smell of smoke and ash finally faded. When Zayne kissed your forehead, you could almost believe Caleb was somewhere else, happy, and not lying underneath tons of structural steel. You let your head rest against Zayne's shoulder, and for a blissful, ignorant moment, that ‘comfort’ returned.

It all broke apart with a simple click.

Innocuous. It sounded sort of like the latch of a door catching, yet reminded you of the safety mechanism of a pistol being disengaged. 

You sat up, frowning, and whispered. "Did you hear that?"  Zayne didn't move. He continued reading the medical journal resting on his lap.  "Hear what?" "A clicking sound. Like a door."

Zayne looked up, his expression neutral. He didn’t doubt you might be imagining things. The stress and the grief combined no doubt took a hefty toll on your mental health.

"The ventilation system often expands in the rain. It’s an old building."

You settled back down, but the sense of ease was gone. Your heart rate hadn't settled. A dread was creeping up your spine, giving you a chill despite the heat of the apartment.

Yet after some time you finally drifted off on the couch anyway, the medication Zayne had given you for your trauma dragging you down into a shallow, fitful sleep.

…

You woke abruptly in the absolute darkness of early morning. Zayne was gone; likely called in for an emergency surgery at the hospital. The sleek penthouse was silent, eerily so.

Sitting up, pushing the blanket off with a huff, you decided to go to the kitchen for a glass of water. Sometimes the simplest of habits were enough to ground you again.

As you walked past the large, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the rain-slicked city skyline, you caught a glimpse of your reflection.

But you didn’t stay the focus.

Standing in the glass, right behind your own shimmering self, was a silhouette. A silhouette far taller than you, wearing the signature orange and blue jacket you had last seen him in. A silhouette you knew, instantly.

Caleb.

Stifling your own scream with a hand to your mouth, you spun around quickly. The living room was empty. There was no Caleb. You turned back to the window, and your own doppelgänger stared back at you, pale and utterly alone.

Backing away, shaking, telling yourself it was the medication, you tried to convince yourself it was the trauma. It was the guilt. It was anything but real…

…

The torment truly began when Zayne came home.

He was exhausted, his tie already loosened as he unlocked the door. When he saw you, his tired expression instantly softened that way it always did. He crossed the room, pulling you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. On his shirt you could smell patchouli.

"I missed you," he whispered. "I'm glad you're safe."

As he held you, your gaze traveled over his shoulder toward the master bedroom door. You weren’t quite sure what drew it there in the first place, but your heart stopped when it settled.

The door was opening. Slowly and soundlessly.

In the shadows of the bedroom, something materialized. A hazy figure. It was Caleb, but twisted, malignant. He didn't look like your protective ‘brother’ anymore. His jaw was slack, his head tilted at an impossible angle. He was pointing at Zayne, his smoky fingers curled into a clawish shape.

He didn't speak. He projected the thoughts directly into your mind. A chorus of a hundred whispers, simultaneously laughing and screaming: MINE. YOU PROMISED. MINEMINEMINE.

You gasped, tearing yourself away from Zayne.

"Zayne! LOOK!" you shrieked, pointing at the bedroom.

He spun around, automatically shifting into a protective stance, hand twitching and frost cracking over his fingertips. He stared into the darkness of the master bedroom. You watched him closely, praying that he saw it, that he could confirm you weren't insane.

But Zayne’s shoulders slowly relaxed. He turned back to you, his expression entirely neutral, completely calm. It was the look of a doctor dealing with a highly distressed patient.

"There is nothing, [Y/N]," he said gently. "You are fatigued. The stress of the last few days is manifesting again."

"I saw him! He's right there, Zayne! He's right there!”

Zayne sighed, a faint sound of genuine exhaustion. Caleb.

Well, he could understand. Losing him must have had a huge impact on you. He could fathom that, even if it stung.

Taking your hands in his, he was as put-together as ever.

"We have discussed this already, haven’t we?" Zayne said, his voice precise and professional. "Visual hallucinations are a common symptom of severe, unresolved post-traumatic stress. I have adjusted the dosage of your sleep aids. Perhaps I should also prescribe a low-dose antipsychotic until this passes."

"I'm NOT crazy!" you yelled, pulling your hands free. "He's hunting me, Zayne! He won't let us be together! He hates you!"

TELL HIM.

Caleb’s whisper was smug in your mind, the transparent figure now standing directly behind Zayne, hazy, but certainly there.

“C-Caleb…” you whimpered tearfully, staring at the spot.

Zayne blinked, and his cool persona wavered. He looked at you, and you saw something in his gray eyes that you had never seen before: doubt. And pity. Not the pity of a lover, but the pity of a clinician witnessing a complete mental break.

He reached out to touch your cheek, a simple, loving gesture.

But you flinched away with an abruptness that shocked both of you. You couldn't take it. The dual reality was destroying your mind. Were you really losing it? The most frightening part was you couldn’t say for sure.

Jolting as Caleb’s ghostly hand reached right through Zayne’s torso, his smoky fingers almost brushed your arm.

