#field of buried memory

[daily-ynfg-worlds]

Field of Buried Memory

[daddyjackfrost]

In The Woods ; B. Barnes

The truth is stranger than in all my dreams. Oh, the darkness got a hold on me.

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky x Ex-Avengers!F!Reader 

Synopsis: He left you behind to keep you safe, but safety never stopped the heartbreak. Now, a year of grief, silence, and sleepless nights unravel the moment he shows up at your door with his new team—bruised, breathless, begging. You’re angry and he’s sorry, but the love is still there. It always has been. 

Warnings: Angst, hurt/comfort, y/n is mean & angry (for a bit), bucky is guilty, swearing, ft. thunderbolts, bleeding/injuries, sambucky break-up (mentions), yearning, not dating but a secret third thing, mentions of natasha & her death, y/n is “team sam”, mentions of tfatws (briefly), mentions of hell/religious imagery, violence/blood, SMUT, MDNI, kissing, oral (f), spit, p in v, creampie, unprotected sex (don’t), happy ending, no tb spoliers/ WC: 13.5

A/N: Bucky in Thunderbolts….mind goes brrr. Not helping the SamBucky divorce allegations but alas, anything for the story. Ignore any choppiness in the timeline or story, I wrote this with the worst migraine.

The forest was bleeding.

Not with colour—but silence. With snow falling slow and heavy, catching on branches and burning footprints as fast as they were made. The trees stood like sentinels, black-limed and reaching. Nothing but white, wood, and blood. 

Bucky’s breath came ragged through the hush, fogging the air. His gloved hands were soaked red. Yelena was slung between him and Walker, unconscious but breathing, the warmth of her body slowly seeping through his coat. 

They weren’t going to make it. 

He should have known. He should have been prepared for it, but he hadn’t been. 

“Bob,” Bucky called, voice tight, hoarse. “Stay close.” 

Bob—still limping, still glassy-eyed from the explosion—nodded and trudged forward, boots crunching through the snow. He wasn’t built for this. Not yet. Not like this. Val had shoved him onto the field too soon, too eager. 

Bucky had tried arguing, tried telling her that he was still fragile—a liability—but she hadn’t listened. And Bucky didn’t need more on his plate, but he’d take care of him. Or, at least, he’d try. 

Ava phased in and out ahead, scanning, ghostlike. When she disappeared for a moment too long, Bucky felt the silence of the clearing, tenfold. She was trying to stay ahead of whatever might still be behind them. 

But, Bucky could feel it. He could taste it. 

They were done. Just miles of snow and trees and nowhere to go. 

Yelena was bleeding out and Walker wasn’t any better, wobbling on his legs as he tried to stand up straight. They wouldn’t last long out here, certainly not while dragging each other. 

“Shit,” he muttered, stopping long enough to fumble with the tablet in his pouch. His hands shook—exhaustion, adrenaline, guilt—never ending guilt, swimming in his veins. He tapped into the satellite overlay, breathing hard, as their current location pinged into view. 

Grid 48-F. 

The North woods. Nothing but a snow storm. Cold, empty—remote. No outposts for miles. 

These weren’t woods happy campers visited. Untouched land, ridged and slanted, surrounded them. A perfect place for illegal activity but not so perfect to do the right thing. 

But—there—just there—barely on the edge of the map. 

A single black dot, beeping in and out existence, almost as if a trick of the light, like it wasn’t meant to be found.

His chest caved in around it. 

The coordinates suddenly looked familiar, as did the landscape. He narrowed his eyes, held the tablet up, heart slowing down. 

He knew these coordinates. 

Bucky stared at it for a long, frozen second. 

A place he hadn’t let himself think about in almost a year. 

A place filled with half-buried memories—laughter over old vinyl records, the sound of boots on the porch, a sweet voice telling him to sit as he was cleaned up. Steam curling from a mug handed to him without a word. 

Nights too quiet and long to pretend the tension wasn’t there. That the affection, curling around the wood and into the floorboards, wasn’t there. That the flicker of love, of want, wasn’t soaking into his skin.

Your eyes, warmer than firelight, watching him with a softness he’d never be able to find anywhere else. 

He hadn’t been able to go back. 

Not after deciding to leave you. Not after ignoring your calls when you got back from your mission. Not after telling himself it was for your safety—for your distance, from him and the darkness and chaos that seemed to follow him. 

He’d convinced himself that cutting the cord meant saving you. 

But now? 

Now the cord was pulling him back, wrapped around his neck and tugged, and he couldn’t rip it off even if he tried. 

“Bucky?” Bob’s voice small, nervous. He glanced at Bucky before focusing ahead, cold and wet. 

Bucky looked up, snapped out of it. “We’re not going to the evac point,” he said, voice low yet carrying. “We won’t make it. We’d freeze before the rendezvous got here.” 

“Then where?” Walker grunted. “We’re going to die out here.” 

Bucky hesitated, eyes on the trees, on the white mist curling through the frozen pines.

Finally, he said, “There’s a cabin.” He paused, like it hurt to admit. “It’s not far.” 

He didn’t say who it belonged to. He didn’t say it was the one place in the world he’d once felt safe and at peace. Didn’t say he hated every second of his life since they landed in this cold hell a few hours ago. 

Instead, he just adjusted Yelena’s weight on his shoulder and started moving. 

They reached the edge of the clearing an hour later. 

The sky was bleeding to black now, dim with twilight, blue shadows sinking low between the snowdrifts. The cabin stood half-hidden beneath a thick layer of frost and pine, smoke curling softly from the chimney. Warm light flickered behind the frosted windows.

It felt like a punch to the gut. 

Bucky paused at the treeline and held up a fist. The team crouched, quiet, bodies stiff from cold. He scanned the clearing, fingers twitching at his side. His mouth and eyes went dry. 

He didn’t think you’d be here.  

You hadn’t been the last time he checked. A year ago. After he stopped answering your messages. After he told himself staying away was the only way to protect you from the mess he was about to wade into with Val. 

Just once, last year, in a moment of weakness, he looked for you. Actively searched for you. He just needed to know, just needed to make sure you were okay, safe. He couldn’t find you. Sometimes, he can still feel that raw panic, the way his heart had stopped breathing when he came up empty, the way he had fallen to his knees and clutched at his chest like someone had ripped his heart out of him. 

The smoke was fresh. The path to the shed was shoveled. There were footprints. 

His stomach dropped. 

You were here. 

He turned, eyes on the snow. “Stay put. I’ll clear it.” His voice was low. 

“What if someone’s inside?” Ava asked, curious at Bucky’s shift in behaviour. 

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Then I’ll handle it.” 

He crossed the snow like a ghost.

Every step was agony. Every crunch of ice beneath his boots cracked open another memory.

The porch creaked under his weight.

His hand slid along the doorframe. He knew exactly where you kept the spare key, the trick to the lock. He’d fixed it once, after you kicked it shut too hard. He remembered the way you’d rolled your eyes and offered him a beer while he worked. 

He didn’t want to break in. 

He didn’t want to disrespect this place, the peace that surrounded it. 

He didn’t want to hurt you again. 

He just—

He just needed somewhere to hide. 

His fingers curled around the doorknob, heart in his throat. You wouldn’t have been able to tell that he was once an assassin, once a killing machine. 

And then—

Click. 

“Don’t move.”

He froze, muscles stilling. 

The cold metal of a rifle barrel touched the base of his skull. It was the first time it had in years. He forgot how hard it was, how chilling. 

“Turn around. Slowly.” 

The voice behind him was sharp, cold, measured—devoid of any emotion and warmth. 

Your voice. 

Bucky turned. 

And there you were. 

Wrapped in flannel and fury. Face hard as ice, sharp eyes, steady behind the sight of your rifle. Your finger on the trigger didn’t even shake. It was steady, pressing. He felt a sliver of fear, something foreign and familiar all at once.

He drank in the sight of you like he was breathing for the first time, like he had been drowning at the foot of an altar and hadn’t known peace, hadn’t known salvation until this moment. 

Your hair was a little longer, circles under your eyes. New, faded scars on your face, under your eyebrow and lips. Same old boots. 

Still exceptionally beautiful as the day he lost you. 

The only thing different was your expression. 

New. 

You didn’t look surprised. Not the way he was. You weren’t drinking him in. 

You looked furious, angry, murderous. 

That, he decided, was the worst part. 

“...Y/n,” he breathed, voice cracking.

You stared at him, eyes like knives. Finger pressing the trigger harder, like you were going to pull. 

“What the fuck are you doing here, Barnes?” 

The barrel of your rifle didn’t drop. 

Even as the snow clung to his hair, melting down his jaw. Even as his expression cracked open into something half-empty, half-anxious. 

Even as his lips parted like he might say something real, something soft, something that would make you pull the trigger. 

You didn’t let yourself care, didn’t let yourself even entertain the thought of anything except the press of the barrel into his skin. You couldn’t—couldn’t even take a moment to comprehend that he was in front of you, alive. 

“You’re trespassing,” you said, voice ice-edged and flat, and dangerous. “So either tell me who’s bleeding in the trees or I put one in your leg and call Sam.” 

That hit him. 

It hit him. 

He flinched—subtle, almost imperceptible—but you caught it. Just like you used to catch every other shift in him. The way he’d crack a knuckle when he was anxious. The way his jaw would tighten when he was lying. The way he could never look you in the eyes when he said goodbye.

You clicked the safety off. 

He didn’t even raise his hands. 

“Yelena’s hurt. So is Walker,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher. Sandpaper. “Bob’s with us. We just needed a place to—”

“You think you can just show up here?” 

It came out sharp. Too sharp. Quick, something prickling. 

Something behind your ribs cracked open. A dam you didn’t even realize you were still holding back. You stepped forward, closer, gun still pressing against his forehead. Snow on your boots, fury in your chest, your heart pounding so loud it echoed in your ears. 

He was still standing on your porch. 

Your space. 

A sacred, secret spot you had once shared with him, but no longer. 

You were seething. How fucking dare he?

“I ought to shoot you, you know that? Put a bullet in your arm, maybe your shoulder.” 

“I didn’t know you were here,” he said quickly, eyes on you, like it made it better. “I wouldn’t have—I wasn’t gonna stay. I just—”

“Just what, Bucky?” you snapped. “Thought you’d break in? Treat it like another asset to use up and leave behind? Like you did with me?” 

He could feel his heart crack, his resolve, all the effort he’d put in himself to forget you, all came crashing down. He felt small, guilty. 

He didn’t even think about his team, the ones watching him from the treeline, taking in this new version of him. They’d never seen him stand so still, so disarming. 

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed thickly. 

His shoulders curled in just a little. Like he’d been waiting for this. Like it still hurt more than he expected. 

Your hands shook, once. His eyes fell on them before lifting, piercing into yours. You lowered the rifle only because you didn’t trust yourself not to pull the trigger on accident. 

And then—movement. A shuffle behind the trees. 

Bucky turned his head slightly, called out, “Come on out.”

You watched as Bob stepped into view first, arms braced under John’s weight. Blood stained the sleeve of Walker’s coat, and his jaw was clenched with pain. Ava phased beside them a second later, hauling Yelena, unconscious and pale, her forehead slick with blood. 

Your stomach turned. You swallowed the bile. You knew them, or, knew of them. Although you had removed yourself from society as best you could, you still kept in touch. Listening, watching.

They looked like shit, like they’d been through hell. 

But you didn’t look at them, not really. 

You looked at Bucky. Watched the way his lips turned down at the sight of them in concern. 

It made you sick that part of you still cared. 

That the sight of Yelena’s crumpled form made you shove the pain down into your gut. That instinct took over and you stepped aside, jerking your head toward the door. 

“Inside. Now.” 

Bucky didn’t move, not right away. 

Maybe he was stunned, or trying to think of something to say. 

But you didn’t wait. You turned your back on him—on all of them—and pushed the cabin door wide. 

The warmth hit you like a slap, familiar and inviting yet surprising. 

The fire was still crackling in the hearth. Your mug of half-finished tea sat forgotten on the windowsill. The cabin smelled like pine and old wood and the lilac cleaner you used on the floors just that morning.

It smelled like you. 

And then they all stumbled in, dragging the snow and blood and silence behind him. 

Ava pulled Yelena onto the couch. Bob dragged Walked across the carpet, propped him up somewhere. He hovered close, face pale, eyes wide. You moved fast—medical kit from the cabinet, extra blankets from the trunk, towels tossed in the sink. 

Your movements were sharp, precise. Practiced and automatic. 

You didn’t look at Bucky. 

You didn’t need to. 

You could feel him behind you, like a storm gathering behind your spine. Like a memory clawing up your throat. 

Your voice was low when you finally broke the silence.

“This place isn’t a fucking outpost.” 

“I know,” Bucky said quietly. Almost like he couldn’t believe you’d think he’d disrespect this place, one that had once been so kind to him. 

“Then why the hell are you here?” 

“I didn’t have a choice.” 

You snorted. “There’s always a choice.” 

His voice cracked, desperate. “I didn’t think you’d be here.” 

“Yeah?” You turned, eyes meeting his briefly, hard and angry. “You make a habit of not thinking and being an idiot?” 

The silence after was thick enough to drown in. 

And he felt it. Drowning, deeper and deeper. 

“They’re good people.” It’s all he could say.

“Don’t care.” You did. You couldn’t help yourself, because they hadn’t done anything to wrong you—except Walker—but even then. Their past had no relevance to you. You’d take care of them. It was who you were. 

“I just… I thought—”

“What, Bucky?” you snapped eyes narrowed, voice shaking. “What did you think would happen? That I’d open the door and thank you? That I’d be so grateful for the ghost of you showing up on my fucking doorstep that I’d forget everything else?”

He flinched again. Didn’t try to defend himself.

Good. He shouldn’t.

You stepped toward him, close enough that he could feel the heat of your fury.

“I waited, you know. After I got back. I waited. Every goddamn day. Thought you’d call. Thought you’d explain. But you didn’t. You just disappeared. Like none of it meant anything.”

Bucky’s eyes burned.

“It meant everything,” he said, voice low. Raw.

You shook your head. “Too late.”

He wanted to say something else—there was so much to say, so much to apologize for, but you moved away from him, left him standing near the kitchen. He felt something crack at the distance, which was funny, he mused painfully. 

For a year, he spent thousands of miles away from you, but he hadn’t felt the distance—the loss—till now. Everything inside him was aching and his hands curled into fists as he watched you, eyes burning into your back. 

You worked in silence. 

Yelena’s breathing was shallow but steady, her wound cleaned and wrapped beneath layers of gauze and tape. She hadn’t woken yet, but the colour was beginning to return to her face. You tucked another blanket around her, brushing damp hair back from her forehead with a gentleness that surprised even you. 

There was something about her, something so achingly familiar in the way she held herself, even unconscious. She had a scar, a small faded one right on her chin. Briefly, your mind flashed to Natasha, of a story she told you years and years ago about her sister and a stapler. 

Bob hovered nearby like a kicked dog—wide eyes, oversized hoodie stained with someone else’s blood. His hands trembled as he offered a clean towel, his lip caught between his teeth. 

You took it from him carefully, fingers brushing his.

“Thank you,” you murmured. Your voice dipped, just for him, something softer and inviting, like you knew who he was, what he had done, and decided he deserved kindness anyways. 

His face lip up like a spark had caught in his chest and he smiled bashfully before he looked away. 

Ava sat perched on the arm of a chair, arms crossed. Her eyes tracked every move you made, sharp but not hostile. Just watchful, trying to familiarize herself with you. You caught her eye and nodded at her. She nodded back. Quiet understanding passed, soldier to soldier. 

Then you turned to Walker. 

He was half-reclined on the floor near the fire, jacked peeled off, blood soaking the side of his shirt. Bob had done what he could—pressure, bandages—but the bleeding hadn’t fully stopped. 

You knelt beside him, jaw locked. You didn’t speak at first, rage bubbling in your throat. Just the sight of him, of his battered face made you angry, made you remember the way things were, back when Walker was the biggest pain in your ass, before Bucky had left. 

He winced when you pressed against the gauze. 

“You know,” you said, voice low, steady, “I ought to let you bleed out. If it were up to me, you’d be lying in the snow somewhere, half-dead.” 

He didn’t respond, just looked at you through gritted teeth. 

You didn’t look away. You wondered if he was remembering it—the violence, the hatred. The man he was, and very well may be. Growth can’t be disguised under darker clothes and new management. 

Resentment lingers—you’d know. 

“You’re lucky I give more of a shit about him,” you added, nodding toward Bob. “And Yelena. That’s the only reason I haven’t thrown your ass back into the cold.” 

Walker’s jaw tightened. “Yeah. I got that.” 

You peeled back the soaked bandage with clinical detachment. You didn’t even bother to be gentle.

Across the room, Bucky flinched. 

He was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, a storm in his eyes. He felt a flicker of something—regret, guilt—familiar, so fucking familiar, as he watched you. Your shoulders were rigid, tight with restraint. 

You disliked John, you always had. Before, you had fought with him about his morals, about the way he held himself and the shield. Bucky had stood behind you, behind Sam. He had agreed. 

There was something borderline repulsive about the scene in front of him, of you cleaning up John Walker as Bucky watched with mild concern and his friend—Sam—was nowhere to be found. 

He wondered if you found it disgusting, who he had become and who he had decided to work alongside. He’d understand. He hated himself most days, too. 

You handed Bob another towel. 

“Keep pressure here,” you instructed, something softer in your voice as you addressed Bob. “Don’t let him bleed through it again.” 

Bob nodded, instantly obedient. 

You turned away.

Bucky followed you with his eyes like he couldn’t help it. Like he hadn’t been starved of you for too long. Like he had any right. 

You moved past Ava, brushing her shoulder. “You hurt?” 

She shook her head. “Just bruised.” 

“Bathroom’s through the back,” you said. “Towels under the sink. You can clean up.” 

She looked at you, eyes narrowing like she wasn’t sure how to read your tone. But she nodded once and stood, disappearing down the hallway. 

And then—silence again. 

Except for the fire. And Bob whispering something to Walker, Yelena’s slow, shallow breaths.

You turned, arms crossed, lips turned downwards. 

And finally—finally—you looked at Bucky. You silently begged your heart not to give out.

He was bigger, healthier. Gaunter around the eyes. His hair was longer, curling at the ends, damp with snowmelt. His coat was torn. Knuckles scabbed over. Metal hand twitched like he wanted to reach for something—someone. 

You didn’t let yourself soften—not at the look in his eyes, not at the way his entire body looked like it was a second away from giving out. 

“You can take the cot,” you said, jerking your head toward the corner. “If you think you’ll sleep.” 

It was a low-blow, something petty and mean, bringing attention to his trouble with sleeping, but it was all you had. Just these quips, the coldness in your voice. It was all you could throw at him, all you had since he had taken everything else—your trust, heart, and smile. 

“I—” He cleared his throat, hoarse. “I’m sorry.” It wasn’t enough, and came out too quickly, too quietly. It was too heavy, too weightless. 

You scoffed, eyes shifting to the floor before meeting his. “Fuck off.” 

Bucky’s mouth opened, then closed again. 

You turned your back to him. 

It was past midnight when Yelena stirred. 

You were sitting at her side, fresh gauze in your hands, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. It had been steady for hours—but now, her fingers twitched, lashes fluttered. Her body went still before she relaxed. 

“Yelana?” you murmured, trying to keep your voice soft, safe. 

She blinked slowly, disoriented, as her pupils adjusted to the low light of the fire. Her mouth moved, cracked lips forming words you couldn’t hear. 

“Hey,” you leaned in. “You’re okay. You and your team are safe.” 

Her gaze drifted, found your face. Her eyes drifted along your skin, taking in your features. Recognition flashed in them before they moved to the room behind you. 

“...we made it?” she rasped, voice hoarse and dry. 

You nodded, features softening a bit at the slight accent in her voice. It reminded you of Nat’s, the way it slipped out sometimes, because of certain words, when she felt safe. 

“Bled all over my floor, but yeah.” 

A small, broken laugh escaped her and she winced immediately, bringing a hand to her ribs.

“Try not to move,” you said gently. “You’ll ruin my fine patch job.” 

She was quiet for a beat before she lifted her eyes, lips curled downwards. “You were her friend, weren’t you?”

You blinked in surprise, lips parting. You had heard about Yelena from Nat, near the end. During the blip, when she had decided that she had kept enough to herself, she told you about her little sister. You never thought you’d get to meet her.

“I was,” you swallowed. “We were good friends.” 

“She told me about you,” Yelena said, quietly, like it was a secret. “Just once. Told me I could come to you for anything.” 

Your heart tightened in your chest and you nodded, trying for a smile. “Yeah. You could—can.” 

Something dark, a mixture of grief and anger bubbled in Yelena’s chest and you saw it, saw the way it pulled at her from her hair. It was familiar, a feeling you knew well. “She talked about you,” you offered, trying to pull her out of her own mind. “She loved you.” 

“Yeah,” Yelena swallowed, “I know.” 

You patted her shoulder gently before pushing yourself up. Her hand caught your wrist and you looked down, eyebrows raised. 

“I didn’t know,” she whispered. 

You crouched down. “Know what?” 

“That you’re her.” 

You frowned, tilting your head in question. “Her?” 

Yelena’s eyes lingered on your face, tracing your scars and the bridge of your nose. “The one he never talks about.” 

Your breath caught, and your eyes widened, just a bit, but enough. You said nothing. 