"No," you whimpered, backing toward the main door, your hands gripping your hair.

"Wait, [Y/N]—" Zayne said, taking a step toward you. He was logic, he was safety, he was the love you deserved...but Caleb was the dark that wouldn't let the sun rise.

You’d gotten too comfortable. Too close with another. He couldn’t take it, could he? Not even in the afterlife.

"Stop!" you yelled, tears finally spilling down your face. "Stop it, both of you!"

You grabbed your purse from the entry table, not caring that you were in your pajamas. You couldn't be in this apartment for another second. Zayne’s logic was a lie, and lies wouldn’t protect you.

"We need to talk about this calmly, [Y/N]." Zayne said, quickly stepping in to intercept your path.

You looked at him. The beautiful, cold sanctuary. You looked at the space right next to him, where you could see the faint ripple of Caleb's presence, hazy violet, pupilless eyes, narrowed in malignant satisfaction.

YES. RUN. RUN AWAY. HE CAN'T KEEP YOU.

Or what? Well, the answer was clear, wasn’t it? Zayne would get hurt. Maybe even you, too.

"I can't do this, Zayne," you whispered, your heart breaking completely. "I love you. But I can't do this. I'm...I'm not well. You can't love someone who is broken."

You threw the door open and bolted down the hall, not looking back at Zayne’s frozen, devastated expression, nor at the shadowy figure that now lingered exactly where you used to sit on the couch, watching you leave.

Caleb had won. He didn't need a physical body. 

His jealousy lived on.

It’s just college. That’s all it was ever meant to be. But he’s turned it into a cage.

The barrier that envelops the campus is no mere defensive measure against curses; it is a membrane that separates the reality you once knew from the one Gojo Satoru has so carefully, so diligently, curated for you.

In fact, you can’t even recall the last time you had a ‘normal day’. You can barely remember what a ‘normal life’ was like. 

Gojo found you during a routine sweep after a botched Grade 1 mission, a civilian caught in the periphery of a domain expansion that should have shredded you to atoms. Instead, you were found sitting in the wreckage of a burned-out shrine, staring at the sky in a numb way, calm, but not truly processing a thing.

And he, burdened by the crushing weight of the Six Eyes—a power that demands he process every atom, every flow of energy, every infinitesimal movement in a radius of miles—found that when his eyes landed on you, the static in his brain simply and finally ceased like he never believed it could.

He never asked for your consent to take you. He simply brought you to the campus, tucked you into a secluded, century-old residence on the furthest edge of the college grounds, and told the higher-ups you were a "sensitive asset" under his direct, personal stewardship.

That was it. So simple, yet in one fell swoop he had stolen everything away from you. 

Now, this is all your life is. A farce. A prison. Little else.

The residence is beautiful, granted, constructed of dark, polished cedar and sliding paper screens, ornately decorated with swirling, abstract depictions of cranes and clouds. Every piece of upholstery is plush, and looks too expensive to sit on. Your bed is the most comfortable you’ve ever lain upon. 

It is a place of profound aesthetic perfection, but you have come to realize in your solitude that even the highest beauty can have no substance. Void of it, it becomes something worthless, and pointless.

Gojo arrives at unpredictable hours. He often appears in the doorway without a sound, his blindfold pushed up to reveal those eyes—eyes that look like they are composed of crushed sapphires and the cold, unfeeling depths of the midnight sky.

Beautiful eyes, like his beautiful face. You’ll give him that, at least. He’s nice to look at. But just like the rest of this place, it’s hardly a comfort.

"You look tense," he says, his voice a melodic, airy lilt that hides the iron-hard intent beneath. He crosses the room in two strides with those tall legs, and simply slides down onto the tatami mats, resting his head in your lap, his eyes closing as he exhales a deep, relieved breath.

He’s made it his habit, doing this, doing it often, daily even, but you struggle to see it as affection when you are essentially just his prisoner, hardly a partner.

He is not a man who ever truly offers affection or love; he is a man who demands a sanctuary, and the peace your presence provides. In that sense, your relationship is more a transaction than anything else.

As his fingers twitch and trace the fabric of your clothes (which he also chose for you), he speaks to you about the world outside as if it’s a frantic fever dream. As if it’s the real Hell, the true nightmare, and that this place is Heaven, the oasis.

"It’s funny," he murmurs, his gaze still fixed on the ceiling, the light of the paper lanterns catching the unnerving clarity of his eyes. "The higher-ups are still bickering about bloodlines and efficacy. Nanami is exhausted by his overtime. Yuji is probably running laps until his lungs burn. They’re all so frantic, aren't they? So desperately attached to the idea that their efforts have meaning."

He turns his head, pressing his cheek against your hand, but not expecting any reciprocation because of course, you’re still being a bit stubborn about all this. "I stopped caring about the 'meaning' of things a long time ago. I only care about the things that don't hurt to look at. And you? That’s exactly what you are. You understand that, don’t you, [Y/N]?"

You perhaps hate it most of all when he asks you these questions he already knows you have no answer to. How were you supposed to know you’d fill that void for him? You wish, oh so badly you wish, you didn’t.

You try to move, to shift your legs, but his hand snaps up, gripping your wrist with a strength that belies his languid posture. It is a gentle grip, almost playful, but it is absolute. He doesn't exert force; he simply ensures you cannot leave. 

Worse is knowing that if he wanted to hurt you, it wouldn’t take much. Gojo’s power level is such that even the fiercest, most fucked up of foes would tremble. And what are you, compared to that? A bug.

"The barrier is shifting tonight," he continues on like this is all very normal, like you’re just having a catch-up. "There’s a stray curse near the perimeter. A particularly ugly one. It’s been trying to feed on the barrier’s edge for hours. If you were out there, unprotected, the sheer density of its malice would liquefy your organs before you even saw it."

Good. I might take that over this. Death is looking pretty peachy.

He sits up all of a sudden, looming over you again, and though he’s not angry, those sharp azure eyes are looking at you intensely. More than intensely. For just a second fear strikes through you like a bolt. Did he read my mind? Can he do that too?

"I don't forbid you from walking the grounds," he tells you abruptly, his smile off-kilter. "Why would you want to? Why would I need to? Out there, you’re just another piece of biomass waiting to be digested by the world. Here, you’re safe. I know, that you know, you’re smart enough to understand that.”

He leans in, his face almost against yours. Behind that gaze, you can see the infinite, terrifying complexity of the Six Eyes working, tracking your heart rate, the dilation of your pupils, the exact chemical composition of your fear, every single minute factor and detail that goes into you.

That’s perhaps the worst, most humiliating part of all. Around Gojo, nothing is sacred. Absolutely nothing, because he sees it all.

"Do you know how lucky you are?" he whispers, his thumb tracing the pulse in your neck, pressing down just hard enough to make your heart skip. "I have the power to dismantle the entire foundation of this society. I could turn this planet into a graveyard of cursed energy. And yet, I choose to spend my time here, with you, keeping the world at bay."

Chuckling, he lets go and leans back, and throws his arms behind his head, and almost jovially says: “I guess you’re like my pet project!”

Pet. Project.

"Don't wander toward the gate, okay [Y/N]? Promise me you won’t?" he asks in a light voice. "I wouldn't want to have to punish the entire world for hurting you. It would be such a waste of my energy."

When he finally gets up to leave, and you’re alone with your thoughts again, you just flop back on your spine and stare up into the dim. As you stare, you think about it.

All you could have been. All you could have had. All that wasted potential.

Because, sealed away from the world under this protective pretense, nobody brave enough to question it, nobody strong enough to save you, you realize you’ve been reduced to just one single thing.

His.

“Come on, what are you getting so worked up about? It's nothing.”

Kyo maybe thought so. To you, that was far from the case. The tangerine haired boy left you a sobbing mess whenever he did this.

It was foolishness that had landed you in this twisted dynamic. A childish belief that maybe the toughest member this side of the Sohma family would soften up to someone like you.

Why did you ever think that?

Attempting to build a loving relationship with him had seemed like a great idea at the time. Through affection you thought you could fill the void that haunted him, help him feel accepted, finally.

Selfless as it was, you couldn't foresee how grave a mistake you were actually making.

“[Y/N]...you're never going to leave me, right?”

The night he came crawling out of his room into the hallway and latched onto your leg like some vengeful ghost had solidified it for you. Kyo was not in the right state of mind for something like this. To him, you were more than just a girlfriend.

You were something he wanted to dig his claws into and tear apart if you ever even thought about leaving him. Someone as precious as you deserved to be treated right, no? How could any other man love you like he could? It was just impossible.

“Right!?”

Refusing to answer him was always the worst path you could choose. Based on his brutal fights with Yuki it was already very obvious just how much of a terror Kyo could turn into when he was angry.

Yet you never once thought he would turn that against you, until the moment it actually happened. Your refusal to tell him 'I love you' for the millionth time in one evening was enough to set him off, and his hand gashed your cheek, his body clambering on top of yours just to keep you pinned while he screamed in your face:

“JUST SAY 'I LOVE YOU'! WHAT'S SO FUCKING HARD TO UNDERSTAND ABOUT THAT!?”

All you could do was tremble in shock and fear, too scared to do anything else. At least his fury subsided, but in its place was that delirious self again. One which touched your open wound and cooed patronizingly about it. He treated your tears like they were a nuisance, like you were crying for no good reason at all, despite being the sole source of all your pain in that moment.

It was like a switch flipped and he went from caring far too much, to simply denying everything around him. You could bet he'd even claim that you deserved it.

“See? It's not so bad.”

He grinned from ear to ear, and all you saw were fangs.

“It's just a scratch.”

The Polar Whale was a sturdy, refitted Fire Nation transport—repurposed with Water Tribe ingenuity—and Sokka spent the majority of the three-week journey hunched over navigation tables, his tan brow furrowed and lips in a pout.

Still the same Sokka in many ways. Yet, also different now. The boy who once panicked over, well, just about everything, had matured. Though always a goofball at heart, granted.