“He’s in love with you, you know.” She winced as she tried to sit up. “He doesn’t know how not to be.” She paused, glancing at your trembling fingers. “It leaks out of him.” 

Your jaw clenched and you looked away, heart falling to your stomach and fingers curled. She watched as you kept your eyes on the fire, hating how dry your throat had gotten. 

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” you said finally, quietly. “Try to sleep.”

She didn’t protest, just smiled softly before shutting her eyes. 

They were all asleep by two, or pretending. But it was quiet, tense, something weighed. 

Walker was sprawled ungracefully on the rug, arm bandaged and elevated, snoring softly. Bob had curled up in the armchair, long limbs tucked close, face peaceful.  Ava took the cot near the back wall, one leg bouncing softly until it stilled.

And Bucky—

Bucky sat in the kitchen, silent, staring into the dark like it held answers he hadn’t earned. It was too overwhelming—being here. There were memories, soft laughter and lingering touches that had crawled into the crevices of the wood, peeled the stains back until the entire cabin felt smaller, haunted. In the warmth of the kitchen, the wood groaning under his weight, he felt like he could have done it. 

He could have stayed. Could have fought off Val for you, kept you out of the limelight. 

He could have fought harder. 

He should have fought harder. 

He doesn’t know what that made him—a coward, maybe. Someone afraid. He had grown, gone to therapy and made friends, but the fear, the curling of unworthiness in his bones would never leave. He knew that. 

He stared down at the table, eyes focusing on the swirls and edges of the wood. His herbal tea, the one you had forced them all to drink, was sitting cold in front of him. He was glad you hadn’t given him the one he used to drink—the exotic ones, ones he’d never heard of and couldn’t imagine. It would have felt like holy water in hell, something condemning and horrid, but sweet all the while. 

You slipped on your boots and coat and eased the front door open, letting the cold bite at your face. The stars above were clear, silver on black. The trees whispered in the distance, inviting. 

Bucky heard the door open and froze, stilled as he stared into the open space. 

You sat on the porch steps and pulled the knife from your side pocket. 

It was old now, worn. The handle smooth from your thumb, the constant rubbing and brushing.

You’d never stopped carrying it. 

Sam had found it at a vintage store. “Some kind of weird sentimental symbolism,” he’d said, when he gave it to you. “Sharp. Pointed. Quiet. Soft around the edges. Like you.” Bucky had added your initials to the leather sheath in his own careful scrawl. 

You used to carry it just to remember the two of them. When you were on long missions, when they had stumbled into some trouble far away—when it was quiet. 

Now, you carried it because it was all you had left.

You pressed your thumb into the base of the blade, not enough to break skin, but just enough to feel something—to wake you up if this was a bad dream. It felt like one. It felt strange, like you could guess the ending but it changed every time you searched for it, when the flicker of want, of fear, grew larger. 

The cabin behind you creaked softly, weight shifting and the wind howling. 

You didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. 

His footsteps were heavier now. Not loud, but familiar—measured, hesitant. A bit like when he first arrived here, years ago. The way he never pressed his full weight into the wood until he grew comfortable, until he was sure that the wood—that you—could support him. 

He sat beside you.

Not too close, but closer than he had been in a year. The porch was old pine and groaned beneath his weight, like the cabin couldn’t help but mimic the sadness that dwelled in you—in the absence of him. 

You stared at the trees, eyes fluttering shut briefly as the cold wind brushed against your skin. The moonlight was sharper now, illuminating you both perfectly, a silent spectacle for the Gods. 

The knife gleamed in your palm like it could split you open. Something was tearing apart. 

“It’s…colder than I remember,” Bucky said, after a long silence. 

You said nothing.

A part of you wanted to lunge at him, plunge the knife into his heart and ask him if it hurts, if the pain measures to your own. You gripped the hilt of the knife tighter, looked at a tree where a gun was hidden. 

He exhaled slowly, white breath curling in the air as his nose twitched. “I didn’t know you’d be here.” He said it like it made it better, like he knew you were bleeding out and these words were all he could offer, little bandaids he kept on hand. 

“Yeah,” you said, voice sharp and bitter. “You’ve mentioned that.” 

He rubbed his hands together, flesh and metal and yet he hadn’t felt warmth in months, years—whenever he touched you last. A brush against your shoulder, knees bumping under the blanket. 

“You shouldn’t’ve been.” 

You turned sharply, eyes narrowed into slits. He almost moved back. “You think you get to decide where I go now?” Your hold on the knife tightened, slipped into place. 

“No—” 

“Because last I checked,” you interrupted, “you lost that right. When you ghosted me. When you walked away from Sam and into fucking politics. When instead of taking her down, you joined up with Val fucking Fontaine and turned into some New Avenger.” 

You were seething, jaw clenched as the words came out like bullets. Your fingers twitched around the blade and you almost, almost, lifted it, just to see what he would do. You were angry, so fucking angry, and hurt, and worried, and—God—Why was he staring at you like that? 

“I was trying to protect you,” Bucky said quietly, a whisper that floated into the wind. 

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t you dare say that to me.” 

He looked down, hair falling across his face as his fingers curled into fists. 

“Do you know what it felt like?” You whispered, voice cracking, mentally blaming the cold. “Coming home after six months to find no one there? I saw Sam. He looked at me like I’d been buried alive. And then I had to ask about you and he just—he looked so tired. Like he didn’t have any energy left.” 

Your grip on the knife loosened but his shoulders tensed, pinched together like he was trying to keep himself still. 

“Sam was busy with the government and he had Joaquin and I…I had no one.” You inched forward, wanting him to see the look in your eyes. “I called you. Every day. Texted you, sent voice messages. I got nothing. Nothing, Buck. Not even a fuck-you.” 

Bucky couldn’t breathe, he was sure he had stopped breathing the moment he sat down but now his chest hurt, his eyes stung and his fingers twitched. “I couldn’t,” he said, almost begging, his voice cracking.

“I couldn’t.” 

You finally turned your full body toward him. If this conversation was finally happening, maybe for the last time ever, you wanted to be present for it. If he was truly going to rip your heart out of your chest, you wanted him to have a clear shot. “Why not?” 

He met your eyes—red, bright blue, and so exhausted. 

“Because Val knew about you.” 

Your stomach twisted. The way he said it—haunted, like it was the worst thing in the world, like he’d never been more shaken. 

“She knew everything. She had a file, your name. Where you trained, where you came from. She knew. And she told me…if I didn’t cooperate, if I didn’t step in line, she’d make you vanish.” 

You stared at him, lips parting in surprise. The air thinned around you. It was less about what he said and more about the way he said it, the way he panted out the words, like they’d been taking so much space in his body. 

“She said it like she was doing me a favour,” he whispered. “Like she was giving me an option. I knew what she was capable of. I’ve seen what her people do, Y/n.” 

“So you left,” you breathed out. “Without a word.” 

“It was the only way to keep her away from you,” he said, his eyes pleading. You had to understand—understand that he’d do anything to keep you safe. “I had to disappear from your life. I thought…if I stayed gone long enough, she’d think you didn’t matter.” 

Your throat closed, anger bubbling into something colder—grief. “I did matter.” 

“I know,” he said, eyes piercing into yours, pink lips pulled into a frown. “Christ, I know. Don’t you think I’ve thought about it every day? Don’t you think I regret it? I thought I was saving you. But I was just…just a fucking coward.” 

Silence—the woods watched, trees listened. 

The stars did not blink, just stayed still, offering as much comfort as they could.

You breathed in the fresh air, trying to get your blood circulating. Your pulse pounded in your chest and you wiped at your face, angry and so fucking sad. All you wanted was to live in your anger forever, to keep it at the surface and present, but here he was, hands trembling, telling you how far he had gone to keep you safe.

“I missed you,” you admitted, softly. “Every day. Even when I was angry.” 

Bucky turned toward you, jaw clenched. His hand reached out before he dropped it. His eyes were wide and bright and sorry. 

You looked down at the knife. “I came here, once. After you left. I thought maybe being here would help. That I could feel close to you.” 

He swallowed hard, dug his nails into his palm. 

“But it just…just made it worse. Every corner. Every stupid crevice. You’re in all of it.” You paused, a small smile, filled with everything but warmth. “Ended up staying. What does that say about me?”

He looked small, like he might shatter. Like the weight of your words was too much, like his superhuman strength was nothing against them. 

“I wanted my best friend,” you said, voice small. It was easier to be like this—sad, fucking pathetic, and angry, with him. It always had been. “I needed you, Buck. And you weren’t there.” 

“I wanted to be,” his words came tumbling out, hurried and harsh. “You think I didn’t want to break every fucking rule and come running the second I saw your name pop up on my screen? I wanted to call, to explain. But Val—she had eyes. I thought if I held out long enough, she’d lose interest.” 

“She didn’t,” you mused. “She sent you here.” 

Bucky looked startled, exhaled sharply, like he hadn’t considered it. This whole time—he thought it was a coincidence. His bad fucking luck. But it was Val—of course. That scared him, made him want to pick up his team and leave you, the sooner he left the further Val got to you. 

“I shouldn’t’ve come.” 

“No,” you said, softer, a bit surprised at your immediate answer. “But I’m glad you did.” 

He looked at you, startled. His eyes, so blue, so bright, widened a fraction. 

You wiped at your eyes again, trying to brush away the feelings that had bubbled out of your chest and out in the open, dancing across your skin.

“Because now you get to see what you left behind…and I—I get to see you. Alive.” 

Bucky’s breath caught and his fingers shook. His shoulders dropped and a part of you, a small, horrible part of you relished in it. Briefly, but it pleased you. 

“You’re my best friend,” he said, like a confession. Like it meant something else, something he thought about, something that burned bright and warm in his veins every night. “That’s the problem. I had to walk away.”

He said it with heat—desperation.

Please, he was saying, understand—I love you. 

You looked at him then, fully, completely. And for the first time in nearly a year, your anger cracked, just a little—then crumbled, until it fell off you like rain. It was still there, soaking into your skin, but slid off. 

“Then stop walking away,” you whispered, responding to the words he wasn’t saying but was leaking out of him. “If I’m your best friend,”—if you love me—“stay. Stop running.” 

The words found a life of their own, stumbled out of your mouth before you could catch them, before you could measure their consequences—they fell along Bucky’s skin like snow, soft and beautiful and cold and unseen. 

The moon above you was heavy and silver and listening—waiting, glowing, yearning.

The silence stretches on, hovers softly over the snow, a blanket over the cold. 

You don’t say anything for a long time. 

Not after you ask him to stay. 

There’s just the knife in your hand and the throb in your chest and the goddamn moon staring down at you like she knows, like she understands—despite your embarrassment, the hole in your chest that was once filled with anger and pride and hurt. Now hollow, remnants of it all dried and crisp. 

And then—

You laugh. 

It’s not soft, not amused. It’s empty, something clipped. 

“I can’t believe I just asked you to stay,” you admit, bitter and in disbelief. “I’m your best friend. Right. You care about me so much I had to grieve you.” 

He flinches, chin tipping downwards. 

You’re on your feet before you even realize it, pacing the porch like it’s the only way to stay upright. You had imagined having this conversation with him hundreds of times, all different. When you had come back and Sam told you he didn’t know where Bucky was, your entire life fell apart. Sometimes, on bad days, you can still feel the ache in your chest. 

For a moment, a day, a week, a while, you had thought you had lost him. Until he turned up on your fucking television. 

 “I lit a candle for you in some tiny church in Madrid. Did you know that?” you spit. “I thought you were dead. Or worse—I thought you’d become someone I didn’t recognize.” Your eyes met his and they fell along his suit, the black, the A that had once meant so much to you. 

“I’m not sure I recognize you now.” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything—can’t. His heart is beating out of his chest and he’s blinking too fast. He never meant for this to happen—never wanted you to be in pain because of him. 

“I hated you,” you whisper into the air. “But I never stopped—” You stopped, swallowed the words, the ache. “You don’t get to say that to me. Best friend? Please.” 

“You always have been,” he said, quietly. “Even when I tried to forget you.” 

You whirled on him, a flicker of anger raging in your eyes. “And what? I’m supposed to be grateful? Being your best fucking friend? Like it didn’t crush me? Like it’s enough?” 

“No,” he responds, throat dry. “I don’t expect that.” He knows, he fucking knows. 

“Then what do you want, Bucky? Forgiveness? Closure? You want to cry under the stars and say you’re sorry and pretend like that makes it better?” You can’t breathe, fingers trembling. 

“No.” 

“Then what?” 

Bucky stood slowly, took a step forward—didn’t reach for you. 

“I just wanted you to know,” his voice is so quiet, his breath warm and cheeks pink. “That I never stopped choosing you. Even when it looked like I didn’t.” He moved closer, needed you to see him, hear him. 

“You have been, and always will be, my first choice. Even if it won’t lead me to you.”

You look away, shaking and eyes shining. “I didn’t—don't—want your protection. I wanted you.” 

I always have, you didn’t say. 

“I know,” he says, voice breaking and heart heavy. “I know that now.” 

You wanted to hit him—to kiss him. You wanted to break every bone in your body until the pain matched the ache in your chest, just so it could feel real. 

You pressed your palms to your eyes, feeling too much and pathetic and like the facade you had tried to bolt into place for months was slipping. “You let me think you didn’t care.”

“I thought it would make it easier.” He was close now, his body heat caressing yours, inviting and sorry. 

“It didn’t.” 

“I was trying to keep you safe.” 

“I’m not made of glass,” you hissed. “I’m not something fragile. Stop acting like I am.” 

“I know that,” he admits, voice gruff and shaking. “I know how strong you are. That’s never been the problem.” 

“Then what is?” Why couldn’t he just say it—how many years had passed in this dance, in this slow waltz you both were determined to participate in. 

Bucky looks at you and your heart skipped a breath. He heard it, almost smiled, but he was lost in your eyes, in the way they glowed and were on him. 

“I don’t get to keep good things,” he says, words coming out like glass in his throat. 

“I don’t get forever, Y/n. I don’t get safe. I don’t get to love something without watching it get taken from me.” 

You stopped breathing, head tilting back as he moved closer, lips parted. His words collided into your chest, ripped through layers and layers of skin until they sat heavily on your bones, pried their way inside your heart. 

“You think I was protecting you? I was protecting me.” His hands were fists at his side. “Because the second I saw her file, the second Val mentioned your name, all I could think about was you bleeding out somewhere—and it being my fault.” 

His voice cracks—hard, raw. He’s looking at you like he’s never going to see you again, like he’s at the crossroads and at any moment, he’ll be dragged to hell. The way the damned look an angel, in yearning and mourning.

“I couldn’t lose you,” he whispered. “So I walked away.”

You shook your head, fingers uncurling and curling. “So you lived with a ghost.” 

He nodded, solemn. “Better than your blood on my hands.” 

“And what about me?” You snapped. “What about what I had to live with? You think it didn’t kill me, wondering why I wasn’t enough to stay for? Why Sam and I weren’t?” 

His whole body tensed and his breathing hitched. 

“I would’ve rather had you,” you said, words trembling. “Ruined. Broken. Afraid. I would’ve taken every messy fucking day, every stupid risk, every scar. I wanted you. I didn’t want safety.” 

Bucky’s quiet for a long time. 

His shoulders shake once—twice. 

With stark apprehension, your eyes widened—- he’s crying. 

Not softly, but like it’s wrenching out of him. Like the pain has been festering for years, decades, even. Like he’s refused to feel any emotion for so long that now, it’s tearing out of him. 

You don’t move—can’t. You’ve never seen Bucky cry before—not when Steve left, not when his nightmares had him yelling in his sleep. 

He didn’t ask for comfort. 

You stood still. 

“I kept thinking,” he said, through the tears, absolutely wrecked, “that maybe if I left early on, it wouldn’t hurt as much.” 

“Did it help?” You asked quietly, resisting the urge to rub his arm. 

He shook his head. “I’ve never been more miserable.” 

You’re both quiet again. 

Just the wind now, the trees. 

He sat back down, slowly, like the weight of it all is too much. 

After a long, long beat—you sat too. 

The knife is still in your hand.

You don’t touch him. He doesn’t try. 

He just sits there, eyes red, face raw. A man undone. 

And for the first time in a year, the silence between you is not empty. 

It’s full—of pain, history, of the soft, slow pulse of something broken that still wants to live.

The silence stretched again—different, not bitter. Just tired. 

The kind of quiet that lived after grief has passed itself, after all the screaming is done. What remained is ache, the king you can breathe through, if you sit still long enough. 

You stared at the woods, the snow drifting off the trees. Your fingers curled tight around the knife.

“I kept it,” you said, suddenly. Filling the silence. “The knife.”

Bucky turned his head slightly, eyes falling on the metal in wonder. 

You traced your thumb over the hilt. “You and Sam gave it to me after Belgium. Said I earned it, saved both your asses. A gift.” 

“You did,” he murmured, licking his lips. 

You almost smiled.

Instead, you nodded towards the woods. “I took it on this last mission.” 

Bucky’s quiet for a beat, then, “What happened?” 

You don’t answer right away—breath curling in the cold. “I don’t know if I want to tell you.” 

His voice is gentle, understanding. “That’s okay.” 

You shifted, momentarily uncomfortable, knife balanced on your knee. 

“I was in Kaltag,” you said, finally. “Started as intel extraction. Easy, in and out. But it wasn’t. Not even close.” 

Bucky hated how haunted you sounded, how winded, even after a year, you seemed to be. Like you weren’t sure if you had outrun the threat, or if it loomed behind you still. 

You swallowed and ran your hand through your hair. “It went on for three months longer than it should’ve. I lost my whole team.” 

You could feel him tense, the way the guilt inside and around him increased tenfold. 

“I made it out,” you said softly, reminding him and yourself that you were okay. “But it was close.”

He turned slightly, not touching you, but near. Closer than before. 

You tried to ignore how good it felt, how it immediately eased the tension in your own shoulders. 

“When I got back to New York,” you continued, “I called you, first thing. I couldn’t think about anything else. Just—telling you I was alive.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched

You wrapped your arms around your knees and rested your cheek against your arm, eyes on him. He looked so beautiful, so tortured as he sat there, listening to you. 

“I left you a voicemail. Told you I missed you.” 

“I listened to it,” he said, hoarsely, pained. 

“I almost wish you hadn’t.” 

He opened his mouth before shutting it. He couldn’t argue—not when your voicemails, your voice, kept him sane for so long. It was the only physical thing he had of you. 

You pressed your lips together when the wound felt like cracking open again.

He pressed his hand to his mouth, exhaled hard. “I’m sorry.” 

You nodded once, expecting it. Taking it better than you did earlier. 

He glanced towards the cabin, peeking inside. You followed his gaze.

“Your team,” you started. “They’re good people.” 

Bucky shook his head. “Not exactly.” 

You shrugged, the ghost of a smile passing by your lips.

“Yeah. Maybe not good. But…they’re trying. I think.” 

He nodded then. “Yeah. They are.” 

There was something in his voice, something soft and vulnerable and uncomfortable. “You care about them.” 

He paused, like he didn’t like how fast he might’ve answered. “I do.” 

You traced the knife again. It felt a bit like your spine–rigid, cold, worn out. You glanced at him once, just to understand, to dig the pain in further. “Are you happy?” Your voice is soft, almost serene. “You said you were miserable but did you find something with them? Something you didn’t have before?”

Bucky looked at you, his whole body stiffening. There’s more beneath your words, he hears it. The sharp edge of grief, of doubt. He doesn’t answer immediately because the truth is—he doesn’t know. He hasn’t thought about himself, about his wants or his feelings in months. 

You were braced for it—the soft, diplomatic lie. Bucky missed you, you knew that. He missed Sam too, even if he hadn’t said it. But you saw the way his eyes narrowed when one of them winced. It was a look you were more than familiar with—what you weren’t familiar with—was not being on the other end of it. 

He clears his throat and looks up, his eyes twinkling under the starlight. “It’s not the same.” 

You looked at him, wary. He sounded older, exhausted. 

“It’s good. They’re good,” he said. “But it’s not the same. Not even close.” His throat was clogged with sadness, with nostalgia. 

You turned away, tried to breathe. You hated how he could get you like this, all unraveled and messy. He was the only one who ever could. 

Bucky waited. Then said, gently, “It’s okay.” 

You shook your head, gripped the knife tighter. “No, it’s not.” 

“It’s okay to ask me.”

You blinked, knife slipping slowly from your hand. You both had said so much tonight, opened the floor to feelings and anger and questions neither of you had ever thought you’d get to. It felt a bit like going in circles, like he couldn’t help but keep you safe and you couldn’t help but hate him for it over, and over again. 

“To wonder,” he added. “You can ask. You always could.” 

You gripped the knife tighter and your lips trembled, partly due to the cold and partly due to the weight of what you wanted to ask.

Were you ever going to come back? You wanted to ask, scream into the air. Did you find a new family? 

Bucky breathed in deeply, closed his eyes. When he opened them, he turned his head to look at you. His eyes were bright, earnest. “I’ve only ever belonged to one place,” he said, softly. “One person.” 

His words, wrapped in gentle warmth, brushed against your skin and you froze, stilled as your eyes widened a bit. 

“Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.” 

Something quiet, a mixture of grief and love and sadness paints across his face and the corners of his lips quirk upwards momentarily, like he imagined this conversation, but not like this. 

“I’ve never meant anything more.” 

The knife dropped slightly in your lap. You wanted to believe him. Wanted to take his words and cradle them to your chest, coo at them. 