He spent the long evenings teaching you how to read the Southern currents, his finger tracing lines on a map that had been updated a thousand times in his own mind. Every time he spoke of the South Pole, there was so much nostalgia and reverence in his tone. 

This was no random destination. It was his home. With Katara busy making wedding preparations, the topic of inviting their loved ones in the South Pole inevitably arose, and so did the perfect opportunity for him.

Sokka was happy for his sister, as happy as he was for everyone, but lately he’d felt a little sidelined. A little lost about his own purpose. So, it had seemed a good time to make the visit home, and take you with him.

Of course, Appa would have been faster. He’d made some excuse about airsickness, but truth be told, what Sokka really wanted was for this journey to last just a little longer. To be able to spend just a little more time…

A little more time…with you.

…

When the horizon finally fractured into the jagged, crystalline peaks of the South Pole, Sokka exhaled a breath he seemed to have been holding for years. It had certainly felt that long.

The arrival was nothing short of a spectacle. As the ship nudged against the ice piers, the entire village seemed to pour out of the snow-domed dwellings. Hakoda was at the front, his arms wide, his face a rugged landscape of pride and weathered history. 

The reunion was a blur of thick fur parkas, back-slapping, and the scent of seal-meat stew and dry, biting cold as soon as you sat down. You were welcomed not as an outsider, but as an honored guest—the person who had stood beside their future Chief during the darkest winter the world had ever known.

For the first few days, Sokka didn't let you out of his sight. Rather, he wanted to show you anything and everything about his place, pride soaring as he did so.

He took you to the frozen coast where the icebergs shimmered like spilled jewels. He pointed to a nondescript, windswept plateau of ice and, with a tremor in his voice, told you, "That’s where we found Aang. I remember thinking he was just a kid, a weird kid with an arrow on his head. I had no idea he was going to change everything."

He showed you the ruin of his childhood home—the original structure, now partially reclaimed by the snow. He walked through the doorway, his boots crunching on the packed ice, and ran his hand along the wall where his mother’s sketches had once been.

"She was a great artist," he said, staring at a patch of frost. "She didn't get to teach me much, but she taught me enough…”

It was during these quiet hours, away from the boisterous celebration of the village, that the weight of the war, and everything else along the way, finally seemed to settle onto his shoulders. The adrenaline of victory had faded, and grief was invited in again.

Watching him stand there, reminiscing, the way his hand curled against the wall and his head lowered, the way he tried to mask his urge to cry by suddenly cracking some joke about his own artistic skills, grinning forcefully…you felt sorrow.

Sorrow for him. For how long he must have been fighting to hide his own.

…

One evening, under the brilliant, dancing curtains of the Southern Lights, he took you to the highest point overlooking the harbor. The village below was a scattering of warm, orange glows against the vast, blue-white infinite. Sokka sat on a flat outcrop of rock, his knees drawn up, his gaze distant.

"I keep waiting for the next crisis," he confessed, his voice barely audible over the whipping wind. "I keep waiting for someone to call for a strategy, for a battle plan. And when they don’t, I’m left with my own thoughts and...I just think about her. I think about how she didn't get to see any of this. She didn't get to see Katara become a Master, or the world finally finding its balance."

He dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders, usually so broad and held with a warrior’s rigidity, slumped forward. "I was just just a kid when she was taken. I played the soldier, I played the leader, but underneath it all, I was just a kid hoping that if I was brave enough, if I was clever enough, I could fix it. I couldn't."

Raising his head again, he couldn’t help himself. “I mean I’ve always been a dumbass so I don’t know why I was getting my hopes up!”

He was smiling like he had been in the ruined hut. Teeth on show but lip corners twitching, a desperate attempt to pretend “I’m fine!”.

You saw right through it. You would have seen right through it even if his eyes weren’t red rimmed and glistening.

The vulnerability of it was startling. Moving to sit beside him, you didn't offer empty platitudes. Rather, you reached for his hand and interlinked your fingers with his, squeezing softly.

Initially Sokka was tense. His face burst into a shade of crimson that really did make him look hilarious, but he made no move to pull away. In fact, after just a little moment, he leaned his forehead against your shoulder, and his body heaved as he finally let it all out.

Patiently, you waited for as long as he needed.

"I'm tired, [Y/N]," he eventually whispered, after calming down, his grip on your hand tightening until it hurt. "I'm just so tired of being the one who has to be strong and pretend like everything’s fine. Like it’s all good. Like it’s…funny."

"You don't have to hide it," you pulled him into the shelter of your arms. "Not here. Not with me."

Exhaling, Sokka finally, truly relaxed. He curled his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his weight pressing you gently into the rock behind you. The wind whistled around you, but you were warm in his mutual embrace.

“[Y/N] you have no idea…how much I needed to hear that.”

For a while he stayed just like that, but gently pulled back to look you in the eyes. He wanted your approval, your consent, before he did what he was about to do, and with a face flushed too, you gave him a meek little nod.