But your heart was still wrapped in barbed wire, hands bloody as you tried to keep him at arm's length. 

There’s a long, still beat. 

“What about this mission?” You cleared your throat, tried to push the warmth away with your cold breath.

“What brought you here?”

Bucky exhaled and looked out over the snow. His jaw flexed and he ran a hand through his hair. It was longer, parted and freshly cut. He looked so good. You looked away. 

“There was a compound,” he started. “Hidden in the mountains. Yelena had a lead. Val gave the green light, but the intel was wrong.” 

He shook his head, looking years older and frustrated—jaw tight.

“It was a trap. A set-up. Ava nearly got blown apart. Yelena and Walker took shrapnel. Bob was doing well but then he panicked. We barely got out.” 

You looked at him then, quietly stunned. He sounded like a proper leader, someone who cared. He sounded a bit like a Sergeant and a small—large—part of you almost winced in pain. You always knew he was a leader, despite following Steve everywhere. It was who he was, a man who took the lead, control, when he had too. 

“And then you came here.”

His voice dipped, a little bashful. “Didn’t realize where I was at first. Not until I checked the coordinates again.” 

“And when you did?” 

His eyes were glasser now, glowing brightly, like your very own temptation. “I didn’t want to.” 

“But you did.” 

He nodded, solemn. “Because I knew it was the only place they’d be safe.” 

You understood, in retrospect. He was right. You knew this terrain, and had heard whispers of the death that followed. It’s why you chose this place for solitude, not just anyone can survive in a place like this. 

“I would’ve helped, you know.” You brought your knees to your chest. “Even if you weren’t there.” 

He nodded, like it was obvious. “I know.”  You’re a good person. The best he knows. But he was a coward and he was selfish and there was a part of him that would have done anything to see you, even if it meant shooting himself in the foot.

There’s a long pause—seems to welcome itself between every moment. 

And then—his voice breaks a little, vulnerable. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You don’t look at him. You can feel the fire melting. It’s all gone and now he’s smothering the burned ambers, making sure there isn’t anything left. 

“I’m so fucking sorry,” Bucky said, again, harder, wetter. “For all of it. For walking away. For staying away. For not calling. For letting you think—” 

“Stop, Buck.” 

He stopped, eyes wild and lips parted. You stared out at the snow, the rising light. You often stayed awake until sunrise, but you had barely done it with company. 

“What’s done is done. And you can’t fix it.” You paused, pretended not to notice his full-body flinch. “Not with words, at least.” 

“I know.” He sounded so defeated, like he was about to be dragged away and he was using his last breath on this, on apologizing, even if it didn’t mean anything to you. 

You glanced down at your hands, brushed your thumb across the engraving. It was still warm, still smelled like him if you pretended long enough. “But,” you almost smiled, “thank you. For apologizing. It’s a start.” 

Bucky released a short breath and his eyes gleamed. He nodded and slowly—so slowly—you let your shoulder brush his. 

Just barely—enough. The first touch between you both in a year, something soft and passing, weightless, but so incredibly heavy. 

His breath stuttered and he froze, almost as if his stillness could convince you to do it again. 

You don’t say anything. 

Neither does he. 

The sun began to rise, gold light spilling over the trees. It touched your porch, your boots, the blade of your knife. The world around you began to glow. 

And for the first time in a long time, you both felt warm—not whole, but alive. Like there was meaning now, like maybe, just maybe—you could start again.

The morning came quietly. 

Fog clung to the trees like ghosts reluctant to leave, coiled through the branches and rolling over the forest floor. It muffled the sounds of birds and leaves, wrapped the cabin in a kind of hush—a sacred, fragile peace. You didn’t sleep, just sat near the front window for most of the night, listened to the crackle of the dying fire, feeling Bucky’s presence behind you like static in the air. 

When you finally stepped outside, the grass was slick with dew. Cold bit at your ankles through your boots. You made your usual perimeter check—like muscle memory, a prayer. 

It wasn’t until you circled behind the old shed, half-hidden in undergrowth, that you noticed it. Something thin and taut stretched between two trees—nearly invisible unless the light caught it just right. 

Infrared wire. Trip-triggered—directional. 

Your heart stuttered. That wasn’t yours. 

You crouched, studied it. It was recent—clean. Hadn’t been disturbed by animals. That meant one thing—someone had been here. 

And not long ago. 

You didn’t make a sound, just rose and moved, boots silent against the snow.You ducked back into the cabin and found the team already stirring. 

Yelena sharpened a knife by the fireplace, Walker was rubbing sleep from his eyes, Ava said cross-legged with a datapad balanced on her knee. Bob was quietly eating dry granola and leaned over the arm of the chair he was sitting in, trying to get a closer look at whatever Ava was looking at. 

And Bucky—

Bucky watched you before the door even closed. 

You didn’t say anything at first, just met his eyes, that solemn blue set into all that worry and quiet guilt. The heat from the night before was still burning in those eyes, still warm and attentive. 

You looked away and cleared your throat, shattering the comfortable silence that had built upon the slow fire.

“We’ve been compromised.” 

They all stilled, exhaled quietly. 

You stepped towards the table, pulled the map out, laid it flat. “Infrared tripwire. North perimeter, ten meters past the old woodpile. Wasn’t there yesterday.” 

Yelena stood immediately, trying to hide the wince of pain. “Can you show me?” She wheezed a little. 

You shook your head, held up a hand. “Not now. I already marked it. We need to assume they know you’re here.” 

Bob cursed low under this breath as Walker rubbed his temples. “That’s just great.” 

Ava’s voice was sharp, “How long do we have?” 

“Not long enough,” you said, voice tight. 

And that’s when Bucky moved. Just a step, but the whole room shifted with him. The air charged, the team straightened. 

“I’ll handle it,” he said, voice calm, strong. Like there wasn’t a world, a situation, where he wouldn’t handle it. 

You turned to him, sharply. “You’ll—Bucky, you think I can’t handle my own perimeter?” 

“That’s not what I’m saying.” 

You crossed your arms. “Then what are you saying?” There was almost no heat behind your words—very little curtness, nothing like the day before. The team noticed, the way your shoulders weren’t as tense, the way Bucky slightly leaned towards you, like he couldn’t help it.

He looked at you, pain flickering through his expression. “I’m saying we brought this upon you—I did.” 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and dropped your arms.

“Oh, please.” 

“We did,” he said, louder now, more insistentent. The moment he noticed that look in your eyes, like you were disturbed, he knew what had happened. His heart had stopped beating at the idea of drawing danger to you. 

“You were off the radar and safe. And we dragged you back into this.” 

“I took you in,” You reminded him. “You didn’t force me.” 

“You shouldn’t have had to,” he snapped, worried and furious with himself. “You should’ve been allowed to live without the past coming to your front door with guns and tripwires.”

“You don’t get to decide that for me,” you hissed, low, stepping in close. “We talked about this. I’m not some fragile memory in your head. I’m right here. I chose to help. I knew the consequences.” 

His voice dropped, low and softer, like he was pleading. “And I’m choosing not to let you get killed because of us.” 

There it was. 

The silence was sharp, crackling. Everyone else disappeared into background noise, blurred by the weight of what passed between you, the anger and softness of last night, the years in between. 

Bucky knew—knew the likelihood of you actually dying was low, you were strong, so fucking strong and so intelligent and one of the best fighters he knew, but he couldn’t get the image of you—hurt, bleeding—out of his head. 

“I know you think you have to fix everything,” you said, quiet, tired, understanding. “But not this.” 

“This is the only thing I can fix,” he said, and his voice cracked. Like he had spent the few hours after your time on the porch just thinking, mulling over everything you had said, everything he hadn’t said. “Please, let me.” 

The rest of the team had scattered quietly, trying their best to give you space. They shifted away, towards the fireplace and the wall, made themselves smaller, but watched carefully, nosey and interested. 

They didn’t know much about Bucky. He had always been a private person, preferred to listen to their stories than share any of his own. But in the beginning, when it was all new, they could tell his heart wasn’t in it, that obligation and morality drove him. 

His heart had always belonged to another, he had left it somewhere—ran without it. 

Now, they had finally seen it—the woman that kept his heart, the one place his guard hadn’t been up, the way he let himself be small, let himself be, with no title. They weren’t even sure if he knew, if he knew that his heart lived here, existed in the palm of your hand, in the edges of the wood. 

You stared at him, and maybe it was adrenaline, or just the years of knowing him—of knowing his heart even when he wouldn’t speak on it—but something in your chest broke. The softness in his eyes, replacing the usual hardness and fury. The way he had naturally moved closer to you, like you were the center of his gravity. 

“Y/n,” he said then, softly. Your name felt holy on his tongue, something divine. Like he was standing at the top of some cathedral and the beauty overwhelmed him and all he could do was utter the name of his worship. It felt like a promise, something far deeper than the word itself. 

“James,” you whispered back, just as softly—delicate. It slipped out, something instinctual. You watched his entire body tense before it relaxed, before the wrinkles near his eyes smoothed out and his eyes gleamed—just for a moment, but blinding. 

He stared at you like you’d just torn open the sky. He hadn’t been called that in years, not by anyone else but you. It was his name, but it felt like yours, something you held onto. 

But then the moment passed. The threat crept back in, like a shadow reasserting itself. 

He shook his head, leaned back. This always happened, he always got lost in you, lost his mind as soon as he laid eyes on you. “We’re leaving.” 

“What?” you said, breath catching, feeling like you had been pushed off a cliff. 

“We’re going to pull the enemy off your trail. Lead them into the open. Finish it.” 

“No,” you said, chest tight, feeling like a child and the blanket was being ripped off of you. “You need me.” 

“I can’t ask you to do this.” 

“You’re not asking,” you told him. “I’m telling you I can. I’ve fought beside you. I’ve bled beside you, you know I’m good for this.” 

“I know,” he said, like it pained him. “God, I know. You’ve always been better than me at this. But let me do this. Let me protect something, just once, without destroying it.” 

“Bucky—” 

“I’m not leaving you,” he said, quickly, breathless, stepping closer. “Not forever. Just for this. Let me end it, and I swear—I’ll come back.” 

Your throat closed, his cold, metal hand closing around your heart. You didn’t even know when he had reached in, when the barbed wire had fallen away. “You can’t promise that.” 

“I can,” he said, his forehead almost touching yours. His breath was warm as it brushed your cheek. He sounded so sure, so confident. “And I am. I will come back.” 

The firelight in his eyes wasn’t desperate, wasn’t afraid—it was resolute. “I can’t let you go again. I’m not strong enough.” 

He was already pulling on his gear when you stepped in front of him again, heart in your throat.

“This isn’t fair,” you said. None of it felt fair—felt real. You had just gotten him back, just made peace with him, with the familiarity that gripped you by the jaw. 

“I know,” he replied. 

You looked into his eyes, in the way they drank you in. They shifted downwards, over his body, memorizing. Without thinking too hardly, you reached for his hand. 

His fingers closed around yours instantly, like they’d been waiting—like he’d been falling and you had just reached out for him. His calluses scraped against your knuckles, grounding you. Heat flooded your body, almost tipped you over. His thumb brushed against your pulse point, pressed on it. 

“I hate you,” you whispered, not a single hating bone in your body. You were sure the hatred, the anger was somewhere deep within your body, hiding and floating and real, but it wasn’t present, wasn’t pressing against your skin the way the fear, the love—the want—was. 

“I know,” he said again, smiling just a little. “I don’t.” 

You pulled him into a hug and you both breathed for the first time. He held on like he never wanted to let go, his arms instantly wrapped around you, hands pressing into your skin. The silence between you was fuller now—stitched together with hope, with fear, with the half-formed shape of something possible—real. 

He pulled back, looked you in the eye. He looked younger, someone in love. 

“I’ll come back,” he said again, and this time, it felt like a vow.

You let him go. 

Stood there as he went, silent and still as snow fell. Let him hold your hand for a second longer than he should have. Let his eyes rest on you like they always had—gently, painfully, like it was the last time. 

“Stay safe,” he said, smiling softly.

You watched as they disappeared into the mist and the trees with soft smiles and nods, into the fight that waited beyond the edge of safety. 

He had promised. He’d whispered it in the hush between your porch and you, where things had often been left unsaid but then he said it. 

“I’ll come back. You don’t have to let me in—but I’ll come back anyway.” 

You stood on the porch until they were gone, arms wrapped around yourself, chilled to the bone.

You just stood there, empty and filled with hope—waiting. 

And hoping he wouldn’t break this promise too.

It snowed again that morning. 

This white lace drifted down from the treetops, quieting the woods like a lullaby. Two weeks had passed since he left. Since he stood at the tree line with his eyes locked to yours like it would be the last time.

You tried not to count the days. Tried to act like it didn’t matter—but the ache in your chest made a liar of you. It always did. 

Each morning you opened your door just a little too fast. Each night you lit the fireplace and left the hall light on, telling yourself it was just for warmth, for visibility. But really, you didn’t want the place to feel so empty if—when—he came back. 

Today, you wore one of his old shirts. Soft cotton and faint cologne still clinging to the collar. You hadn’t meant to put it on, not really, didn’t even know it was his at first, but when you touched the fabric, it felt like a memory.

And that’s when it happened. 

Three slow, heavy knocks at the door. 

You froze, heart in your throat. Then you rushed, stumbled barefoot through the living room, fingers fumbling with the handle. When the door creaked open, the cold hit you first—and then him.

Bucky. 

He stood there, snow in his hair, lips split, knuckles scraped, breath heaving like he’d run through the forest without stopping. A duffle hung over one shoulder. His blue eyes were glassy, rimmed red with exhaustion and something else—something soft, searching. 

“I’m sorry it took so long,” he breathed out, quickly. “I had to make sure everything was finished. That you were safe.” 

You said nothing, couldn’t speak. You just stared at him, wide-eyed, chest rising. 

“I didn’t know if I’d make it back,” he continued, like he knew you were barely breathing and wanted to give you a second. “Didn’t know if you’d still want me here. And if you slam the door in my face, I’ll understand.”

You didn’t. 

Instead, you stepped out onto the porch, into the snow. Shoved him hard in the chest—once, twice. And he took it, didn’t move or flinch, just let you. He looked at you like you were sunlight. 

And then you grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and pulled him down and kissed him. 

God, the kiss. It wasn’t gentle. It was fire—heat and years of longing poured into it like you both had been holding your breath since the day you met. His hands dropped the bag, found your waist, warm and trembling and real. You opened your mouth to him and he groaned, low and guttural like he’d waited years for the taste of you. 

He stumbled into the cabin with you in his arms, the door shutting behind him. Snow melted off his jacket onto the floor as he pressed you against the wall, mouths locked, hearts wild. 

He kissed you like a promise, like he’s finally letting himself fall. His lips moved with yours in slow, lingering passes, breath hitching slightly when your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck. 

“Bucky…” you whispered, breathless, as he pulled back just a little, just enough to look at you again. 

“I’m right here,” he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw. “Not going anywhere.” 

He kissed you again, deeper this time, hungrier—but still gentle, like every kiss was him saying I’m here without needing the words. 

“I love you,” he rasped out, pressing his lips firmly against yours. “I’m in love with you,” he whispered against your mouth, breathing like a man starved. “I’ve always been in love with you.” He sounded reverent, voice raw. 

You pressed your forehead to his, blinking back tears, lips plump and breathless. “You hurt me.” 

“I know.” 

“I’m still so angry.” 

He pressed a soft, hovering kiss to your jaw. “I’ll take all of it. Every piece of it.” 

You swallowed hard, blinking away the tears. “I’m in love with you, you idiot.” 

He smiled then, the softest, most brightest thing you’d ever seen. A man who had been lost in the woods, in the snow, who finally found his way home. 

The fire cracked behind you, casting everything in gold and flickering shadows. He looked beautiful, something magical and unreal, like he had been crafted by the most expensive stained glass. 

You looked up at him, slid your hand to the base of his throat. “What does this change?” 

“Everything,” Bucky said, voice raw. “But it doesn’t have to change all at once. You don’t have to let me in tonight. You can hate me, scream. I’ll wait.”

You exhaled shakily, shifted closer. “I’ll be mad at you tomorrow.” 

He nodded, like he expected worse, like he was so enamoured by you. 

“But tonight—” You touched his jaw, traced the bruises like they were yours to soothe. “Tonight… I just want to feel you. Want to know you’re mine.” 

His mouth opened like he might say something, but all that came out was a soft, wounded nose before he kissed you again. Slower, deeper. His tongue traced his devotion into his gums as he slid his trembling hands under your—his—shirt and when his palms found bare skin, he sighed against your lips. 

“I’ve always been yours.” 

You took his hand and led him down the familiar hallway, toward the bedroom. The fireplace crackled low in the other room. Moonlight spilled across your floorboards. A few candles flickered by your bedside, forgotten after another sleepless night—but now, they painted him in gold. 

The door shut behind him and he watched you like he didn’t believe you were real. “Are you sure you want this?” He asked gently, eyes soft. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

You nodded, looking up at him like he had always belonged here, in your room, desperate and panting and beautiful. 

“Do you know how many nights I longed for you? Wanted your touch?” 

He reached for you then, slow and gentle, like he was afraid that if he moved too fast, everything would fall apart. His lips found your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Kisses layered like apology, like worship. 

“I’ll make up for lost time,” he murmured, unbuttoning your shorts with careful fingers. “I swear to you.” 

When your shirt slipped off your shoulders, his breath caught. 

He stepped forward, hands devout, fingertips grazing your skin like he was afraid to wake from a dream.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “You don’t know what it did to me—thinking I’d never get to touch you. Never get to love you.” 

He touched you like you were something sacred, something so beautiful and otherworldly. He made you feel wanted, loved. 

“You’re here now,” you whispered, lips lifting into a small smile. You watched as his breath hitched, as his fingers flexed and he almost fell into you.

He kissed you again, rough and deep and messy. Like every second he’d spent away had built this fire under his skin and only you could soothe it. His hand slid into your hair, pulled you closer. His lips moved to your jaw, your collarbone—and he moaned softly, like the taste of your skin was salvation. 

You unzipped his jacket, whimpered as Bucky’s teeth grazed against your ear, the skin just below. You pulled at his shirt and with one hand, he pulled his henly off, reattaching his lips to your skin, kissing down your neck. 

Your hands slid down his chest as you leaned into him, panting against the side of his head. His lips sucked and licked your skin, finding comfort in leaving marks on your skin. 

You pulled away, needing to see him, to breathe him in. “I wanted to take care of you,” you whispered, reaching for the waistband of his pants. You kissed his neck, licked a bead of sweat. 

“Wanted to—”

He caught your wrist gently, kissing your knuckles. You were glowing, something ethereal and his heart almost gave out. “Let me,” he said. “Please. Let me love you first.” 

He sounded so pretty, so breathless. You melted, relishing in the way his gaze burned into you. Fell back onto the bed as he knelt between your thighs, spreading you open like something holy. His kisses trailed lower, burning a path down your body. Over your breasts, your stomach, down the soft skin of your hips. 

He pressed hot, wet kisses all over your breasts, cupped one while he sucked on your nipple, tongue swirling. He whispered against your skin, his devotion, his cries of your beauty. 

He sucked, licked and kissed the skin of your hips, just above your panty-line. Blew air onto the mark, kissed it once, twice, then grinned. Bucky looked up at you—eyes dark and tender—and his smile turned into something soft, something so devastating. 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/n.” He nudged your thighs apart even more, shifted you up on the mattress so he could lay down on his stomach comfortably. He kissed your inner thigh before brushing his nose against your cunt. You almost squeezed your legs shut when he sniffed, a moan escaping his lips. 

“Can I taste you, pretty girl?” He asked, voice husky. When you nodded, slid your hand into his hair and pulled, desperation and heat dancing in your eyes, he pressed a kiss to your folds. 

“Please, Buck,” you breathed out. 

That was all he needed. He buried his mouth between your legs like he’d been born for this. Like nothing mattered more than making you feel it. He moaned into you, fingers gripping your thighs, pulling you closer, letting his tongue swirl and suck and worship until you were crying out his name, hips trembling under his hands. 

You gasped when his tongue swirled around your cunt—broad, slow licks that made your knees shake. He moaned like it was his release, like your pleasure soothed something deep in him. He sucked your clit with such reverence, it made you sob. 

“James—” 

His arms wrapped around your thighs, grounding you. He pressed his nose against your clit, rubbed your slick all over his face as his tongue fucked you, curving just right.

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned into your pussy, the vibrations making your head spin. “Say my name.” 

“So good,” you panted, grinding your hips against his face, pulling at his fair. His metal hand spread your folds and you almost screamed, the sudden cold mixed with the heat of his warm breath was too much. 

He sucked and licked, tongue swirling around your clit. He felt your whole body tense, the way you tried closing your legs around him. He held your hips still, sucked harder. “Cum for me,” he whispered. “Want to taste you. Need to—fuck, baby, please.” 

And when you did, when you shattered his tongue, cried out his name, he didn’t stop. He kissed you through it, breathed your name like a prayer as he sucked and swallowed your cum. He kissed your thighs and your belly, rested his cheek against your stomach like he could live there. 

“That’s it. So sweet. So fuckin’ good for me,” he babbled, kissing your skin. “That’s my girl.”

He stripped, pulled his pants off and kicked off his boxers. His cock was hard, red, pre-cum dripping like it never had before. 

When he finally climbed over you, lips swollen, pupils blown, you grabbed his face and kissed him hard. You could taste yourself on him and it made your head spin. You needed him, needed all of him. 

“What do you need, baby?” He asked against your lips, sucked on your tongue. 

“You,” you breathed out. “I want you. Please, Bucky—need you inside—” 

He gripped his cock and slid it in between your folds, hissing in pain when your pussy fluttered around him. He met your gaze and smiled, something soft and wicked and angled his cock, sliding in, slow and thick, his mouth open as he groaned, long and low. 

“Oh, my sweet girl,” he groaned. “Fuck—so tight—” 

He pulled out, slowly, moaned—loudly—forehead pressed to yours, his hand gripping your waist as he thrust in slowly, deep, claiming you like he meant it. He was so big, so thick and veiny. Heavy on top of you, metal arm braced beside your head. 

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” he rasped. “Always dreamed of it being like this. Of being yours.” 

“You are,” you whispered, seeing stars. “You’ve only ever been mine.” 

He groaned against your throat and fucked you with everything he had, slow and worshipful, but every time your hips met, he whimpered like it was too much, like it wasn’t his cock sliding in and out of your sopping pussy. The candlelight danced across his skin, sweat glistening on his back as he hovered over you, panting against your mouth, begging softly with every thrust. 

“Tell me I’m yours,” he begged, practically growling into your mouth. 

“M-mine, James, fuck. You’re—mine.” 

“That’s right,” he moaned. “I’m yours. And you’re mine. My perfect girl. My fuckin’ everything.” 

Bucky’s obsessed with you, with your pussy, with the warmth of the cabin and being where he belongs, here, with you—loving you. His lips are all over you—biting, sucking, kissing your throat, your tits, your mouth. You look up at him and roll out your tongue, eyes glassy. His hips stuttered for a moment before he spat in your mouth, watched you swallowed with this groan that sounded like he’s in pain. 

His cock dragged along your walls, bruised your cervix, making you sob. Your nails dragged across his back as his dog tags dangled in your face. “Fucking me so good,” you moaned, kissing his ear. 

“You’re so good,” he panted. “Takin’ it so well, my sweet girl.” 

He pulled out halfway, smiling briefly when you whined. 

And then—he slammed back in, hips snapping hard, cock punching into your cunt so deep you scream. 

“Please,” he whispered. “Let me make up for everything.” 

“You already are,” you breathed, toes tingling and the coil in your chest tightening. “I love you, Buck.” 

He kissed you again, messy and open-mouthed, your tongues tangling, breath mixing, spit shining your lips. He was so deep, so thick inside you, and when he angled his hips just right, you cried out, clutching his back, nails digging in. 

“Gonna come,” you gasped, drooling a bit, pussy gushing. 

“Do it,” Bucky said, desperate. He kissed you again, licked the edge of your mouth. “Come for me, sweet girl. God, I need it.” 

He pressed his chest harder against yours, fucked into you harder. Your breath stuttered as white flashed across your gaze and the coil in your chest unravelled and you cummed, body wracked with pleasure. 

His name left your mouth like a prayer. You pulled him down, kissed his cheeks, his neck, held his face in your hands as you whispered the words he’d waited a lifetime to hear. 

“Come inside me” 

He stilled, shuddered. His eyes found yours, full of disbelief and adoration. 

“Please,” you said, eyes almost rolling back. “I’ve only ever belonged to you.” 

He surged forward, pressed his lips hard against yours as he cummed with a broken moan, hips rocking, cock pulsing inside you as he whispered your name over and over. He fucked his cum into you, collapsed into your arms, buried his face in your neck. 

“I love you,” Bucky breathed out, pressing a soft kiss under your ear. 

You hummed, ran your fingers through his hair, feeling full and content. “And I love you.” 

Neither of you moved for a long time.

Eventually, he shifted, just enough to pull the blankets over you both. His body stayed half on top of yours, your arms around his waist, holding him tightly. 

Outside, the snow fell silently. 

Inside, wrapped in each other’s arms, you both had finally found home. 

[phantom-dc]

Bruce sighed.

He never thought he would die like this. When he started out as Batman he was certain he would meet his end fighting the criminal underworld of Gotham. When he got older and life got stranger, he believed he would die fighting off a threat like Joker or Deathstroke, maybe even Darkseid. Being used as a human sacrifice to the King of the Infinite Realms was not on that list, let alone being a willing sacrifice.

Unfortunately, it had been necessary. An asteroid was on collision course with Earth. The asteroid had a colony of sapient alien life on it, so destroying it was not an option. As the League grew desperate, Constantine revealed a similar incident had happened a few years ago. The King of the Infinite Realms had, along with his subjects, turned the Earth intangible and both the Earth and the Asteroid had survived. Constantine isn’t sure why or how, but there are signs an extremely powerful ghost had merged realities and in the process erased the memories of this event from the entire population of Earth! The only reason Constantine knows about it is because a Demon with time-based powers told him during one of their poker games. Summoning this King was risky, as they had no idea what the King would want in return, but this entity seemed like their best bet. Now Bruce thinks they had been wrong.

Superman pulled Bruce out of his thoughts:

“Bruce, are you sure you want to go through with this? If we work together, we might be able to-”

Bruce cut him off:

“No, Clark. You heard Constantine. If we do not hold up our end of the deal, the Ghost King could simply make his ally, this “Clockwork”, reverse time to before the planet was saved. The Earth and the asteroid will still be destroyed, killing everyone on both. This is the only way.”

Clark looked dejected. He knew his friend was right. The King had turned the entire Earth intangible with one hand! He knew the League couldn’t defeat this foe, not without help. Any being that could help them would demand even more bloodshed in exchange, though. One human life in exchange of saving the entire planet had been a steal, according to the Justice League Dark. Clark looked at Bruce:

“Are you going to put on your cowl? This will be the only chance you have to tell the other Leaguers who you are.”

Bruce looked at his cowl. He had taken of his suit, so that his family had something to bury. But to reveal his identity to anyone other than Clark....

“I will keep it on. Even if I die here, I cannot risk anyone finding out my identity and using it to get to my family. I hope the League understands.”

Bruce is pulled into a hug. As Clark holds him as close as he can without breaking bones Bruce cannot help being filled with regret. He wanted more time with his family and, dare he say, friends. This was not how things were supposed to go. Clark pulls away and seems to want to say something:

“Bruce, I just want you to know, I-”

“WHAT THE HECK IS GOING ON, B?”

Suddenly Nightwing enters the room, along with the entire Bat-family. Even Alfred and Oracle, donning masks, are there. They looked confused and scared, which made sense. They had all been summoned to the Watchtower, and when they had seen non-field members there as well they knew something was very wrong. Robin stepped forward, demanding an explanation:

“Father, what is happening? Why did you ask for us here? Explain yourself this instant!”

Red Robin looked ready to fight, staff in hand and in a low stance:

Where is the danger? Who is the enemy? Do you have intel for us? ARE YOU BEING MIND CONTROLLED?

Spoiler yanked at Red Robin’s cowl, pulling him out of his paranoid spiral:

“Easy, Captain Paranoid! Let him speak!”

Red Hood was clearly agitated. It was never a good sign if he was asked to the Watchtower:

“The fuck is going on, old man? Are you dying or something? That’s my stick, not yours!”

Bruce steeled his nerves. This was not going to be an easy conversation. How does one tell their family they are going to die and there is nothing to be done about it? Things had been going well for them, too. Dick and he hadn’t fought as often anymore, Jason had not called him names when he patrolled Crime ally last week, Tim hadn’t done anything that could be considered villainous (that he knew of) and Damian had not stabbed any goons for a month. Truly things had been good. Bruce knew this would mess it all up. He feared Jason would start killing again, or Damian would take out his grief on the criminals or Tim would… Well he had no idea. Last time Bruce disappeared Tim blew up so many LoA bases (he still wasn’t sure whether there had been people inside or not), so it was anyone’s gue-

“Sir, could you please elaborate on why we are here? I’m assuming it has something to do with the reason for this dreadful cold, and perhaps your lack of a shirt?”

Bruce sighed. Alfred always knew how to get through to him. With a heavy heart he told them everything. He would sacrifice himself for the survival of both planets. There was nothing to be done about that, and he asked them to please accept his decision. Naturally everyone was outraged. Amidst the chaos, Orphan asked a question:

“Why you?”

Bruce explained that, according to Constantine, the King had asked for a single sacrifice in return: “To feast on a non-magic, non-meta mortal human that will not resist being consumed.” It had pointed specifically at Batman, making sure they all knew which one it wanted. There had been no time to negotiate the prize, so he had accepted. After that it had left immediately for Earth, turning it intangible so the asteroid flew through harmlessly and fulfilling its end of the deal. Orphan seemed to think for a bit, before speaking up again:

“We’ll miss you.”

She hugged Batman. The others, realizing there was nothing they could do, at least not before facing the King, joined in as well. Bruce told them how proud he was of everyone. That they were strong and brilliant, and to please protect each other and Gotham in his stead. He thanked Alfred and Oracle for their help over the years and to please continue to support the others with the same strength they used to help him. After a moment they were interrupted by a knock on the door.

Wonder Woman had entered the room. With a saddened expression, and a dented doorhandle that showed her tension, she had come to collect her friend.:

“Batman. It’s time.”

Bruce nodded at her. Thanking her, he tried to leave with her, but was stopped by Alfred. After a quick hug, Alfed offered Bruce a cookie from the plate he had brought along:

“Every man deserves a final meal. I’m sorry this was all I have to offer.”

Taking a grateful bite, Bruce allowed himself to indulge in the taste of home.

“Thank you, Alfred. This means more to me then you realize.”

Steeling himself once more, Batman and the others followed Wonder Woman to the main room. It was the largest room in the Watchtower, several stories high with observation platforms, security screens showing cities all over the planet and a teleportation platform. As they approached the room, Batman was surprised by the cold that radiated form the entrance. Opening the door the source of all the cold and grief became visible to the group. Signal had to shield his eyes:

“What the hell!?!”

There it was, the High Ghost King of the Infinite Realms. A giant being, which had been so large they had to move to the observation platform to speak with it. Even then it towered over the heroes. It’s skin impossibly dark, with constellations spotting its tail & torso. The stars converging on its lower arms, making it look like it was wearing glowing white gloves, the same as a strange symbol on his chest that seemed important. The stars on its neck blending seamlessly with its hair, yet leaving its head completely dark aside from a few little spots on its face. The only facial feature they could make out where 2 Lazarus green eyes, focused on the new arrivals. On its hand, a ring with a skull on it that had freaked out the Lanterns. On its head a dark crown covered in patches of frost, and its own Aurora Borealis spreading from it. The room had already been partially covered in frost simply from the King’s aura. Power emanated from it, which had caused several members that had been dead and revived before to kneel on reflex, which was frightening even if they managed to get up on their own again.

Martian Manhunter had tried to peek in the Kings mind, hoping to find a way to convince the King to spare Batman, but he had been unsuccessful. As soon as he tried his knees buckled, and he had been pushed out. Ever since the Ghost King had radiated frustration. Now, as Batman entered wearing only his cowl and some spare pants, that frustration seemed to spike dangerously. Was the King upset he had been left to wait for his offer?

"What the fuck is this? I didn’t ask for a striptease, especially from some old Frootloop!”

“Constantine, what’s wrong? What is it saying?”

Batman was worried. He had not expected more anger from the being when presented with the offering. Looking at Constantine, he saw the magician frantically looking through the pages of his books, desperately looking for a translation.

“Hang on, mate. I’m doing my best here! Ehrm… no, that’s not right… Something about mating? Maybe he likes you, Bats. He also said something about “the absence of clothing” so…

Suddenly he is cut off by a strange sound coming from the Ghost King. It makes a strange motion with its body and its giant maw opens, as more of those sounds escape. It reminds Robin of Alfred the Cat when he has a hairball. However, there is more sound in the Watchtower now. The Red Hood is clutching his stomach as he is doubling down in laughter.

“HAHAHAHA!!! WHAT? HOW THE FUCK DID YOU TRANSLATE THAT BADLY? HOLY SHIT!”

The Ghost King stops making the noises, and it’s eyes snap to Red Hood. It moves it’s head closer to him, casually passing it through the barrier Constantine had put up. Constantine’s swears in surprise, but the King seems not to care as it “speaks” to Red Hood:

"Oh, thank the Acients! Someone who understands Ghost Speak! Can you PLEASE help me and translate for us? This trench coat guy is terrible, and somehow twists everything I say in the worst way!"

Red Hood relaxed, looking up at the Ghost King’s giant head.:

“Sure man, no problem. I’m pretty sure he is using like 3 different dictionaries to get this far. I saw him first translate Ghost to Pixie, Pixie to Gnome and Gnome to Demon before telling us in English! So, what’s up?”

Batman was stunned. The Ghost King actually face palmed. What the heck was going on?

"Of course he is. That explains why it sounds like he is putting this through Google Translate 4 times! These guys summoned me to save the Earth, which, totally cool. Happy to help! But a summons makes it official, which means I need to get an offering. I can’t leave without it or I face a mountain of paperwork from some stupid bureaucratic eyeballs for not following proper procedure. But I can always ask something simple and get it over with. No biggie, right? WRONG.”

Red Hood actually grabs a chair to sit on. Not even in a somewhat respectful way, he is sitting on it backwards, casually leaning on it.

“Oh, boy. How badly did they fuck up? Gotta be big since Batman over there is ready to be eaten?”

The King glares at Constantine, who puts up his bravest “time to out-bollock a Eldritch Demon” face. The King is not impressed:

"Man, I asked, and I quote: “I’d like to eat a regular human meal that doesn’t fight back, like that guy would eat!” I wanted it to be clear I didn’t want blood, or corpses or virgins or any of the other horrible things stupid cults try to give me! I just wanted a burger or something! But then Mr. triple dictionary over there somehow turns that into: ‘’I wish to feast on a non-magic, non-meta mortal human that will not resist being consumed, and it must be that one.” I’ll admit I was pointing at one of the non-supers, but that didn’t mean I wanted to eat him! I just wanted to make sure it was normal food, something that doesn’t fight back!”

Red Hood looked confused, asking if the King’s food usually fights back. The King rolls it’s eyes:

"In life, I lived with mad scientist parents who treated lab safety as a suggestion at best and a chore for teens at worst. Put enough samples in the fridge and you get a whole new type of Thanksgiving trauma. Dang, I’m getting even more hungry. I’d love some turkey right now. Could you get them to bring me some food? That way I can have my sacrifice and leave…”

Red Hood stands up. He asks if the King can wait a few more minutes, claiming that after all that frustration he deserved something better. Getting a nod from the Ghost King, the Red Hood suddenly shouted over the platform railing towards the waiting Leaguers:

“FLASH! Get your squad up here, and bring pen & paper! I got a job for y’all!”

Zooming up every member of the Flash family gets a list of things to get and a warning not to tell the Bats what’s on it, or Red Hood will shoot them in the knees. Looking at the lists, they quickly caught on what was going on and promised they wouldn’t tell. This was way too funny! Red Hood does a fake bow to the King, clearly amusing himself.

“Don’t worry, your Hungry-ness! Your sacrifice is being prepared! Anything else we can assist you with?”

The Ghost King seems to tilt its head in amusement. Whatever Hood was doing, it was working, which honestly was the only reason nobody had tackled him to the floor.

"Actually, if you could get that Frootloop to put on a shirt that would be great. He is shivering and honestly, I’m worried he’s going to poke someone’s eye out with a nipple. Why is he shirtless anyway? Please tell me he wasn’t actually trying to seduce me or something, he’s old enough to be my dad! Gross!”

This caused Red Hood to again double over in laughter. Everyone was confused, what could possibly be so funny in this situation? Constantine had frantically tried translating during their conversation, but it had gone too fast for him. He gave up when the King mentioned eyeballs and seduction, accepting he wouldn’t get anywhere like this. Batman however couldn’t resist his need to know everything anymore.

“Hood, report! How are you communicating with the entity?”

Red Hood turns to Batman, walks past him and towards Alfred, grabbing one of the cookies he had brought with him. As he walks back and hands it to the Ghost King, he starts to explain:

“Honestly, not sure. It feels instinctive, like a second mother-tongue. Pretty sure it’s some sort of “dead-guy-language” you learn when you die. Speaking off: Turns out Constantine is a VERY unreliable translator. Spooky here is actually pretty chill! He used you as an example to make sure we knew what he wanted, not to demand you as a sacrifice. He is in fact pretty ticked that you guys tried to feed B to him. Speaking of: Batman? Put a shirt on, for fucks sake. You look like you’re going to freeze your tits off.”

This earned a round of giggles from Green Lantern & Green Arrow. Now that the tension had left the room, other Leaguers also smiled in relief. Besides, it’s always fun to see Batman being the butt of a joke. Sure enough, Batman let out a frustrated sound, that got the rest of the Bats to join in on the fun. They understood that their dad in fact felt rather silly right now, which meant that they had more to gossip about soon. Constantine now was wondering what Hood was up to:

“Mate, I did my best! Sorry for not being fluent in every language in existence. What the hell did you send the Flash to get? The bloke is a scientist and denies magic when it’s right in front of ‘im! What could they possibly get that I couldn’t-”

At that moment, the Flashes zoom out of the Zeta tubes and zoom across the observation deck. After a few moments of red and yellow blurs, the deck is covered with tables filled front to back with food! Picking up a receipt that fell to the floor, Batman realizes this is take-out from all over the world. Seeing a puddle of Lazarus water grow on the floor, he looks up. The Ghost King is actually drooling! Red Hood steps aside and gestures to the feast:

“Welp! There is your sacrifice! One. And I also quote: “regular human meal that doesn’t fight back, like “that guy” would eat!” Well, more of a feast then a meal, but I’m sure a big guy like you can finish it, and you can always take home the rest I guess. Bon Appetit!”

Opening his giant maw, the Ghost King digs in. Well, as much as he can. He actually looks kind of silly eating everything with a tiny fork. Still, judging from the purring sound emanating through the Watchtower it’s to the Kings liking.

"DUDE, THIS IS SO GOOD? I need to know these restaurants! You want a bite for helping me out? You saved me SOOO much annoying paperwork, I was about to bail!”

Picking up a plate of karaage, Red Hood took of his helmet revealing a second mask underneath and dug in as well:

“Don’t mind if I do, this smells fantastic! Oh shit, you should try this stuff, it’s great!”

Red Hood being allowed to partake in the offering so casually caused Constantine to do a double take. He realizes he seriously misjudged this entity. Still, that didn’t explain the horrific stories about him. He would need to do some digging into that, maybe with Hood as a translator. For now he takes a swig of his drink. The world was saved, no one died or lost their Soul and he didn’t make any new enemies he thinks. Plus, Batman felt like an idiot, and that always made the Brit smile.

All in all a good day!

[sehnsuchts-trunken]

So Much Love in Oklahoma

Tyler Owens x fem!reader  7k words

summary: Tyler saves you from a tornado one day. The next, he shows up at your doorstep.

a/n: absolutely no clue about tornados. or oklahoma. don't come at me for inaccuracies

also!!! i'm currently working on some tyler smut too, but you are so definitely allowed to come request things (or just talk to me)! my inbox is wideeeee open, especially when it comes to mister owens <33

masterlist | twisters masterlist

What happens that particular Tuesday afternoon should have been impossible. That's what goes through your head about a bazillion times in the following days. The chances of what happens even happening are about as close to zero, you think, as the possibility of you discovering a cure for cancer.

(They're not. Of course. But it feels like that.)

Because you're not even really in Oklahoma. You're just driving through Oklahoma. You're not from a place where they give you a 'How to Deal with Tornados' manual in school. You're entirely, completely, wholly unprepared for what's brewing as you drive down almost empty highways with the radio all the way up.

So when suddenly, you're in the middle of a storm, with the wind picking up until it drowns out your music and rain and hail slashing against your windows, you're absolutely terrified.

It forms within a few minutes, goes from barely grey skies to a horrible, horrible whirl of almost black clouds, and the insecurity you'd been feeling turns into the gut-churning realisation that you're unquestionably fucked.

Some part of your brain tugs out a deeply buried memory of cars being sucked into tornados on the news, so with your heart racing a few hundred miles per hour and your hands shaking so badly you can barely hold onto the steering wheel anymore, you maneuver your car onto the side of the road, just in time for you to be climbing out of the passenger seat as another car comes to a shrieking halt next to yours.

You're getting drenched within half a second, you're honestly not that sure whether your cheeks are wet from the rain or your tears, and on top of that, you almost trip as you set your trembling feet onto the ground below. The other car's driver bangs their door shut with a resounding thud that makes you flinch so hard you think your soul leaves your body. Your head shoots up as he shouts at you, already three steps away from his truck:

"What the hell are you doing out here?"

He's drenched, too - his hair sticks to his face and his shirt clings to his skin and his pants are stained at least a shade darker. But unlike you, he's not shaking, he's steady as a fucking rock, steady and quick, already reaching out for your arm before you can even begin to think. Your brain lags behind, foggy and cloudy and scared, so fucking scared. You're so terrified you can hardly open your mouth.

"I-", you stutter, then he's wrapping his big hand around your arm and tugging you away from your car, away from the road already.

"We need to get the fuck down!", he calls, pulling you with him onto one of those many, many fields that surround you. "There's a ditch over there, see that?"

You're wide-eyed, shaking, basically being dragged along by him - one foot in front of the other, that's what your brain's concentrating on right now, which is easier said than done. You trip over your own feet every other step. But the guy just wraps his arm around your waist and hurries further.