Relaxing further, smiling genuinely, Sokka cupped your face in his hands and closed the gap, tenderly kissing the person he had truly loved for so long.

“Thank you.” he pulled you into his arms again, stronger now, murmuring happily near your ear.

“Thank you for coming with me.”

Thank you for never giving up on me. Thank you for letting me be who I truly am.

Thank you for letting me feel everything I needed to feel.

The bark of the giant megatree behind your back was cold and rough, but the rope biting into your skin was the real discomfort.

In the pitch-black gloom of the Forest of Giant Trees, just a few yards away across the massive branch, Bertholdt sat slumped against the trunk, his breathing heavy and uneven. Nearby, Eren and Ymir lay unconscious and bound, having finally given in to the throes of sleep. 

Well, in Eren’s case it was more like having finally given in to having his head cracked against the nearest surface, but either way, he was out for the count.

Reiner sat near the edge, his massive silhouette carved against the moonlit mist, staring out into the sea of leaves. A figure who frightened you now, but had once been like a protective brother to you. Maybe even more than that, someone you admired. 

Someone you once liked.

He’d finally turned his eyes away from you, as he thought you were secure. They both thought the heavy hemp line wrapping your wrists behind your back was absolute. More than that, they were sure that you of all people wouldn’t dare to run.

Fast as you were, a merit that had landed you in the Corps in the first place, your physical strength was a laughable match.

But as the hours stretched, you felt it: a slight slipping in the friction hitch where the hemp met the buckle of your leather harness. It was the tiniest weakness, but it was your one chance.

Slowly—moving only millimeters every few minutes—you worked your thumbs against the knot. Sweat slicked your palms, aiding the slide. Wriggle. Shift. Twist.

Your breathing, your heart rate, both were manic with tension.

If he catches me doing this…if either of them do…

You didn’t want to consider what would happen next.

But it seemed someone somewhere was smiling on you that night, as the final coil slipped over your knuckles.

Your hands were free.

You didn't move immediately, there was foolishness in rushing. You forced your breathing to stay slow and shallow, waiting until Reiner shifted his back fully towards you, and Bertholdt let out a long, shuddering exhale in his sleep. 

Then, like a ghost, you slipped backward into the hollow of the trunk.

Your discarded ODM gear lay nestled near the base of the branch, hidden under a pile of damp leaves. You crept toward it, fingers brushing the cold metal of the scabbards. Hurriedly, you strapped the belt around your hips, easing the leather latches into place without letting a single buckle click too loudly.

Secured, you let yourself plummet into the dark abyssal drop beneath the canopy.

You fired your gas as conservatively and quietly as you could as you free-fell through the misty lower branches, lessening the impact as you caught yourself on lower boughs, and only then did you prepare to jet off. 

At first there was hope. Provided you could dodge any lurking Titans (which you trusted your sheer speed would let you do), you could make it out of here. 

Twenty…forty…fifty yards…all you had to do was close the distance.

Almost free.

THUD.

Solid muscle, leaping from the canopy. Gas hissing sharp as another canister fired off.

You gasped and fired your line too, taut cord hissing sharp in the quiet forest. The anchor pierced the tree across the way and you let it haul you breathlessly forward, feet meeting the air, wind rushing.

Sadly, no matter how close it seemed, he never let you cross the stretch. 

“AH-!”

A heavy, thundering weight collided with your smaller body. You were ripped mid-air out of your trajectory. Hitting the damp, mossy forest floor hard, tumbling across the wet leaves, your aching body couldn’t even draw a blade or roll away before his own landed right over you, and crushed you instantly beneath him.

"Found you." Reiner breathed.

The impact had knocked the breath from your lungs, but it was Reiner’s sheer physicality that kept you pinned like a butterfly to a corkboard. His heavy knees bracketing your thighs, effectively locking your lower body completely still. Your wrists seized in a single, painful grip.

Iron fingers clamping so firmly into your skin you could tell how much anger, how much betrayal, he was feeling.

"Did you really think you could run?" 

You flinched, feeling and hearing his threatening tone right against the shell of your ear.

“Annie told me to slice your throat the second you found out what we were. Bertholdt begged me to leave you tied to a trunk for the Titans to find. They said you were too dangerous, that you knew too much, that you’d talk…”

Deliberately, he twisted his grip on your arms and you squeaked.

"...But I wouldn't let them touch you," he whispered, a sharp, dark edge entering his tone as his free hand slid down your collarbone, dragging roughly over the leather straps of your chest harness. "I wouldn't let anyone lay a finger on you. You're mine to take back. You don't get to die here. I won’t allow it…"

You twisted beneath him, trying to buck your hips, but it was like a mouse under a mountain. A dark, fevered grin stretched across his face as he watched, and certainly felt, you struggle under him. 

The sight of you squirming beneath his massive frame, completely at his mercy, only seemed to feed the dangerous, obsessive light in his golden hazel eyes. 

That was always a feature he’d found so endearing about you. You were quick-footed, impressively so, but as soon as someone got their hands on you? Game over. He’d seen enough during sparring.