"Do you see that?", he asks again when you don't respond. Your mind races even faster than your heart does, but you force yourself to concentrate on his voice. The panic doesn't lessen, but his question shifts your focus. Ditch. Ditch. Not the storm raging around you, no, you're looking for a ditch. You're focusing on finding a ditch.

"Yeah", you breathe, your eyes finally catching on the ditch only a bit away.

"Yeah?", the guy shouts. "We need to get there. We need to get low."

With that, he picks up his pace once more and you stumble along, bumping into his side, watching the ditch come closer and closer and closer until your feet are drowned in dirty, muddy water.

"Alright, get down!", he shouts, unwrapping his arm from around your waist to help you into the cold, cold water. "Hold onto the ground!"

You aren't thinking. You can't think. Your brain has shut off completely. Panic numbs every part of you. All you can do, all you can possibly do, is concentrate on the voice of the man who's crouching down beside you. It's like his words have replaced your own thoughts, and like a marionette, you stretch out your arms and dig your fingers into the grass. Which is way easier said than done. You're pretty sure you feel one of your nails break as you try your hardest to find something, anything to hold onto. And then the wind hits.

If you'd thought you'd experienced heavy winds before, you were wrong. So wrong. No vacation in a surfer's town could possibly compare to this.

"Fuck!", you scream, instinctively dropping your head onto the moist grass below. The wind pulls and pulls and pulls at you and you imagine yourself being dragged by it - dragged away, away into certain death. But then an arm wraps around you, and the guy next to you is not next to you anymore but half on top of you, securing you in his arms, holding you close, pressing you to the ground.

"Stay down!", he shouts as you cling to the grass. "I got you."

I got you.

You replay that in your head like a mantra - he's got you, he's got you, he's got you. You're trembling, you're shaking, you're cramping, you're trying to hold onto the ground with all your might as the wind grows and grows and grows and pulls and pulls and pulls at you.

You want to scream. You think you're screaming. But it's so loud. It's deafening, the roar of the wind and the thunder. You can't hear yourself scream.

He can, though. He can. And he tightens his arms around you and repeats "I got you, I got you, I got you". And you believe him. You have to.

You're crying now, you're sure of that. Some part of you hurts. Maybe all of you hurts. You're scared. You're not just scared, you're terrified. It's loud, it's loud and it's everywhere, all around you.

And then suddenly - there's nothing.

It disappears within seconds.

There's no sounds. None. There's silence, deafening silence. Forget the calm before the storm - this is the silence after the tornado.

You take a few shuddering breaths. You're trembling, trembling from head to toes. You're soaked. You're cold.

"Alright, it's gone", the guy says - the guy that's still got his arms wrapped around you, who's still on top of you. "You did it."

He pulls his arm away from you and rolls onto his back next to you. Water sloshes around as he goes.

You don't move an inch.

You can't move.

You're stuck, you're frozen in place. Your fingers are cramped into the dirt and the grass and you're frozen.

The guy sits back up again and reaches out for you. He smooths his hand down your back, surprisingly warm against your ice-cold skin.

"Hey", he says softly. "You're okay. You can get up."

You pry your fingers from the ground one by one, flex your trembling hands and push yourself upright. It takes a few seconds for reality to sink in - you're in a ditch. In a ditch. You're soaked, soaked with muddy ditch water. Your shoes are drenched, your legs splattered with dirt, the hem of your dress soaked in brown. And you're cold. Ice-cold and trembling. And your legs hurt, your arms hurt, your fingers hurt. Three of your nails are cracked.

You're sitting in a ditch in the middle of Oklahoma and you'd just been through a tornado. A fucking ditch in Oklahoma and a tornado.

And a guy, a guy who's brushing his hand down your arm and eyeing you up.

"Alright, let's get you out of here, you're shaking", he says and for the first time, you turn your head and look at him. Actually look at him.

He's tall and he's blonde and he's drenched, too, drenched in that same dirty, muddy water as you. His hands are big, big and pleasantly warm as he grabs softly onto you and carefully maneuvers you towards him.

You don't really remember the next minutes. Not what you're doing, at least. It's a hazy, fuzzy passing of time - you barely remember that you're moving. You're cold and scared and still in shock and somehow, your eyes have locked onto him, onto this guy who you realise probably just saved your fucking life. Because when you come back to reality, he's wrapping a blanket around you - a dry, warm blanket - and the spot where you'd parked your car is empty.

Empty.

"My car", you whisper, staring wide-eyed at absolutely nothing. The guy wraps the blanket tighter around you before he looks over his shoulder and glances around.

"Your car's not that important", he reassures, even though his voice is heavy. Heavy and raspy, you realise. He's got a certain Southern twang to it that you hadn't noticed in all the chaos before. "Much more important is that you're alive."

You nod half-heartedly (he's right, some rational part of your brain shouts, while the practical part mourns the shit ton of money you'd just lost) and settle your eyes back on him.

You don't know what it is, exactly, but something about this, something about the warmth of the blanket and the way he's rubbing your arms, something about him, about his voice and his words, slowly peels away the layers and layers of terror that are clinging to your pounding heart.

You swallow hard, reach up to tug the blanket tighter around yourself and shift your focus. Not the car or the tornado or the fact that you're drenched in dirty ditch water - him. This guy in front of you, who's looking you up and down to check if you're hurt. It's easier that way. It's easier to calm down when you're not thinking about any of it. It's easier when you're staring at him, counting to ten, slowly regaining your sanity. And what's suddenly also easier is realising that this guy in front of you is very much easy to look at. Even though his hair sticks to his head, even though his jeans are stained brown. He's what you'd expect as a reference picture next to the word "handsome" in a dictionary.

All of a sudden, you're not as cold anymore. All of a sudden, you're rather flushed. Because if he's drenched and dirty, you must look about the same. And you don't think you want him to see you like that. You'd much rather meet him in a bar or something, when you're dressed up and clean and preferably not terrified.

"Thanks", you get out, a little too quickly as you tighten the blanket further around yourself. "For, uh, for saving my life."

The guy's lips quirk up and he grins, a lopsided, half-cocky grin that makes your heart leap.

"Anytime, sweetheart", he drawls, then reaches up as though he wants to tip his hat - just that he's not wearing one, so instead, he settles for brushing his hand through his hair, just a second too late to seem intentional from the start. "Why were you out here anyway? Half a mile back is a gas station with a basement."

"I didn't-", you start, hesitant to admit just how unprepared you'd been for what had happened. "I didn't know it was a tornado. I thought it was just a bad storm or something, I'm... I'm not from around here."

He nods at you, his lips already parting when you suddenly twitch away from him and sneeze - once, then twice. His grin has dropped by the time you look up at him again and excuse yourself. God, is this embarrassing.

"You need dry clothes before you catch a cold", he says, his eyes travelling down your soaked dress and your bare legs. "I've got a shirt in the trunk, give me a minute."

He walks towards the back of his car and opens up his trunk and you're hit with two thoughts at the same time. The first is more along the lines of goddamn, are his shoulders broad, but the second - arguably the one that should be more important - is why the fuck his car is still standing in the very same spot he'd parked it before the tornado had hit.

Especially when your car is absolutely nowhere to be seen. Your car and all your things inside it. Oh, god-

"Here you go", he says, holding out a dry copy of the shirt he's wearing, red checkered cotton. He's about to go on when you blurt out:

"Sorry, why's your car still... you know, there?"

His lips pull into that impossibly charming grin once more and he points at the underside of the truck.

"Tornado-proof", he explains, just the slightest bit cocky. You follow the invisible line he's drawing to two... what looks like giant screws? twisted into the ground below.

"Oh", you let out, not too intelligently - but really, what are you supposed to say?

He just chuckles and holds the shirt out for you again. You take it carefully, your fingers grazing his. He's so warm, so fucking warm. Meanwhile you're shaking even underneath the blanket he'd given you. Though that's also starting to get soaked.

"You can change in the car if you want", he offers, already pulling open the door to the passenger seat. You don't really have to think hard about it. You're drenched in the middle of nowhere, with no way to get home, and this guy has just saved your life. So you unwrap the blanket and give it back to him with a smile and a thanks.

It's tight and cramped inside the car, even as you roll the seat all the way back. You pry the drenched dress off of your body and only then remember to turn around and check if the guy is watching you (as handsome as he is, he's still a guy). But no, he's turned away, has his hands rested against his hips and is staring intently at the slowly clearing sky.

You turn back with a smile and get rid of your soaked bra, too, before you pull his shirt on over your head.

Damn, it smells good. He smells good. And it's very comfortable, you have to admit. Plus, it's dry, which is most definitely an improvement.

You take a few seconds to consider whether or not to pull off your shorts... but they're drenched, too, and the guy seems respectful enough to not risk a bladder infection for. So you take your shoes off, and your socks, and your shorts. And then you crack open the car door again and knock softly against the window.

"I'm done", you call out, loud enough that he can hear. He turns back and his eyes drag down your body - or what of it he can see through the open door - and even though he looks right back up at your face, you can't help but feel flustered. You ball your wet clothes up in your hands nervously.

"Alright then", he says, takes a step closer and reaches for the door handle. "You said you're not from around here, where were you driving?"

Ah, right, that part.

Honestly, with so much happening in so few minutes, you'd about blocked out everything else. Everything normal.

"My parents, uh-", you start, trailing off when you realise that's not much help for him. "About three, four hours from here."

"That's quite a drive", he chuckles. "I live maybe half an hour from here, how about I take you with me so you can eat and drink something? Maybe you can borrow a pair of Lilly's pants. And you could phone your parents."

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and you narrow your eyes at him, taking a second too long to even understand all of what he's saying before taking another second too long to sort how you'll respond. Then you start with what you find most important.

"I've got my phone", you tell him, pulling it out from where you'd just deposited it in the centre console. "I had it in my pocket."

You'd taken it with you more reflexively than consciously when you'd stumbled out of your car - but truly, what self-respecting adult didn't take their phone with them when they left anywhere?

The guy just raises his eyebrows and glances at your phone.

"And it still works?", he asks, a little incredulously.

"Yep", you smile - for the first time, you realise, since the tornado. "It's waterproof."

More because you'd been scared you'd drop the love of your life into the pool or the ocean on vacation, but a tornado in the middle of Oklahoma worked as well. At least you now knew you'd spent your money wisely.

"Smart", he grins. You can't help but grin right back.

He's charming and he's respectful and he looks so goddamn good.

"Who's Lilly?", you ask then, because that had been the second thing you'd wanted to say. He hesitates for a half a moment.

"A friend", he says. You squint at him. He doesn't look like he's lying, but he does look like there's something you don't know about. God, if he turns out to be a cheater- "I'll introduce you if you'd like."

You raise your eyebrows. Alright, so not a cheater. And, if you're interpreting correctly, another invitation to come with him. Not that you'd been about to refuse the first one.

"Sure", you say, as casually as you can. "I didn't really feel like standing around half-naked on the street anyway."

...

A few minutes later, he's driving his weird car/truck with the screws on the bottom down the empty highway. Though 'empty' is the wrong description, really - here and there, trees, road signs and utility poles are scattered on the pavement.

You're driving in silence. Well, silence as in neither of you talks, not as in actual silence. Alongside the motor, the radio had turned on, playing one country song after the other.

"You never told me your name", the guy says suddenly. The very much stranger, who's very much right - you'd never told him your name.

"You never told me yours", you counter, because that's also the truth. He'd never told you his name. You knew his friend's name, but not his.

"Didn't think I'd have to", he mutters under his breath, so quietly you barely catch it. "It's Tyler. Tyler Owens?"

He says it like it's a question. You don't know why. So instead you just answer with your own name and Tyler, as you'd come to know, repeats it with a smile on his lips.

God, you don't think it's ever sounded that good.

"Pretty name", he says, all casual like that doesn't get your heart racing again. Pretty. He'd called you pretty. Almost unconsciously, you brush your hands through your hair.

"Thank you", you mutter. As if to distract yourself, you add: "So, Tyler, what do you do?"

...

Exactly half an hour later, Tyler takes your hand in his and helps you out of his car. His house - the one he's sharing with Lilly, you'd found out, with Lilly and the rest of his Tornado Wranglers - is big and inviting. It's a little way off from any other houses, which you personally think is quite nice. Not that you say that, though.

Tyler walks you inside without having to unlock the door. He takes two steps, then he calls out "Guys, we've got a guest", which immediately results in a surprised shout of "whoops" and the sound of a set of feet scurrying up the stairs. Tyler has barely pulled off his shoes (after politely asking you to wait just a second) when a head pops through the doorframe at the end of the hallway.

"Boone was naked", the woman grins before settling her eyes on you and throwing you a wave. "Hey there, I'm Lilly."

She glances down at your bare legs.

"A little cold there?", she asks and even though her words are sarcastic, her voice is anything but.

"A little", you answer truthfully, smiling at her as she steps out into the hallway.

"You want a pair of pants?", she asks, seemingly without giving a single thought to who you are or why you're standing half-naked in her hallway.

You glance at Tyler, but he's grinning and only shrugs at you, so you turn back to Lilly and nod at her. She seems sweet, really sweet, and very kind. She takes you with her to her room (up two sets of stairs, the fucking house has three floors and a basement) and shows you her closet, the very definition of unbothered even as you nervously rummage through her clothes.

"Hey, you can take a shirt too, if you want", she says, flopping down onto her bed and rolling onto her side to look at you.

"Oh", you let out and glance down at the shirt you're wearing - Tyler's shirt, that very country, checkered shirt that's way too big for you. "I'm fine, thanks."

Honestly, if it were up to you, you would never wear anything else ever again. Tyler's shirt is soft and comfortable and - most importantly - it smells like him. You really just want to tug the hem up to your nose and breathe in his scent (but that would be weird, so you don't).

"Alright", Lilly drawls. "Your choice."

...

Lilly shows you the bathroom, gives you the wifi password and tells you to come down whenever you feel like it. You realise half a second too late that you haven't told her your name yet and crack open the bathroom door to call out for her.

Honestly, you like her. You really like her. And you really like Tyler, too. He's handsome and he smells good and he's respectful and he's nice and he saved your fucking life today. You don't even want to think about what would have happened to you if he hadn't driven by.

In the bathroom is the first time you can really breathe. You throw some water at your face and blowdry your hair. Ten minutes later, you're walking down the stairs into the hallway again - this time, when you stroll through there, you're wearing comfortable pants, fuzzy socks and take your time to look around.

You'd already called your parents back in the car with Tyler. They'd been about as shocked as you'd expected, had needed a few minutes to even understand just what you were telling them, but then they'd offered to come pick you up immediately. Tyler had provided them his address and now here you are - knocking at the open door to the kitchen, where all of the Tornado Wranglers sit around the table. All of them, except for Tyler, who's leaning against the countertop and looks up at you with a grin when you step in.

"Hey there", he drawls, his eyes raking down your body once more today - you've tucked his shirt into Lilly's pants and you could swear his eyes linger on your waist. "Warm and dry?"

"Very", you grin back, then nod at Lilly. "Thanks again."

She shakes her head and waves you off.

"Hey, no big deal. Do you want some pasta?"

...

It's comfortable there, in the kitchen of these strangers who are feeding you pasta and lending you clothes. You've settled onto the countertop next to Tyler and now and then, when you're dangling your feet or he's taking a bite, your legs graze his arm. He's changed into dry clothes too, you realise as you brush against him for the first time, and he's even warmer now than before.

"Tyler's told us all about you", Boone says after a few minutes of easy conversation. You raise your eyebrows and turn your head, staring at Tyler from the side.

"Has he?", you ask, because you hadn't even told him enough about yourself to warrant any use of the word 'all'. Sure, you'd talked on the ride here - but mostly about him, because - as it had turned out - what Tyler Owens did wasn't a normal job like doctor or lawyer, but instead professional Tornado Wrangler. Which, of course, had then dominated the conversation for the rest of the drive.

"Yeah, like how you were driving to you parents and didn't know what to do in a tornado so you just kept on driving", Boone grins, scraping the rest of his pasta off his plate. "And how he made you go in that ditch and-"

"Alright, shut up, Boone", Tyler interrupts, even though there's no real malice behind his words. "She knows the story. She's in it."

"I'm just saying", Boone goes on, entirely undeterred as he puts his now empty plate down on the kitchen table. "If you'd filmed that, it would go viral for sure."

You have to snort at that.

"Yeah, because of all the indecent exposure."

...

When your mother rings the doorbell three hours later, you're in the middle of the second round of a boardgame Dexter had pulled from a drawer. You'd been paired with Tyler for the first round and - somehow not surprisingly - that had worked quite well. You'd won just so against Dexter and Dani (Lilly and Boone hadn't been too much competition) and Dani's "We never get to play this right 'cuz we're always five people" after Tyler had high-fived you with a victorious cheer had warmed your heart. At least they'd enjoyed themselves - at least you hadn't been a burden.

"I call dibs on her", Lilly had declared when the second round had begun, so Tyler had teamed up with Boone instead.

"Oh, oh, botany!", you call out, just as the doorbell finally rings. Lilly jumps up and high-fives you.

"How in the hell did you guess that?", Dani asks, sounding all but exasperated at this point as Tyler pushes out of his seat and walks towards the front door. You shrug.

"Pure talent", you joke, then you climb off the couch as well. "Alright, it was so nice meeting you all, but I think my taxi's out front."

They all hug you goodbye and tell you to come around again anytime - Boone even hands you one of those t-shirts Tyler had told you about in the car. You can hardly hold back a snort. Though Tyler had told you about the shirts existing, yes, he must have accidentally forgotten to mention that his goddamn face is printed on them, paired with the very... comedic phrase "Not My First Tornadeo".

You thread through the hallway with the shirt and your phone in your hands, only to be hit with the sight of Tyler hugging your mother on the doorstep. Or your mother hugging Tyler, more like. Either way, you're suddenly frozen in place.

But then your mother opens her eyes and sees you standing there and she lets go of Tyler with a sharp cry to come running at you instead. She throws her arms around you with so much vigor you're almost knocked off your feet. You meet Tyler's eyes over her shoulder - crinkled with lines of laughter as he smiles at you. Your eyes dart away again just as quickly.

"It's fine, mom, I'm okay", you reassure.

"Yeah, thanks to Tyler", she mutters into your hair. "I already told him we'll pay him whatever he wants for saving our daughter."

"And I already said I don't want any money", Tyler clarifies.

...

The next morning, you wake up comfortably late in a warm bed. You walk down the stairs in fuzzy socks and start the day with a simple cup of tea.

A simple cup of tea and Tyler Owens' YouTube channel.

You'd looked him and his Tornado Wranglers up the very second you'd sat down in your mother's car. Then you'd subscribed to every channel you could find. And then... you'd kind of got obsessed. You'd watched so many of their videos that by one am, you'd simply fallen asleep to one of them.

"Aunt May's gonna be here in half an hour", your mother informs you casually, a stack of plates in her hands as she rummages around in the kitchen. You're still sitting at the table in your pajamas, a spoonful of cereal in your mouth, your phone propped up against a water bottle in front of you, playing a Tornado Wranglers video from a year ago.

"Seriously?", you get out, chewing on your cereal before you can swallow it down. "Mom, I still have to shower and get ready and all."

She throws you one of those eyebrows-raised glances that immediately let you know she's judging you for something.

"We only let you sleep this long because you almost died yesterday", she says matter-of-factly, then she eyes your phone. "And if you weren't watching Tyler's videos so obsessively, you would be done by now."

"Really, mom?"

You let out a resigned sigh. She only shrugs and grins at you. She's a little bit right, anyway.

"He's good-looking, I get it", she says, then she strolls out of the kitchen, chuckling to herself while you curse at her. He is good-looking, fuck this. You need to get it together before the rest of your extended family arrives.

...

The doorbell rings for the umpteenth time that day, just as you step out of the bathroom and smooth down the front of the red-checkered shirt you're wearing. You call some version of "I got it", down the hallway, not too sure if anyone even hears - they're all in the backyard anyway. Then you open the door with a smile on your face, a smile that instantly pulls into a wide grin when you see just who's standing there.

Because it's not another aunt or uncle or cousin. It's no one in your family, not even close.

It's Tyler.

Tyler Owens.

"Hi", he says. Just that. Hi.

You lean against the open door and cross your arms. Your grin only grows.

"Hi", you echo.

His eyes rake down your body and it seems like whatever he'd wanted to say gets stuck in his throat as he realises that the shirt you're wearing isn't your shirt, really. You can't help but bite down on your lip.

Look, you hadn't expected this. You hadn't expected him. None of this was a scheme or a plan or anything even close. You'd just seen it lying there this morning, right next to Lilly's pants on your desk, and you hadn't been able to help yourself. It smelled so fucking good.

"Nice shirt", he grins, eyes snapping back up to yours.

"Thanks", you grin back. "I got it from this guy after he saved me from dying in a tornado yesterday."

Tyler chuckles.

"Seems like a great guy."

"So great", you agree. "Even though he prints his face on t-shirts."

Tyler is just about to retort something - all toothy grins and laughter lines - when your mother calls out his name, very obviously pleasantly surprised as she comes down the hallway. She smiles at him, big and wide.

"What are you doing here?", she asks, stopping next to you to ask the very question that had been on the tip of your tongue too when you'd opened up the door.

"Oh, I'm just bringing these back", he says and holds up his hand to show a stack of neatly folded clothes with your bra right on top. You have to bite down on your cheeks to stop from outright grinning.

Okay, so even if wearing his shirt hadn't been a scheme, and even if you hadn't expected to see him... You might just have done something to ensure you would see him again. But hey, he's about the most handsome man you've ever laid your eyes on, you'd be damned if you'd have to watch him on the screen of your phone for the rest of your life. So yeah, you may have accidentally 'forgotten' your wet clothes in his bathroom after you'd hung them over the heater to dry. You just hadn't thought he'd find them so quickly.

"And you drove four hours for that?", your mother asks, more baffled than you are. Tyler only shrugs. Your mother reaches out for your clothes, grabs them from him and puts them on the cupboard in the hallway. Then she looks at him.

"You're coming in, yes? We're having barbecue now and cake in a bit. I'm not letting you drive four hours here just to deliver her clothes."

...

Twenty minutes later is when you get Tyler alone for the first time. Your mother has schlepped him with you through the whole garden and introduced him to every single person there - "He's the guy who saved her yesterday!" (because, obviously, your story had been about the only topic anyone had talked about so far) - your father first and foremost, who hugs Tyler so tightly that for a moment you're afraid he'll break him.

You catch up with Tyler just as he finishes loading his plate with food, finally on his own after your mother has excused herself to go cut up more bread.

"How'd you find me?", you ask, sipping at your ice-cold coke and eyeing him up. It's the one question that had been burning in your mind for the past twenty minutes. How in the hell had he managed to find you? It's not like you'd left a note with your address next to your clothes (though in hindsight, you don't remember how you'd meant for him to bring them back to you).

He looks almost bashful for a second.

"Boone noticed you'd followed our account", he explains then. "He figured out your last name from your handle and searched the phone book of the city on your mom's license plate. And then he read out all the names until I recognised your mom's because she'd introduced herself to me yesterday."

Your eyebrows raise, further and further the more he speaks. You swallow. Silence falls for a second, then two.

"You know, some people would call that creepy", you say, but your lips tug up into an involuntary grin that gives away more quickly than you'd wanted that you aren't one of those people. Tyler grins right back at you.

"Personally I think it would've been more creepy if I'd kept your bra."

...

It's 9:20 when your mother comes over. You've long since switched from barbecue to cake, then to snacks. Your feet are tucked underneath Tyler's legs, propped up against the side of his garden chair and he's running his fingers up and down your calves.

You'd spent the afternoon chatting away and laughing, barely talking to anyone but him. Your 'family get-together' had turned into more of a date. You certainly aren't about to complain, though.

"Tyler, you're staying the night, right?", your mother asks, a fresh plate of chips in her hands that she puts next to the almost empty one on the table in front of you.

"I don't want to overstay my welcome", he says, all gentlemanly even as your mother rests her hands against her hips and stares him down.

"Young man, you're welcome in this house any time, for however long. I'm not letting you drive home four hours. You're staying the night." Then she points at you. "She's still got a couch in her room that you can sleep on. I'd offer you a guest room, but half the family's staying here and we're already out of air mattresses."

So an hour later, you're rummaging about your room, picking up clothes off the couch and stuffing them in your closet to make room for Tyler. He's leaning against your doorway, looking around, taking in the mess that is your childhood bedroom.

"Nice posters", he says, and you throw him a look over your shoulder that could be deadly. He's grinning all sarcastic, only chuckling as his eyes meet yours. "You could put up one of my shirts here."

You have to snort at that and before you can even really think about it, you've pulled the shirt Boone had given you yesterday from where you'd put it down on your desk. You throw it at him carelessly and he catches it with no effort at all, which - paired with that fucking grin - shouldn't be as attractive as it turns out to be.

"Knock yourself out", you say, then you turn back around to your closet and tug out bedsheets for him. "My old poster glue should be in one of the desk drawers."

You don't think he'll seriously do it, but you seem to have misjudged him. Badly. Because he gets to work immediately.

You watch him for a few stunned seconds before you decide to just leave him to it. So while you turn the couch into a makeshift bed for him, he glues that goddamn "Not My First Tornadeo" shirt to your wall.

"Fits perfectly if you ask me", he declares eventually, barely concealing the amusement dripping from his words. You smooth down his sheets before you look up at your wall. He's put the shirt up in one of the few empty spots, right between your Maroon 5 and Destiny's Child posters.

"Yeah", you snort. "Perfectly."

You give him a toothbrush and let him use your bathroom. While he's gone, you change into your pajamas, fold his shirt carefully and put it on a pile with Lilly's pants and her socks. Honestly, a little part of you already mourns the loss of it - but another part of you already has hope for another shirt. Maybe in a different context.

"What're you doing?", Tyler asks, shutting the bathroom door behind him. You don't look up as you fold the other clothes you'd thrown onto your desk yesterday.

"I put Lilly's things and your shirt there, you can take it back tomorrow", you explain, starting a second pile of your own clothes next to his.

"Keep my shirt", he says. That finally makes you look up at him.

Which isn't a good idea. Not at all. Because he's standing there in nothing but his briefs and good fucking lord-

You'd known he's handsome. You'd known he's broad. But you hadn't known he's fucking ripped. You shouldn't stare. You're very aware. You definitely shouldn't stare. It's incredibly rude to stare. It's very inappropriate to stare. But goddamn, this man is built so perfectly god himself must be jealous.

You have to forcibly blink yourself back to reality. You're definitely red in the face when you finally manage to meet his eyes again. And he's raised his eyebrows in a way that tells you he's reading your every emotion right off your face.

"Sorry, come again?", you croak out, brushing your hand through your hair and realising just a second too late that your eyes have travelled down too far again.

"I said you should keep my shirt", he repeats, a very, very obvious grin on his lips. "It looks better on you."

"Okay", you agree, a little too quickly. The heat in your cheeks comes from more than just the half-naked view of him now. He thinks his shirt looks better on you. You don't even care if that's a line. "I'll... I'll go brush my teeth real quick."

When you come out of the bathroom a few minutes later, Tyler has made himself comfortable on your couch. It's a little too small for him, you realise, but he doesn't seem bothered. He's pulled the covers up to his hips - you can still stare at his chest, to your delight. And he's put one hand under his head, flexing his bicep in a way that has you hurrying over to your own bed so you won't jump him right then and there.

"Alright, goodnight, Tyler", you breathe, adjusting your pillow and wrapping your blanket around your body as if grabbing at it will somehow ground you.

"Goodnight", he echoes, and then you turn off the light.

It's quiet. The only noise is the laughter of your family a floor below, all settling into bed themselves. It's quiet and it's dark.

And you're staring wide-eyed at absolutely nothing.

Oh, god. He's so fucking hot. He's so fucking hot you want to throw yourself out of the window. He's so fucking hot and he's on your fucking couch, barely ten feet from you. He's so fucking hot and he'd driven four hours here just to bring your clothes.

"Tyler", you say, barely two minutes after you'd turned the light off. He hums in response - still awake. You don't know what you'd expected. "Thanks again. For, you know, for everything."

"Anytime", he replies, and even though you can't see his grin, you imagine you can hear it. You nod into your pillow. Then silence falls again.

It lasts maybe another two minutes.

"Your family's nice", he says then. You can't help but smile.

"Thanks", you mutter.

"I like your mother", he says. Your smile only grows. You turn onto your back and stare at the dark ceiling.

"She likes you too."

It's the truth.

Tyler stays quiet. You don't even try to close your eyes this time - you can hear him breathe, deep and relaxed. It's calming. You're sure it could lull you to sleep. If you were anywhere near tired, that is. This way, you just blink at black nothingness.

"Were you really a Destiny's Child fan?", Tyler asks eventually, his sheets rustling.

"Yep", you say.

That's it for that conversation.

You don't know what it is, the darkness or the silence, but something pushes on your chest and weighs you down, warming your skin as it settles on your body. It's a tension, thick and heavy, one that had grown with every scrap of conversation.

"You know-", he starts again, but this time, you've got enough.

"Tyler", you interrupt, turning onto your side and pulling your covers with you. "Get up here."

You can't see him as he throws his bedsheets off himself, can't watch as he heaves himself up, can't look at him as he strides over to your bed - but you hear the rustling of his covers, you hear the couch creaking, you hear his steps on the floorboards. And you feel the mattress dipping when he finally sets his knees on your bed.

You don't wait until he's actually in there. You don't think you could possibly wait until he is. You just push yourself up, grab onto the first part of him you can get your hands on (his shoulders), cup his face in your palms and pull him into you.

Right into your kiss.

Tyler Owens kisses you for the first time in the darkness of your childhood bedroom. For the second time in the morning light in your bed. For the third time in your parent's kitchen, right as your mother walks in. For the fourth time in his truck, after your parents all but throw you out of their house and force you to go home with him. For the fifth time in front of his own house, where his crew watches through the window.

And after that, Tyler Owens loses count of just how often he kisses you. Because he kisses you every day for the rest of his life.

[himbo-kuto]

sylus is someone who always notices the scent of your perfume. he never truly understood the meaning of how smells are associated with memories until he caught a whisper of your sweet scent lingering on his jacket from when you hugged him goodbye last week. he caught himself chuckling to himself as he held the garment up to his nose. 

or in the winter time when he ‘forgets’ his scarf, he knows that your perfume will always welcome him into a warm embrace. no matter what the weather, smelling you always feels like spring. he catches traces of it in the crisp breeze that blows past as you release the fragrance that you’ve been keeping so warm under your wool scarf. 

he wouldn’t usually let you fend the cold, but sylus wanted to be selfish just this one time. you circle it around his neck, making sure to pull it up so it covers his nose. you cup his cheeks, letting the warmth of your hands heat them up before landing a kiss right on his forehead. 

“you’ve been forgetting your scarf a lot more huh?” he closes his eyes and inhales through his nose. the bright citrusy notes of your perfume, mixed in with your body’s pheromones is something sylus will never forget, even in his next life. that’s how he’ll find you, time and time again. 

“i guess you’re rubbing off on me, kitten.” 

there was another time where sylus took you to a path that overlooked the city of linkon. the perfect end cap to your date. you felt his warmth as his held you from behind. you went to lean your head back, only to remember that you had put your hair into a claw clip. he could only laugh as he watched you pout. 

“may i?” he effortlessly freed your hair from the confines of your clip and like clock work, a gust of wind blew past the two of you. that scent once again permeated all his senses, he couldn’t help but smile as he buried his nose into your neck. you tried to push him away as his breath was tickling you, but he only pulled you closer. sylus wasn’t much of a laugher, but he couldn’t help it when he was with you. whether was due to your clumsiness or just the way you were as a person, his cheek muscles were always sore the next day. 

a deep content sigh left your lips as you accepted your fate. you raked your fingers through his hair, feeling the way he relaxed against you. 

“my silly little dragon.” 

and oh was it bittersweet when you were away on a mission and sylus caught hints of citrus and neroli on his sheets. he wanted nothing more than to hold you in his arms and bask in your presence. but instead, he opted for trading his pillow out with yours. he tossed his pillow on the other side of the bed, long forgotten. he turned onto his stomach, fully face planting into the plush goose feather. oh how he missed you. his shoulders relaxed as he let out a deep exhale, now adjusting so his arm was hugging the pillow beneath him. what an insufferable 8 hours until you were back home. though, in no time at all did he find himself drifting back into dreamland, hoping to find you in his arms when he woke back up. 

his sleep was often empty, void of dreams. but for whatever reason he found himself walking amongst a field filled with mandarin trees. the scent was familiar but it felt like it was missing something. he walked through the fields for what felt like forever trying to find what it was, but to no avail. deciding to rest, he took shelter under the biggest tree using its long branches for shade. he closed his eyes trying to envision what this missing piece was. it was always right on the tip of his tongue, but whenever he thought got close, the feeling would just disappear. 

the sound of rustling leaves and branches brought the dragon peace. sylus didn’t even notice that he had dozed off until he was awakened by a familiar smell. that smell. but he was stiff and it was dark. he tried screaming, but his voice was caught in his throat. 

“sylus.. up… my love.. wake up.” 

his eyes shot open only to be met with your warm concerned ones. your hand was resting on his cheek, stroking it gently trying to get him to calm down. his breathing slowly evened out as he came back to reality. 

“did you have a bad dream?” you were in your pajamas and it was dark outside. he could’ve sworn he wasn’t asleep for that long. you pulled him into your chest, using your fingers to lightly scratch the back of his neck how he likes.

“i’m sorry i was away for so long, but i’m home now.” he instinctively nuzzled into your chest, pulling you impossibly close. 

home.

“that’s what was missing…” a curious hum left your lips as you placed a few kisses on his temple.

“what was that, dear?” 

“nothing, i’m just glad that you’re home.”  

(nest - seville orange is the perfume i’m referencing :p hehe iykyk)

[beloveds-embrace]

(more of designationless!reader)

Soap found the box by accident. You never meant for it to follow you, never meant for it to be seen by anyone but yourself. It was a relic from a past you thought you’d buried, stuffed away in a dark corner of the storage room, forgotten like so many other things, brought by mistake when you changed between units again and again.

But Soap found it.

The box was old, its cardboard edges soft and sagging, your name scrawled on the side in faded, uneven marker. He wasn’t trying to pry- it was just there when he searched for a field manual in the storage room, and something about it drew him in. He brought it back to the common area where the others were gathered, setting it down on the table with a curious tilt of his head.

“Lassie never mentioned this, aye?” he asked, more to himself than to anyone else, and opened it; too curious, but also aware that if you truly did not want anyone to look through this, you would not have placed it in the storage room.

The scent of aged paper and something faintly bitter wafted out, and the pack stilled. Not because it smelled bad- it didn’t- but because something about the box immediately felt wrong; like a wound forced open.

Price was the first to step forward, instincts prickling at the edges of his senses. Ghost and Gaz followed, hovering close as Soap pulled out the first item.

At first, it was harmless. A broken doll with tangled hair, a few faded toys with their colors leeched by time, certificates bearing hollow phrases like “good effort.” Price’s eyes softened, his brow furrowing as he turned a small, threadbare ribbon over in his hand. None of it spoke of joy or pride. Instead, the items lay heavy in the box, the remnants of a childhood where love had been scarce. It wasn’t a treasure trove of cherished memories.

But then, Soap pulled out the sketchbook.

It was fragile, the cover warped and frayed, its edges curling inward as if trying to protect what lay inside. Price’s hand shot out, steadying Soap’s wrist, and he took it into his own hands. “Careful,” he warned. “Looks quite old.”

The room held its breath as Price opened it.

The first drawing made something deep in his chest rumble- a low, warning growl of distress that made the others tense.

You, as a child, stood apart from a group of faceless figures. They huddled together, faceless and warm in orange and yellow crayons, while you stood small and distant, alone in the cold blue. The faint, childish scrawl beneath it read:

“I think this is what love looks like.”

Price’s hand tightened on the book, the paper crinkling slightly under his grip. Ghost’s shoulders stiffened, and Soap let out a soft, chuffing exhale, his fingers twitching like he wanted to grab something, someone, and shake them. Like he wanted to grab you, and draw you into his arms.

The next drawing was no easier.

A child stood under black clouds, the page marked with teardrops, their hands pressed to a glowing window where a family sat warm and dry inside, nestled together. You’d drawn yourself outside, drenched and shivering, a frown on your face.

“When? If I’m good, will they let me in?”

Gaz made a sound low in his throat, a soft, mournful keening that was almost drowned out by Ghost’s steady, quiet growl, while Soap hisses, his pacing steps breaking the stillness.

And then, there were the drawings of your family- your siblings, your parents- but their faces were always blank, their hands never reaching for yours. Sometimes, you drew yourself trying to smile, trying to be part of the picture, but it was always wrong. You were always smaller, always separated.

Page after page followed, each one another gut-wrenching blow. Each one a testament to your loneliness.

A little girl sat at the edge of a family dinner table, her chair slightly too far away, the space between her and the others gaping like an abyss. In another, she stood in the background of a family photo, smaller and faded, as though she didn’t belong.

“I think I’m broken.”

“They don’t want me.”

“I wish I wasn’t me.”

“Mama and papa say I will ruin the nest.”

The drawings became messier, the lines shakier, as if your younger self had pressed harder into the paper with each word, each scene, trying to make the feelings go away by burying them in the lines of graphite and crayons.

The pack’s scents filled the room, heavy and overwhelming- John’s cedarwood sharp with anger, Ghost’s smoky musk thick and oppressive, Soap’s bright citrus tinged with distress, and Gaz’s soft vanilla almost bitter with grief.

But then, at the back of the sketchbook, they found something worse than the drawings.

At the back of the book, a final drawing waited- a page filled with one stick figure: just you. Moldy green, sickly yellow and bruise-blue.

At the bottom, scrawled so faintly it was almost invisible, the words read:

“Why wasn’t I enough?”

Gaz turned away, his hand pressed against his mouth as his shoulders shook. Soap’s fists clenched, his growl low and guttural, unable to contain his restlessness. Ghost’s fingers curled into tight fists, his knuckles pale as his eyes burned with something fierce and protective.

And Price… Price’s throat bobbed as he stared at the page, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap.

How could they?

At the bottom of the box, folded and tucked away like a secret, was a letter.

It was written in a child’s handwriting, shaky and full of misspellings, far younger than the last few drawings.

“Dear family, I’m sorry I’m not good. I’ll try harder. I’ll fix myself. Please love me. Please don’t leave me out. I’ll be good I promise. Love you even if you don’t love me back.”

It was dated years ago. The creases in the paper showed it had been folded and unfolded countless times, carried like a wish you couldn’t bear to let go of.

They didn’t need to ask. They knew the letter was never sent. And the silence that followed was suffocating.

When you came back that evening, you were left utterly confused by the strange atmosphere. The pack stood there, their only company a tense, heavy silence you had no idea where it came from.

Price stepped forward first, his arms wrapping around you in a hold that was both firm and trembling, and you huffed in surprise… but you didn’t pull away. His voice rumbled low and deep, a steady, grounding purr that vibrated against your chest. He didn’t say anything; he picked you up and just like that, began carrying you to the nest that you were becoming more and more familiar with everyday per their insistence.

Soap was next, once you were in the nest, his hands cupping your face as he pressed his forehead to yours, wrapping himself around you like sunshine. “Relax, bonnie lass.”

“So why-“

Gaz hugged you from behind, his soft, soothing purr blending with Price’s as he buried his face in your hair, his words drowing out your question. “You belong here. With us. Always.”

And Ghost… Ghost didn’t speak. He simply knelt in front of you, his large hands resting on your hips as he pressed his forehead to your stomach. His growl was low, protective, vibrating through you like a shield against the world. And with Price joining as well, you were effectively surrounded in the nest.

That night, they pulled you into their arms and didn’t let you go. They surrounded you with their warmth, their scents, their steady, comforting presence. They rubbed their faces against your neck, your wrists, your shoulders, marking you thoroughly, their purrs and low chuffs filling the space until you couldn’t think of anything else.

Though you still wondered what brought this on. Weird pack instincts you probably wouldn’t understand, perhaps.

[st4rbwrry]

   𝐹𝐸𝐸𝐿 𝒮𝒪𝑀𝐸𝒯𝐻𝐼𝒩𝒢.

꒰ eren’s really sore from football practice and you give bby a massage. ꒱

𐀔 . . . 3.1k, fem!reader, lowercase intended, body betrayal, submissive eren + whimpers a lot, established consent aka cnc, dry humping, pain kink, eren’s pathetic fr, oral ꒰ m + f ꒱, handjob, love bites, choking, ‘daddy’ said once, creampie, rennie’s embarrassed :( , minors aren’t welcomed! comments + reblogs are appreciated!

꒰ 𝑚𝑜𝑐ℎ𝑎’𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒 ꒱ . . . listened to the nastiest, filthiest sub va audio and babyyyyy, woooo! never been so turned on in my life.

“ughhhhhhh!”

you can hear the painful groans a mile away erupting from the bathroom, eyes peaked over your glasses after you spun around to investigate the suspicious sound. you’re perched up into your soft pink swivel chair where you sat cross legged and comfortably zoned out into an intense mission of call of duty, trying your best not to drool over ghost and konig. the curved monitor in front of your face brightly lit, feminine colors fading in and out from the lights planted around your pc set up. kawaii kitten headphones covering your ears muffling your surroundings.

knocking them off of your ears, you’re able to hear the shower running loudly, the noise cancellation blocking out any movement around you. there’s only one person who could be in your shower right now, and he revealed himself before you could come to the thought. steam flows towards the ceiling as the bathroom door swings ajar, your boyfriend’s sandalwood soap illuminating the room while steam levitates off of his tanned, tatted skin. a pout seeps into your expression when you see the softness in his face, every step he takes towards your bed shoots excruciating discomfort through his muscles.

“baby!” you stand to your feet, the warmth in your chest to see his presence heightening, but the worry in your eyes overtaking all. “what’s wrong, ‘ren?”

“mhmmmm,” he only groans, a towel around his neck and his skin only covered by basketball shorts as he flops face forward onto your bed, hissing from the aches and spasms. accidentally shoving your plushies out of his face and onto the floor from clear irritation.

sometimes forgetting he had a key to your apartment, you’re reminded of him telling you he was coming to see you after practice, overworking himself to the brink of death these past few weeks considering draft season was up and coming. eren needed to make a good impression, and him being an overachiever, it caused his body to slowly deteriorate. waking up at the break of dawn to gulp down green juices and muscle powder before he’s running around his neighborhood for two hours. then he’s going to the field after classes for extreme training with coaches who considered him a son. people who are in his ear constantly worshiping his achievements, including his family — pressuring him to be great. to be something.

the air in the room is cold, and it’s a serenade to his body, like icy hot. he releases a heavy sigh from his pillowed lips as he rests on his stomach in agony.