Funny that you’d ever even been given the chance to join the ranks. Then again, he was grateful for it. If you hadn’t, he’d have never known you at all…

"Stop fighting me," he growled softly, a sound that was half-command, half-plea. He dragged his free hand down your torso, his heavy palm pressing firmly against the dip of your waist, tracing the curve of your hip with a feverish, possessive reverence that made your blood run hot and cold all at once. "You know what I am now. You know the truth...but it doesn't change anything. It only means you belong with me even more. You understand?"

“Reiner…Reiner please I–”

He leaned down, his body compressing any further talk into a wheeze, trapping you in a suffocating embrace. 

He was terrified of himself—terrified of the monster living inside his own mind, terrified of the soldier persona that fought against the warrior—and yet, holding you like this, exerting total control over your body, seemed to be the only thing anchoring his fractured mind.

Dare he say he liked it?

"I know I’m your worst nightmare right now," Reiner murmured against the pulse point on your neck, his lips dragging along your skin in a chaste kiss. "I know I look like a devil to you. But I can fix it. I don’t really want to hurt you, I promise. Once we get across the sea...once we're home in Marley…I'll take care of you. I'll buy us a home. I'll make you my wife. You'll never have to hold a blade again."

His free hand shifted from where it had been digging deeply into the sodden earth, arm sliding up until it curled around your neck, tightening until you stopped your struggles.

"Answer me," he demanded, “Would you really rather go back to the Scouts? To die alongside every other doomed Eldian on this miserable island? To let a Titan tear you apart? Is it really worth it?"

He squeezed harder, cutting off your air supply in a slow, agonizing stranglehold. Desperately, you wanted to defy him, to say YES, YES IT IS, because how could you not? How could you betray your friends? The family you lost to him in the first place, all those years ago when the Wall was breached?

But he wouldn’t even let you talk. Your chest heaved, your back arching off the ground as your body fought instinctively for oxygen, but Reiner only leaned further into you, pressing his groin heavily against your back, pinning you down with overwhelming, dominant force.

Perhaps the worst part of all was the heat that surged through you in that moment. The flush on your cheeks that you were grateful he couldn’t see, because it would have only fed his disgusting delusions all the more.

"No..." he whispered, tenderly, almost needily then. "You're coming with me. You're going to live a long, beautiful life by my side. You're going to love me…”

Your vision began to fray at the edges, dark velvet spots dancing across the moonlit canopy above. Knowing he held all the power, he’d let your wrists go and so you clawed uselessly at his forearm, but his muscle was like solid oak beneath your fingers. 

A look of profound, obsessive adoration washed over his face as he felt your body slowly, eventually, go limp. 

"That's it," Reiner cooed gently, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against your bruised temple just as the darkness consumed you entirely. 

"Just sleep for me, sweetheart...when you wake up, you'll be mine forever."

Aki sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands, the right eye—the one housing the Future Devil—pulsing.

The Future Devil wasn’t solely its namesake. It didn’t merely see the future, it enjoyed the irony. It loved, simply adored, the taste of despair. And today, it had decided to feed Aki a feast. Something truly for the record books.

“Look, look!” the creature had shrieked inside his skull, forcing Aki’s vision to fracture like a kaleidoscope.

Aki hadn't seen a monster or a devil. He had seen you.

He had seen you laying on a cold, rain-slicked pavement, your throat torn open, your eyes vacant and staring at a grey sky. He had felt the phantom sensation of your blood cooling on his hands, the silence of your heart stopping. 

It wasn't a possibility; it was a verdict. A fixed point in time.

A sort of twisted destiny.

Something in Aki changed for certain when he was forced to witness that. The disciplined, stoic Devil Hunter ceased to exist, all composure was null and void. He couldn't lose you. He wouldn't. He out-and-out refused, and if the universe had decided you were to die, then he would break the universe itself. 

That was it, simple as.

…

At first the change wasn’t too apparent. You only noticed that Aki had become more attentive. Perhaps a little too attentive. 

Over time, you began to notice it more and more, until eventually, it became something you could no longer ignore.

He started walking you to every destination, his hand gripping your shoulder a little too tight, his gaze flickering constantly to the right, as if he were reading a script only he could see. Sometimes it was even painful, the way he was gripping you so relentlessly.

Almost enough to bruise you.

The first time you truly felt the terror though, was when you tried to leave the apartment for a quick trip to the convenience store. It wasn't something you spared a second thought to, because why would it ever be an issue?

You reached for the door handle, but before your fingers could even touch the metal, Aki appeared, and his hand slammed against the door, pinning it shut. It was a miracle he hadn’t accidentally jammed your own hand in it.

“A-Aki!? What the hell??” "I can't let you go out today," he responded as if it were simple. "What? Why? I'm just getting milk, Aki, don’t be stupid," you laughed, baffled.

"You can’t. Because at 4:12 PM, a car will jump the curb on 4th Street," he whispered, his right eye glowing with a faint, eerie light. "You'll be standing right there. You'll die."