“i’m so sore, baby!” eren practically whines, the muscles on his toned back shifting as he reaches for a pillow to elevate his head. any small movement is like absolute hell. “fuck, i fucked up.”

“awee, ‘ren. i told you that you needed to slow down.”

sitting beside him on the bed, your knees sink into the memory foam, looming over his figure, putting on your motherly face. relaxing your shoulders, you bury your hands between your thighs, observing him to see what he needed.

“you’ll be limping to the ceremony if you keep this up. there’s only one more game, love.”

“yeah, and it has to count. they’ll be looking at my highlights and shit, and i need to be in their top list,” eren turns his face to look in your direction, his brown hair tied into the back of his head, slightly damp. “once i’m drafted i’ll take a break.”

“okay,” you leave it at that, knowing he’ll pursue a whole rant if you pressed any harder. it kills you to see him hurt, but you know in the end it’ll pay off. you didn’t have faith in him for nothing. “want me to massage you?”

“ooh, yea baby, please,” eren wants to clap to show his appreciation, but can barely move his upper body. he’s clutching a pillow tight to his cheek, lashes kissing his cheekbones with his pretty verdurous irises shield behind lids. lips upturned and his bushy eyebrows furrowed when your hands apply pressure to the back of his calves, kneading the skin with your thumbs gently. “thank you.”

a soft smile tugs on your full lips, glasses slipping down the bridge of your nose as you focus on making him feel better. “you’re welcome, sweetheart.”

“coach had me doing fucking agility courses today, it feels like my entire body is boiling with lava.”

“how’d you even make it up the stairs?”

the warmth of your palms soothed his body, aside from the horrible pain running through him from every touch, you made it a little better. eren whimpers softly the higher your hands go, reaching his lower back now, leaning over him some more to reach his tough spots. he nearly forgets to answer, his knuckles turning white and the veins on his hands leading up to his forearm protrude the harder he grips onto the pillow before him.

“nng, fuck,” he gasps out, muffling his sounds slightly by the cotton stuffed fabric, shifting his hips the deeper the pads of your thumbs sink into his hips, dainty fingers feathering along his skin, blood unbeknownst to you, rushing to his dick. those happened to be his sweet spots. “higher baby, please.”

he says it mostly out of panic, and you oblige, smoothing your hands flat on his back to rub there, beauty marks littered on the canvas. “you didn’t answer me.”

“sorry,” he groans when your hands come to his shoulders, applying pressure with the carpal bone of your hand, dragging straight down to his forearms with your stomach laying on his back. smelling your aroma and feeling the softness of your inner thighs. he blushes, hating his body for reacting the way it is currently. “i-i climbed up the stairs. was hunched over the entire walk to the door.”

“flip over for me.”

“shit. m’so weak right now,” eren mumbles frustratingly, trying his very best to turn his full frame, reaching out for your hand to help. you interlink your arms with his, as if giving him a hug, chest on his to flip him onto his back and position him comfortably. it felt like you were his damn caretaker.

“your knees hurt, baby? have you been wearing your knee pads?”

“mhm hmm, yea. i try to stretch a little before i run in the mornings. sometimes i . . . forget,” the salvia in his mouth glides down his throat as he swallows, seeing your spine arched and the darkly inked butterfly tattoo on your lower back as you focus on rubbing on his knees, and up his quadriceps. “unh, shit.”

“right there?” your tone is soft when you speak, doe eyes attentive when you look up at him and it makes his dick grow semi-hard.

“yes, it’s good, mama.” goddamit. he isn’t trying to sound like it’s obvious he’s turned on right now. he’s literally in too much pain to do anything to you, at least the way he wants.

you hike his shorts up for further access, massaging into the tissue to alleviate the discomfort, eren’s head knocking back as he hisses and grips onto the sheets. you watch him deliriously, trying to ignore the throb of your clit from the visual before you. but he’s making it impossible from the noises he makes. it’s not new, you’ve heard him whimper and moan before when he’s fucking you, but it’s rare when it sounds this . . pathetic. his pain shouldn’t arouse you, but it does.

your face is dangerously close to his dick, your black prescription glasses slipping even further as you try to block out the sounds he’s making by working your hands into his frail muscles. you make it back to his hips which stutter from your delicate touch, trying to hide your smirk when he whines helplessly. he’s breathing heavily, biting down on his lip as he covers his eyes with his right forearm, trying to hide his embarrassment. you’re pawing at his chest now, throwing your leg over his waist and sitting on his abdomen, feeling his dick on your ass cheek.

“fuck, what are you doing?” eren stares at you immediately, brows furrowed as you knead at his biceps, smoothing your hands up to his wrists you grip and eventually pin down to the bed above his head.

“making you feel better,” you pout, lifting your lower body to scoot your ass back and foment your pussy onto him, the subtle gasp leaving his mouth like a symphony. “you’re hard.”

“wait, baby,” eren whines again, struggling to fight the entrapment that you have on his wrists, too weak and sensitive to fight you on it. “i can’t right now. i’m too sore.”

“just lay there,” you tell him, gyrating your hips and rubbing yourself over the fabric of his shorts, barricaded by your silk black ones. his eyes glower at you, mouth going ajar and out comes another desperate whimper. “i need it. you sound too pretty.”

“baby, please. this is so embarrassing,” he goes to shimmy free, but whines from any sharp pain hitting him, entwining your fingers to hold hands as you arch over him, leaving a delicate kiss to his lips.

“you don’t want me?” you ask, batting your lashes as you roll your hips a little faster, humping your clit onto the swell of his dick. you moan, burying your face within the crook of his neck to slick your tongue over his flesh, the slow dragging making his dick pulsate.

“i-it’s not that, god,” he’s heaving now, afraid he’s going to break under you. physically, not possible. but mentally? yeah. he’s not usually the submissive one, so this was a bit out of character. “stop grinding your . . pussy on me.”

now his voice is really breaking, his moans growing high pitched and his whines dragged out and subby. you felt a high you never felt before, being the one to dominate is a rarity. it was a small conversation the two of you had briefly, but never did you think he’d actually let you pursue it. taking the lead felt too good.

“but i w’na grind my pussy on you,” you’re moaning in his ear now, eren’s turning his head to the opposite side to let you sink your teeth into his neck, leaving love bites while he groans. he couldn’t keep his composure with you. “you need to be in pain more. you sound too good. i’m so horny now.”

“you have issues,” he shakes his head, gasping when you nip at his adams apple before kissing it. licking your lips and humming, beginning to hear the squelch of your pussy in the silent room.

“you gave them to me.”

eren doesn’t even realize that his arms are free now, laying limp beside his head as he watches you crawl down his thighs to pull his dick free from his shorts, wrapping your hand around his dick that practically stretches over the shape of your face. it’s leaking precum, and you waste not a drop of it, slapping the head of his dick on your tongue. his fingers are grasping the sheets again, stationed beside his waist and watching you swallow half of him into your mouth.

“baby — damn,” his stomach caves in when he hits the back of your throat, esophagus forcing itself to laminate his dick with more saliva. he’s completely devoted to you, staying still and letting you work. if he had the strength he’d lift his hips and fuck your throat till you’re gagging. “shit. shit, i love being in your mouth.”

you moan around him, twisting your wrist at the base while sucking on what you could, his dick fat and blowing up your cheeks. his eyes fall shut to listen to how you take him, pink lips parting with his eyes drooped in pleasure. you get him wet enough for extra lubricant, popping your mouth free and removing your shorts. he licks his lips at your glistening entrance, your white toes touching his leg as you spread your legs next him to finger yourself open. pretty hair cascading over your features in dark curls, slurping up saliva in your mouth as you stare darkly at him while you grind sensually onto your two fingers.

“c’mon, baby. don’t be mean,” eren groans, hand reaching for your ankle to use whatever strength he gained to drag you closer. “lemme see. c’mere.”

whimpering yourself, you scoot closer to his face, gripping at the edge of the bed as he clutches your ankle, the good bracelet with his initial on it swinging. everything else in his body hurt, even his dick ached now and it was your fault for being so fucking sexy. one thing he could use to his full ability was his mouth, and as soon as your folds are spread wider by your fingers, that’s when he’s kissing at your clit. puckered lips sucking and pulling at her with fervor, jaw widening and clenching as his tongue dips into your hole and he begins bobbing his head, the lewd, downright filthy sounds of your pussy creaming on his tongue.

“ooh, eren,” a squeak lets out, your eyes almost falling shut and drowning your vision. the moans from the both of you are guttural, flowing in sync nearly. he’s sucking on your clit like it’s a pacifier, cocking his head back to spit on her before grunting and flicking vigorously. savoring your taste on his tongue.

your hand goes to wrap back around his dick, spitting in your hand after a prolonged moan and jerking him off, the wet sounds ricocheting off the walls.

“ahh, fuck. oh my . . god,” the moans only grow louder from you, face screwed up the faster his mouth moves. jaw shifting even quicker and you match his pace with your hand, making sure to stay near the tip to watch his hips twitch and hear him moan. “i’m g’na cum, ‘ren.”

“unt unt, sit on my dick, baby,” he immediately removes his mouth, licking his lips and laying on his back again. “you wanna tease me, so fuck me.”

your legs tremble as you crawl above him, knees indenting the bed on either side of his waist, looking behind yourself to hold his dick still and slowly slid yourself down. the stretch is always good, adjusting by now after extensive training, aka eren literally making you lay there and take it inch by inch until it fit and felt right. his dick fully sinks into you, your knees buckling instantly from the fullness, hoisting yourself up by clutching onto his legs behind you.

“f-fuck!” it vibrates through your body, that euphoric wave that he’s sucked into your own. sexual chemistry, soul tie if you will. your knees interfere, making your pussy squeeze tight and eren can do nothing but clasp onto his own angelic hair, his tatted forearm with a cuban link on his wrist killing your clit. hair long fallen out of it’s tie.

“she looks so pretty like this,” eren hums, sucking on his lip before spanking the outside of your thigh hard, trying to coax you into moving. “lemme see her suck me in and out.”

rolling your lips inward, you moan as you raise and drop your ass down, skin interacting loudly with his own. eren hisses with rouse, drinking in the view of your juices coating his cock, dripping in fact. the visual evidence of him splitting you open as you rock on him to fuck yourself makes his brain explode, unable to choke his moans down. tossing your head back, he studies the art of contour. your neck, chin, and nose. the curves, the area of fat on your tummy . . . you are beauty divine. and you’re so damn hot.

“you’re so damn hot,” it’s spoken the same way he thought it, perhaps with more vigor.

you feel yourself getting close, so you lean yourself forward and get ahold of his wrists again, that red tint coming back to his cheekbones. your body is flat to his, and you listen to your wet pussy glide up and down as you drop your ass back heavily, his strong thighs hitting it. you’re breathing into his mouth when he goes to kiss you, your pace getting harder and you hear him whimper again and again. the pain and pleasure mixing. that soreness in his body fucking with him, but serenading you.

“fuckin’ get it,” eren grunts in a hushed tone, his words persuading you to bounce harder, making it sloppy and incredulously loud. “get it, baby. make a mess. f-fuckk . . unh.”

“oh my god,” the noise you make is a mixture of disbelief and arousal, shaking above him while he throws his head back into the pillow exposing his gorgeous neck, silver chain sprawled intricately within the contours of his neckline. he’s driving you absolutely insane. “keep moaning like that, baby. it’s so good. i can’t.”

“you g’na fuck it till it hurt, too? you like hearing me in pain that bad?” he locks eyes with you again, body trembling with pathetic whines leaving his throat.

“y-yess, love it,” you admitted, swirling your ass and riding him faster, tears brimming your sockets. “you’re so pretty, daddy. you’re hitting my spot.”

he watches as you keep yourself where you want, his dick curved into that sweet part making your eyes gloss white, grinding harder while digging your nails into his wrist, mouth agape and precious broken moans escaping. that pressure in your tummy bursts, and you’re cumming while still fucking him, squealing and crying as you drench his pelvis. that sends eren to overdrive, muttering a stream of expletives before he’s nearing his orgasm not long after.

“ooh, shit. get up, get up. i’m finna cum.”

“n-no,” you add more of your strength to overpower him, keeping him flat to the bed as you lean up and roll your hips. he looks up at you with warning, your gushy walls sucking him in the more you clench and cum. batting your lashes as his hands wriggle in your grasp, upper body shifting from being overwhelmed with ecstasy. “fill me up.”

“awe, fuck me, baby. fuck, fuck, fuck!”

whimpers, shaky moans, and whines. they’re all playing a part in how he releases and makes you cum again as he’s cumming, screaming in the air as he fights through his aching body to spank your ass fervently. filling you up like you cried for. his noises are dry, like they’re fighting to get out. coming out in weak, fucked out, high pitched grumbles and keens. almost like he’s in goddamn heat. it’s all so hot. he hates his body for the ultimate betrayal of submission. but also, hates to admit he fucking loved it. excruciating pain aside.

“get off me,” eren heaves, swallowing from a dry mouth and his excessive moaning. “please, baby. i can’t take it. i’m sore. i’m asking nicely.”

smiling, you wrap your hand around his neck before sticking your tongue out to glide over his lips, tasting him and begging for entrance, giving him a nasty, overjoyed kiss.

“i’ll give you another massage, sexy.”

© 𝑠𝑡4𝑟𝑏𝑤𝑟𝑟𝑦 . all rights reserved. please do not repost, steal, or modify my work simply because it is mine. stealing isn't cute. i'll ruin your life.♡

[justsomestuffreally]

I think the Batkids reaction to a Bruce who isn't de-aged to 8 but rather 29 (pre-Jason death, post his adoption) would be fascinating. 

Their reaction would vary wildly:

Dick: Oh. Bruce is soft again. Bruce calls them ‘chum’ and ‘buddy’ and gives head pats for no reason. He still isn’t perfect, his communication skills are still a work in progress, but compared to his future self? Without actively dying Dick is hugged plenty. Bruce asks him to go to the zoo, unrelated to any case, just to spend time together. Dick is hit with more nostalgia and longing for the past than he knows what to do with.

Also notable: his dad is younger than him. That is something. Second, holy existential crisis Batman, his dad is younger than him and already one adult and one teenage kid??? Dick is not ready to feel this old yet. Third, Dick has absolutely no idea how Bruce managed to stay patient through his no-pants years. He is going to thank reason every day from now on that Damian wears full protection.

Jason: After his death and League he clung to an image of Bruce. One many tried to beat out of him, but he still kept it somewhere close to his heart, buried deep enough even he couldn’t see it. When he came back Bruce wasn’t like this idea of him. How stupid of him to believe the mind of a traumatized kid. Trying to create one good thing before the kid drew his last breath. Making up memories that never even existed.

But they did. Every smile and hug and even his words reflect the image tugged safely against his still-beating heart. His dad very clearly, very deeply loves him. Which is so much worse. Because he can understand why a Bruce, who never cared, didn’t kill the Joker. But he cares. So why the fuck did he not kill the Joker?

Tim: The reason he joined the family, the reason why he became Robin in the first place was because he saw a problem when Bruce started self-destructing and thought ‘Someone needs to fix that!’. Therefore he went and collected Dick, who didn’t seem keen on fixing it. So, the job fell to him to fix it.

He thought he did a good job, he thought he fixed the problem. Except now he sees who Bruce was, and he knows he failed. Their Bruce is less soft, less affectionate, less like he was before. Batman needs a Robin and Tim didn’t manage to be good enough of one to save him. 

[Or: Tim has a guilt complex a hundred miles wide and blames himself for things that aren’t his fault part 52]

Steph: Jason and she are very similar. Both come from the Narrows, both have a mother addicted to drugs and a shitty father. The differences start when Steph keeps waiting on the roof of their apartment for Batman to whisk her away, while Jason tries to steal the tires of the Batmobile and is taken in.

When Steph started out as Spoiler Bruce tried to keep her off the field, and obviously this one would too (even if he would probably be less paranoid about it), but she knows this Bruce would have also taken her in. This Bruce would be the father she always wished for when she sat on their roof and couldn’t see any stars. 

And she didn’t get to have this because Jason went ahead and died. (Of course, she knows she isn’t fair to the guy. Dying isn’t fun… And she knows the only reason she lived is because he died. When Batman rescued her from Black Mask she was in such terrible shape that Leslie managed to convince the World’s Greatest Detective that she died. If Jason hadn’t died Bruce wouldn’t have been as paranoid, wouldn’t have noticed her missing so soon, wouldn’t have been as urgent in his response. Would have been just a minute slower, a minute which would have killed her. Just as it had Jason.)

For her, this Bruce is a distorted mirror into a past which never was. 

Cass: This Bruce and B are not the same person. They don’t move the same. In a fight, this Bruce is younger, faster, stronger. Doesn’t compensate for a previously broken spine. Less experienced. Still one of the most experienced she knows, but less. 

He still moves differently, outside a fight, less pain. More likely to engage in physical affection, more likely to hug and pat and talk. He talks more than B. B knows what she means without words. This Bruce doesn’t.

She likes this Bruce, warmth, and softness. But not as much as B. He knows what she means, when she wants a hug, when she tells him ‘I love you’ without words. B doesn’t need words. This Bruce doesn’t know her, doesn’t communicate like her. She wants B back.

Damian: At first, when this version of his father seemed uncanny and oddly familiar, he assumed it to be due to the stories of his mother. After all, she always told him tales about his father. He simply did not have the frame of reference to understand the kindness she spoke of. Clearly, the clash between the ideals of the League and the ones of his father causes these feelings, just as they did when he first entered the manor.

He presumed this to be the case until one day on patrol Batman laid a hand on his shoulder and told him he did a good job after no particularly impressive fight and he nearly called him ‘Grayson’. Because the stories of his mother may have painted the picture of this version of his father, however, it wasn’t what made it familiar; no, he knew this kindness. These hugs and compliments one would bestow upon a child. Compliments which, despite the indignity, still warm him. Because Grayson learned how to be a… caregiver from his father.

His father used to be like Grayson, used to be until his grief hardened him. Damian could have had this. Damian could have a brother and father who would- But he doesn’t because of Todd. He loathes Todd. Loathes him for ruining the life he could have had.

Why did he die anyway? Damian certainly wouldn’t have a problem escaping bonds created by the Joker, Damian would have disarmed the bomb in time, Damian would have never thrown this life away like he did.

[Or: Damian is a child who was raised by assassins and has unreasonable standards for fighting abilities and also is a child who needs to focus his rage on someone.]

Duke: He was neither there before Jason died nor in the aftermath [according to my math he was around 4 when Jason died] he joined the family when Jason was already back for 4 years or so. He mostly skipped all the drama. For him, Bruce is the way Bruce is because he is Bruce. It’s weird to see him so different, to see how grief shaped parts of Bruce which Duke assumed were just Bruce things.

He’s glad this Bruce is brighter, or not because it just highlights how much that light will dim? Who knows, certainly not him. 

What he does know is that, with their Bruce, he has a distance which, with his parents still alive, he appreciates. With this Bruce, he can understand why Dick struggled so much whether he wants to be his ward or son, how he doesn’t want to replace his parents but still have this Bruce as a dad. It definitely explained the ted talk Dick tried to give him after Bruce officially took him in as a ward.

He likes this Bruce well enough, but he doesn’t necessarily want him to stay this way. Yes, their Bruce is less happy, less open but he did heal, he did grow. Duke met a Bruce who tried to learn from his mistakes, learned to communicate better, and learned when to pull and when to push. For Tim, Damian, Dick, and certainly Jason there is too much baggage, too much history in their relationships, it’s difficult for them to ever move past- anything really.

Sure, when Dick and Bruce are on the same page they are essentially invincible but then the past catches up again and they don’t talk to each other for months. And honestly? Apart from Cass, Duke’s pretty sure he has one of the best relationships with Bruce simply because he got to know him at a better time.

Duke doesn’t mind this Bruce. But their Bruce loved Jason, cared for him so deeply the scars still show to this day. And he still chooses to open up again even if just a bit by bit. Even if just Duke can see it. He is used to being the only one that can see.

And maybe knowing this care extends to him, this love even grief can’t shake? Maybe it makes him feel just a little bit safer, a little bit warmer, a little bit brighter.

[furioussouls]

You get gravely injured instead of the LADS boys

with [chubby reader]

[chubby reader, don't like it, don't read it]

Summary: You jumped in front of them during a fight and got severely injured instead.

warnings: extreme injuries, angst, blood, crying, comfort, fluff, gn! reader, reader and the boys fight together against wanderers/ criminals and are already in a relationship, probably ooc because we haven't seen the boys when they're extremely worried yet, if you work in the medical field beware, extremely inaccurate

⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔:･⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Xavier:

Xavier's wrapped his muscular arm around you and he helped you as you limped forward. Every step felt like another slash to your thigh and you whimpered out. You jumped in front of Xavier without any hesitation; he was distracted. He didn’t see the sharp weapon coming. You on the other hand did. You saw it coming, and jumped in front of him like a fool. Dizziness surrounded your vision, and you exhaled shakily as dark spots danced around your vision. You collapsed to the ground and felt Xavier's arms around you. He pressed his pretty hand firmly against your plush and bloody thigh and you cried out in pain as you tried to shove him off. Xavier's hand tightened and tears began rolling down your face. You knew that he was just stopping the bleeding, but in your woozy mind it was the biggest betrayal. Xavier yelled something into his phone , which you couldn’t understand. He gripped your face tightly and gently smacked against your cheeks, but you didn’t respond. You just smiled and you took in his features.