You stared at him for a long while, utterly confused. What a macabre thing to say…

"That's...that's insane. You can't possibly know that, first of all. And two, I have to get milk regardless so–"

You tried to push past him, but Aki wouldn’t budge. After feeling something was off for long enough now, it was what made the string snap. There was only so much one person could take.

"Oh for God’s sake! Stop it! Let me out!" you gave his chest a firm shove.

But Aki didn't. No, instead he grabbed your wrists in one hand, his grip like iron manacles, and shoved you back against the wall so harshly the breath left you in a choke.

"I know what you’re going to say.” he cut you off before you could protest, “You're going to say that you hate me right now. You're going to say that I've lost my mind and that you want to leave."

Your mouth opened to scream exactly those words, but the fact that he had already spoken them froze the air in your lungs. Was he guessing? No. He knew.

"I am the only thing keeping you alive," he continued in a hiss, his expression twisting into something manic, something so out of place on his otherwise placid face. Dark ocean eyes hooded, the light in them snuffed to something dull and flat. "The world wants to tear you apart. I'm the only one who can see the claws coming. I'm the only one who can stop them."

Feebly, you pushed against his grip, scared to talk at all. Needless to say, he held fast. You weren’t going anywhere.

And that was just the start.

…

The madness took hold of him completely over the next few days. What had once been a cozy apartment shared between the two of you, distorted into something far more akin to a cage.

He boarded up the windows and installed heavy-duty locks. He stopped sleeping, spending his nights sitting in a chair at the foot of your bed, watching you with that pulsing right eye, tracking every breath, every twitch of limb.

You truly tried to escape only once. You had waited until he seemed to drift into a light doze, creeping toward the front door with a stolen key. Feeling a rare surge of hope, you were mere inches from the lock when the door swung open before you could even turn the key.

Aki was standing there, leaning against the frame, looking at you with a mixture of pity and obsession. You didn’t even know how he’d done it. At this point, you’d been sealed away from reality for so long, it was hard to tell what was a hallucination or not. 

"The key wouldn't have worked anyway," he spoke calmly, almost patronizingly. "I changed the tumblers ten minutes ago because I saw you planning this."

You collapsed to your knees, sobbing, begging him to let you go. It was too much. You couldn’t bear it. You couldn’t bear feeling like you were nothing but property now.

"Please, Aki...this isn't love, you know? You're hurting me! Just let me go! Let me live my life!"

Mulling over your words for only a moment, he stepped towards you. His hand reached down and grabbed your hair, tilting your head back sharply and painfully so you had no choice but to look into that cursed eye.

“AH--!!” you squeaked with pain, but Aki only pulled harder. He handled you like he would a devil, yet when he spoke, he seemed to think of himself as a knight. Protecting his royalty.

"Your life ends in a pool of blood on a sidewalk. I've seen it a thousand times. I've seen every version of your death. The only version where you stay breathing is the one where you never leave this room. The only version where you're safe is the one where I own every second of your existence."

Too calmly, he dragged you back toward the bedroom, ignoring your screams and the way you clawed at his arms, even when your nails gouged deep. He threw you onto the mattress and pinned you down, his heavy body crushing you into the sheets. He didn't care about your tears; he only cared about the timeline.

Forging it into the only series of events he'd ever accept. Where you would never leave him...

As you fought with all you had, he simply anticipated every struggle. When you tried to kick, he pinned your legs with his own. When you tried to bite his shoulder, he shifted his weight, trapping your jaw against the pillow.

"Stop fighting," he groaned, his voice thick with a desperate, starving hunger. "I'm saving you. Do you understand? I am saving you."

Binding you, all the while Aki was seeing the flashes of a future he was violently rewriting. Every time you sobbed his name, he drowned it out with a kiss that tasted desperate. Even as he literally tied you down, treated you like his hostage, he was still trying to offer you some strange sort of ‘love’.

When he finally stepped away again, satisfied you really couldn’t go anywhere, he walked the perimeter of the prison. 

"You're mine," he gasped with darting eyes, clenched fists, his pace increasing, his body shaking. Back and forth, back and forth. "No devil, no accident, no fate is taking you from me. I'll keep you locked in this room until the world ends. I'll feed you, I'll bathe you, I'll take care of you. That’s all you need.”

All you could do was stare, as the last piece of hope inside you dwindled like a dying ember. 

For a man who could see it all ahead, he seemed to have missed one crucial detail.

That one day, eventually, there would come a time when you simply couldn’t take it anymore. That was the day he’d lose the one thing he cherished the most.

You wondered.

Had he predicted that too?

The wind howling across the jagged, black-stone valleys of the northern border was nothing like the gentle breezes of Mondstadt. It was harsh, and it was biting, and it was ruthless.

But inside the grand command tent, there was warmth, at least. A massive hearth crackling, and more expensive dvalin-berry wine in stock than you could hope to drink.

"Come now, take a sip," Varka’s voice boomed, rich and resonant, easily cutting through the whistling gale outside. He slid a heavy silver goblet across the map-strewn table toward you. "You’ve been staring at those vanguard reports so hard I'm worried your eyes will freeze open.”

You didn't touch the goblet, but rather, kept your eyes fixed on the parchment. Much as you would have loved to cut a little loose, you felt your duties took priority here. "Grand Master, Captain Mika’s scouting report says the vanguard has cleared the ravine. They need logistical support. If I take the third detachment now, we can bridge the gap before the blizzards set in."

Varka let out a loud, belly-shaking laugh, the sound entirely too jovial for the bleak wasteland you were currently stranded in. Though it was a laugh that suited him.

He leaned forward, his massive, armor-clad frame casting a shadow that completely swallowed you and the table. Compared even to some of the taller men you knew, he loomed.

Varka reached out, his gloved hand—so large it could easily crush your shoulder—gently tapping the map right over your destination. "An excellent tactical mind. Truly, I didn't misjudge you," When he spoke his eyes crinkled with a warmth that seemed just a little bit off. "But no. The third detachment stays here. And so do you."

Refusal? That surprised you a little.

"...Varka, with all due respect, the men are stretched thin," you pressed, a hint of desperation leaking into your tone. "If we don't move, the Fatui positions to the east will—"

"The men will endure. They are the pride of Mondstadt, after all!" Varka interrupted, his smile blindingly bright, yet completely unyielding. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. "Besides, I didn't bring you across half of Teyvat just to watch you get swallowed by a northern snowdrift. Your place is here. With me."

That was the core of it. The terrifying reality you had slowly pieced together over the grueling months of this expedition. A reality you wished you could keep on denying, but it was becoming impossible.

When Varka had announced he was taking four-fifths of the Knights of Favonius into the unknown, he had left Jean behind to handle the administrative ruins. 

It made logical sense. What didn't make sense was why he had insisted, with absolute, immovable authority, that you join the vanguard command. 

You weren't a captain. You weren't a legendary warrior. And while you were proud of yourself and your own achievements, yes, you knew, you weren’t cut out for all that.

You realized too late the real reason: Varka hadn't brought you along to utilize your skills. 

He had brought you because he was leaving Mondstadt behind, and the thought of leaving you behind with it—outside the radius of his sight, where he couldn't control who spoke to you, who looked at you, or what befell you—was completely unacceptable to him.

"I am a Knight, Grand Master," you said quietly, testing the boundaries you already knew were locked in place. "My duty is to the front."

The cheerful, boisterous facade didn't drop. Varka didn't do petty anger, but that was somehow worse. More uncanny, more unsettling than if he had just lost his temper and gotten angry like any normal person. 

Suddenly, he stood up. In an instant, you were made to feel microscopic. You didn’t doubt that was the intent.

He walked around the table, his heavy boots thudding against the frozen earth, and stopped right behind your chair. He leaned down, placing his hands on the armrests, forming a cage. Just feeling him hovering over you, it was enough to make your whole body bristle with goose pimples.

"Your duty," Varka murmured, his voice dropping from its usual booming theater to a low, intimate thunder right by your ear, "is to ensure this expedition succeeds. And as the Grand Master, I decide what success looks like. Right now, it looks like you staying exactly where I can see you."

Despite your nerves, you were still stubborn.

"You're sabotaging your own timeline," you whispered, looking up at him. "We've been camped here for three weeks. The captains are getting restless. They think we're waiting for a breakthrough, but you're just...stalling."

Varka’s chuckle was a hefty vibration against your back. He didn't deny it. He didn't need to. 

Who was going to question him? He was the Knight of Boreas. His men worshipped the ground he walked on; if Varka said they needed to wait out the winter, they would freeze to death cheering his name. 

He had successfully isolated you in the middle of a lawless wasteland, surrounded by thousands of loyal soldiers who would blindly enforce his orders, thinking they were just protecting the Grand Master's treasured strategist. For someone who seemed to some like a muscular meathead, it was surprisingly genius.

"Let them be restless. A little cold builds character," Varka said, his tone returning to its usual hearty brightness as he straightened up. He reached down and smoothly picked up the untouched silver goblet, pressing it gently into your hands. His fingers lingered over yours, a subtle, crushing little reminder of the physical disparity between you.

How easy it would be for him to hurt you.

"Drink up," he commanded softly, offering you a smile that was entirely too fond, entirely too steady. "Tomorrow, I’m reassigning the guards around your quarters. Captain Eula’s scouts were getting a bit too chatty near your tent. We can't have distractions, can we?"

You looked down at the dark wine, the reflection of the hearth fire dancing on the surface. Hopelessness settled in, and you knew it showed. You could feel your own face sink. 

You were thousands of miles from home, surrounded by a frozen void, trapped in the center of an army that belonged entirely to the man standing behind you. You weren’t sure there was any way out of this. 

Seeing you give in, now that was exactly what he’d been waiting for. Nothing was more satisfying.

"There!" Varka boomed cheerfully, patting your shoulder with enough force to rattle your teeth, almost as if nothing were amiss at all. “That’s my good knight.”