His usual soft expression was sour. He breathed heavily, causing his chest to heave quickly. Xaviers sky blue eyes were dark and wet, his nosrils flaring with every shaky inhale. His mouth was pulled into a frown and formed words you couldn't hear before your eyes rolled backwards and you slumped back.

When you woke up again, you laid in a white hospital bed. The pungent odor of disinfectant invaded your nostrils and a soft beep sounded through the room. Your looked around in confusion and followed the tubes going in and out of your body. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw messy blonde hair slumped on your hand. Xavier. His face was buried in your palm.

You called out his name and Xavier immediately jumped out of his seat. His hands were trembling and his mouth was slight agape. His clothes were messy and dark purple crescents grazed his undereye. Xavier opened his mouth but the words were stuck in his throat. Not even a single squeak could be heard.

"Xavier?", you croaked out carefully and watched his expression. He looked down to the floor when silent sobs raked through his body. Your eyes widened and your heart squeezed painfully. Xavier’s lip trembled and tears rolled down his face. He furrowed his eyebrows and his trembling lips were pulled into a deep frown.

“Why did you do it?“, he asked you quietly.

You looked at him and before you could respond Xavier walked towards you in quick and heavy strides. He firmly grasped your shoulders and very gently shook you.

“I asked you something. Why would you do that?“, Xavier spat out. “Never do that again. I could never live with myself if you.. Oh god, please. Please, please, please. Don’t ever do that again. Not for me, not for anybody else. Okay? Please.“ Xavier’s angry voice turned into one of pure despair and his hands left your shoulders. He grabbed your hands with trembling hands. His long and slender fingers wrapped around your soft ones as he buried his face in your hands. You let him cry his heart out.

Your leg will recover form this injury. However, the image of you laying in a pool of your own blood will never leave Xavier’s mind. You jumping in front of him because of his own incompetence. Its unacceptable. The memories haunted his deepest nightmares and he‘d never forgive himself for it.

• during remission, Xavier treated you like a doll. He didn’t mean to, he really didn’t but he couldn’t help it. You’re so precious to him and he almost lost you. He was very gentle and loving with you (not that he wasn’t loving before) and he helped you wash yourself. It was a bit difficult for you to take care of yourself because of your leg, but Xavier will be there every step of the way. Sometimes, he laid awake at night and couldn’t stop replaying the scene of you getting hurt. The absolute despair and fear he felt at the thought of losing you. He’d stroke your cheek and cuddle your round body into his. Sometimes he’d even shed a fear tears.

Zayne:

You didn't even know how it happened. One minute you and Zayne were fighting side by side against the wanderers and in the next, the wall next to Zayne collapsed. Your heart dropped to your stomach and everything around you seemed to slow down. The debris fell too quickly for you to call out to Zayne and warn him, so you ran without any hesitation. Everything that happened after was just a mere blur. You pushed him out of the way and felt as if a million sledgehammers landed on top of you before you were out like a light. The last thing you heard was Zayne yelling out your name.

You woke up with a violent throb in your head. It felt like somebody was splitting your head into two pieces and the blinding light didn't help at all. You looked down and found yourself in a clean bed. Your eyes popped up and saw Zayne's broad back. His white button- up was crumpled and his sleeves were rolled up unevenly, which exposed his scarred forearms. Zayne's dark hair was tussled and he was checking the scans of your body. You moved and a sharp pain shot through your head and through the right side of your body. You winced sharply and exhaled shakingly.

Zayne's body froze; his scarred hand hovered over the scan and his shoulders tensed. Yet, he remained still and didn't turn around. You both just sat in silence for a few seconds until you called out to him.

"Zayne?", your voice was very raspy.

He exhaled softly and turned around to face you. He looked like hell. His eyes were bloodshot and he had deep eyebags under his eyes. A few parts of his body were covered in bandages and plasters. Zayne took a few shaky steps toward you, but then stopped dead in his tracks and cleared his throat.

"You-", his voice cracked and his lip trembled. He looked down to the ground and closed his eyes. Zayne clenched his jaw and exhaled deeply. He looked up again and his expression was emotionless.

"You are severely concussed and have suffered some fractures. Your remission will take a few months, but you will heal. The fight ended well. The wanderers were taken care of, and nobody else was hurt." Zayne explained monotonely, his gaze focused on your medical records.

"Alright", you responded raspily and you winced at the pain in your head.

"I've given you painkillers just before you woke up, they should kick in soon." He responded in the same soft and monotone tone and you sighed. "Zayne, are you okay?"

"Don't ever do that again."

You blinked up at him in confusion and he finally looked up from the records. Ice crystals formed around his neck and he stared intently at you. You're beginning to miss the time where he wouldn't look at you.

"What? You mean save you? Of course I would do it-"

"Baby, please." He begged. A few unintended sobs bubbled out of his chest and his shoulders shook as he continued to cry silently. He buried his face in his hands as his shoulders kept heaving.

You stared in shock. You've never seen him cry, especially this hard. Even when he was sad, he usually kept his icy facade up.

"If it ever comes down to it, please, please, just let me die. Don't ever make me live through that fear again. Please. I can't take it. When I had to remove all the debris from you, not knowing whether you're alive. No, just don't." Zayne replied, his voice was almost completely gone and the tears had dried on his face.

You slowly sat up and ignored the throb in your head. Zayne watched you and helped you up. You opened up your arms for him and Zayne immediately buried himself in your plush chest as your thick arms engulfed him. He cried silently into your chest and you ran your fingers through his dark hair.

"I'm sorry, shh. I'm really sorry."

• during remission: he'll of course be your doctor (let's not talk about the ethics of that) and take care of your healing process. He'll supervise your every move almost obsessively. Zayne will be extremely strict regarding the process and won't give into your cute little faces. Not this time. He'll wash and massage your pretty round body for you almost daily. Once you start feeling better, he'll punish you during sex. It'll be deep and intimate. You scared the absolute shit out of him and he needs you to never do that again.

Rafayel:

You laid on the ground with a deep burning sensation across your chest. What just happened? You were fighting with Rafayel and then..

The painful sensation in your chest doubled and you whimpered out in agony. Your head turned to the side and you saw Rafayel fighting with vehement vigor. His moves were aggresssive and powerful as ripped the wanderers apart. After he finished them off, he ran in your direction.

"No,no,no. No, youre okay. Fuck! You're okay.“ He pressed his hand against your ample torso and agony ripped through you. You screamed out in pain and immediately tried squirming away, but you were unable to do so. Tears ran down Rafayel's face, but he pressed down further and ignored your screams. He held his phone to his ear and called somebody for help, but you couldn't be bothered to listen further. You focused on Rafayel's hand, though; Rafayel's hand, which pressed down on your chest earlier was extremely bloody and you stared at it in shock.

Rafayel followed you gaze and shook his head. "You're totally fine. The paramedics are coming, okay? They'll be here soon. Just stay awake, stay awake for me. Cutie, please."

You nodded and widened your eyes. Rafayel nodded and pressed his lips to your forehead. "Perfect. Just like that. Just stay awake with me and then when the paramdedic come, we'll just go home. Fuck." His voice broke at the end and you nodded. You widened your eyes yet again and ignored the pain in your chest. "You shouldn't have done it. It would've just hit my side. I would've been fine." Rafayel gritted out.

"It’s my job as your Miss bodyguard, isn’t it?", you asked weakly. The pain in your chest was thankfully dissappearing, but so was your of the awareness of everything around you. Rafayel's eyes snapped to you and his jaw dropped. His face was pale as he stammered out. "No. No, I didn't want-".

Sirens blared in the background and Rafayel was ripped out of his thoughts and exhaled shakingly. "Thank God. We're okay, alright? Just hold on for a bit longer, we'll be okay soon. Please."

Your eyes started to close. "No! No, its okay! They're almost here. Please, stay awake." He cried out as you lost your consciousness.

You woke in the hospital room and saw Rafayel by your side. Around your chest were bandages. You winced out and Rafayel's eyes snapped to you. He smiled softly and stroked your cheek. "Hi, cutie. How are you doing? The doctor said it'll leave a nasty scar, but remission will be a breeze."

You smiled at him. "I'm okay, and you?"

Rafayel looked straight ahead for a few seconds before looking back at you with a weak smile. He held up a thumb and you chuckled drily. "If I knew I could get you to shut up, I would've ended up in the hospital sooner." Rafayel exhaled through his nose but remained quiet otherwise. His shoulders dropped and he looked down to the ground. He looked utterly defeated and you could not take it.

"Rafayel-", he interrupted you quietly.

"You're fired." Rafayel leaned over and set his chin down on the back of his hands.

You raised an eyebrow at him, but he stayed quiet throughout. You rubbed his back and he closed his eyes. "I didn't tell you to be my bodyguard, so that you could go ahead and sacrifice yourself for me. I hired you so that you would be around me, not so that you can die a morons death." He mumbled, his voice soft.

You wanted to reply sarcastically or say something that'll make him laugh, but you just couldn't.

"Rafayel, I'd do it aga-", Rafayel interrupted you while shaking his head. His face was adorned by a soft and genuine smile. "I know you would, but this will never happen again. I won't allow it. I won't even allow the opportunity to arise. Don't worry. I'll make sure it won't happen again."

• during remission, he'll slowly start behaving like his normal self again. He'll be fun and will make you laugh, but he was so very deeply affected by the situation. He'll be more aggressive towards potential threats and doesn't allow you to defend yourself. It'll take some time for him to let you do any dangerous activities (if ever), but you both slowly heal. He buys you beautiful flowy gowns and clothes that don't rub against your scar, and he will paint your new body in ever single position you could think of. He quite literally worships you; feeding you while you're propped somewhere comfortable, rubbing oil on your scar and other parts of your rounded body.

Sylus:

You woke up and saw Sylus‘ furious face above you. Your ears were ringing and your shoulder felt like it was on fire. Sylus‘ clenched his jaw and yelled something to somebody on the other side of the room. You couldn’t hear it, though. You couldn’t hear anything due to the ringing in your ears. You remember what happened now. Sylus talked to some of his “business partners“ and they turned out to be rats. They pulled the gun on him faster than Sylus could pull out his own. He was caught off guard- once. He was careless one time. And you jumped in front of him when they pulled the trigger.

The metallic taste of blood hit you and you felt something pour out of your mouth. You looked up at Sylus in confusion, his chest heaved quickly and he furrowed his eyebrows. His eyes were wide and his mouth slightly agape. He looked.. scared. Sylus has never looked scared before.

You lost consciousness and woke up in Sylus‘ room. You were bandaged properly and wore clean oversized clothes. You had an IV- injection and looked around the room.

Sylus sat on his black couch with a glass of wine in his hand. He quietly drank it and looked out of his window. You smiled fondly and called out his name, your voice husky.

His head turned to yours and he smiled softly. It didn’t reach his eyes. He stood up and slowly walked over to you. His evol slowly engulfed you. It felt firm on your un-injured parts and gentle on your chest and shoulder area. He looked down on you with an unreadable expression.

“What happened?“, you asked him and tried to wiggle your feet. Everything seemed normal.

Sylus hummed softly, his husky voice low. “You took a bullet for me and I killed the attackers. I was careless. That won‘t happen again. A doctor patched you up and that’s it.“

You raised an eyebrow at his abrasive tone and he raised an eyebrow at you. His face was expressionless and he leaned down to your ear. He kissed the shell of your ear and gripped your cheeks between his large hands. His grip was firm and he gently turned your face towards him.

“Don’t ever play the hero again. Recklessness is stupid. And you’re not stupid. You’re clever. Don’t do it again- I‘m serious. Not for anyone else, and especially not for somebody like me.“

“Sylus, I love you. You would do the same for me and-“

“Yes. Yes I would, in fact. So let me repeat this again.“ Sylus leaned back toward your ear and whispered in it. “If you do that again, I’ll kill a person. Your noble sacrifice will have been for nothing. And if you happen to die during one of your heroic missions, you can’t even begin to imagine the damage I would do to the world. And you can trust me on that.“

You gulped and looked at him. Your heart raced and the monitor beeped. Sylus immediately relaxed his face and sighed. He leaned forward and tenderly kissed your temple. His lips stayed there for a long time and you blinked up at him.

He stroked your cheek and kissed you softly.

“Asshole“, you mumbled and Sylus chuckled against your cheek. The vibrations made you smile and Sylus put his hand on your plush stomach.

“You really, really scared me.“ Sylus mumbled softly.

“Sorry“, you replied and Sylus helped you sit up.

• during remission: Sylus will service you in any way he can. He‘ll cook for you, bathe you. He’ll buy you any instrument that you may need for physical therapy and will do all of your exercises with you. Will not get upset at all if you snap at him when you’re in pain. He‘ll massage your scars and will offer sexual remedies. Though, he will never be this careless again. The memories of you laying in your own pool of blood will haunt him til he dies.

Caleb:

You were pretty confused. Yesterday, you and Caleb fought side by side against criminals. They were vicious and dangerous, but Caleb and you were managing well. Well, until you jumped in front of Caleb and got flung against the wall in his stead. Your back took the brunt of it and you were out like a light immediately. When you woke up yesterday evening, they told you that the damage was minor. Your back was extremely badly bruised, but it could’ve turned out so much worse, so you were very happy. The reason why you were confused was why Caleb wouldn’t show up. It was after- visiting hours yesterday after your surgery, so that wasn’t all to surprising, but he didn’t visit you today either.

You were being released today and walked out of the hospital. You sighed and saw a a tall man in a familiar uniform waiting in front of the hospital. Caleb stood in front of you in his colonel uniform. His face was emotionless and he looked at you from the top of your head to your shoes.

“Caleb, Hi.“ You greeted in confusion.

“Are you okay?“, he asked monotonely and you raised your eyebrows and nodded. He sniffed and nodded. Caleb bent down and took your bag and started walking.

“Okay..“, you replied in confusion and trailed after him.

You reached the car and he put the seatbelt on you and drove the two of you home. He still hadn’t said anything and stared at the road. When the two of you reached his house, he helped you up the stairs. His hand wrapped firmly around your wrist and he slowly led you over to the bed.

“Okay, do you wanna tell me what’s going on with you or should we just pretend that everything is normal?“

You sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. Caleb stood in front of you and clenched his jaw. He looked down at the ground with tight fists and his lips wobbled. Your eyes softened and Caleb fell to his knees. Tears streamed down his face and he pressed his face into the plush of your thighs. He sobbed his heart out as his shoulders shook. You gently stroked over his scalp and let him cry.

“Don‘t you ever fucking do that again. It doesn’t matter if it happens to me, but it can’t happen to you- it just can’t. Fuck. There’s no me without you. Just kill me if you had to choose between the two of cause I’d follow you anyways. Please just don’t-“, you interrupted his rambling and cupped his cheeks. He cried and leaned into your touch like a puppy and you stroked away the tears under his eyes.

“I‘m okay, it’s just a bruise. A big one, but just a bruise nonetheless.

Caleb sniffed and wiped his tears. He looked up at you and took of your shirt. Caleb slowly rose and walked over to face your back. He let out a scoff and you looked at him. His eyes were laser focused on your injury and he didn’t say anything for a few minutes until he pulled out his phone. He took a picture of your back and then gently nudged you until you laid on your stomach.

“I have something to do, but I’ll be back right after. Do you need food? Painkillers? Do you need to pee?“, he asked and you sighed.

“You‘re leaving again? You already weren’t there yesterday.“ The words tumbled out before you could stop them and his breath hitched.

“The only reason why I wasn’t there is because of the same reason now. I swear to you on everything that I’ll be back after this. I’m so sorry that you were alone today.“

You nodded in agreement and he leaned over and tenderly kissed the rolls of your back. “Get some sleep. I’ll take care of the rest when I get back.“

Caleb reached his work building and walked quickly through his office and saw the criminals from yesterday. They got away after he heard the crack of your body against the wall. Caleb shook himself out of that nightmarish scenario and looked at the beaten and bloody criminals in front of him. It took the entire day, but he finally found them. Their lair wasn’t as well hidden as they’d hoped. He crossed his arms over his chest and pulled out his phone. He opened up the gallery to reveal the picture he took of your injury and he showed it to them.

“Remember that? Cause I do.“

Caleb stared at the picture until he memorised every single detail of it and and put it back in his pocket.

“I remember every single thing about it.“ Caleb tilted his head to the side and used his evol to apply pressure on their backs. The criminals started screaming and Caleb smiled. He needed to hurry up, you already felt neglected by him.

When Caleb made his way home after he finished up his business, he found you in the same position he had left you in. Your injury was still exposed and he stared at it. This was his fault. His shame and his burden to bare.

“Caleb?“

“Yes, pipsqueak?“

“I think I was wrong. I do need your help to pee.“

He chuckled softly and helped you sit up. He gently grabbed your hands and led you to the bathroom.

-during remission: pretty much nothing changes. He‘ll still do most of the chores around the house (because he wants to do them) and will feed you, cook for you, bathe you, and do the laundry. He‘ll never tell you about what he did to those men and you never ask him. Some nights the memories of your bruised body keep him awake, though. On these nights he‘ll want to bury himself in your ample chest and never leave.

[neigepomme]

cw // NSFW. virginity loss with X-02 / some spoilers for caleb's myth

thinking about the first time with caleb as X-02. buried deep within his memories is this desire to touch you, to experience your warmth, and to find out how you feel wrapped around him — to learn what faces and sounds you make when you eventually fall victim to the overwhelming pleasure.

caleb would take his time, push away all of the thoughts telling him to thrust into you harder and harder in order to satisfy his own wants. instead, he prioritizes you, just like he's always done. he taught you about the warmth of one another, showed you what happiness feels like, and made you feel alive.

he would be the first to teach you what euphoria feels like, and he'd be so sweet — but not too soft. caleb knows what's best for you, but his heart still clenches when he sees you grimace in discomfort at first. your pain receptors may have been dulled by the researchers at OTHAN, but you're still capable of knowing what pain is, and despite your body having experienced numerous wounds in battle, adjusting to caleb's size is still a challenge.

just like the first time when he exchanged energy with you, a wave of cold discomfort washes over you, but his arms embrace your body, keeping you in place while you gasp and clench around him in order to get used to that feeling of fullness. caleb knows what's good for you, and letting you squirm and run away from him isn't a good thing. so he kisses your face softly, starting with your forehead, then your eyes, cheeks, and finally, your lips — the tenderness of it all a stark contrast from the bruising grip he has on your hips as he bottoms out into you.

eventually, the discomfort subsides, and you see your expression reflected in caleb's eyes. your flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes, the quiet whimpers and moans falling from your lips. in between pants, you speak softly and wrap your arms around his neck.

"is this.. euphoria?"

your tone and curiosity, carrying hints of longing and hidden desires, act like aphrodisiacs for caleb. in your field of vision, you see drops of sweat trickle down his forehead, and he's mirroring your red cheeks — his dazed expression, full of adoration amplifying the strange tightening sensation you feel in your lower stomach. he just smiles at you before nodding, pressing another delicate kiss to your lips before moving his mouth on your neck, suckling purple bruises near your pulse point.

without your exoskeletons on, you can feel his warmth, and it's like you've uncovered the taste of the forbidden fruit. greedily, your hands shift from his neck to his back, and you try to move your hips in an attempt to meet his thrusts, seeking out more of this warmth, more of this feeling — trying to release the tight coil in your stomach.

"do you feel good?"

it's caleb's turn to ask a question, and in response, all you can do is moan and drag your nails softly down his back, careful not to scratch him too hard. you shake your head yes, and it's so hard to formulate sentences, when all you can think of is caleb. his name repeats like a mantra in your mind before making its way to your lips. you call for him, unaware of what you're even seeking. that is until it clicks for you, spoken through your body like a fact that the universe itself decreed.

you're seeking caleb out.

"wanna feel more warmth, wanna feel you more — wanna be one with you, caleb."

in response, caleb's eyes widen, and he moans, pressing himself against your body more, his hips driving into you harder than before. his restraints slowly die down as he observes your mannerisms when you get closer and closer to your release — mesmerized by the way you clench down on him involuntarily, the way you arch your back to meet his chest. his hand moves down to rub tight circles against your clit, making the volume of your cries for him increase tenfold.

when you inevitably reach your high, all you can do is babble caleb's name repeatedly, as you cup his cheeks, your foreheads pressed together. you can practically feel caleb's heart beating against yours, syncing up as the speed of his thrusts increases. you look down to where the two of you are joined, and the visual stimuli of his cock sliding in and out of you, covered in your slick and his pre-cum sends your mind and body into overdrive, moaning harder and harder as caleb's motions grow more frantic, desperate. eventually, the pace between his thrusts becomes uneven, and you feel his warm release shoot into your womb. his voice rougher yet laced with devotion as he comes, and the weight of his words reach your hazy mind.

"i love you i love you i love you — fuck, i love you so much."

breathing hard, he collapses on top of you, careful not to crush you under his weight. both of your bodies spent, yet feeling so fulfilled. stroking his hair softly, the way he did with you, you repeat his words to him, and although you don't quite understand them, they feel right. he feels right, and you wouldn't trade this unknown feeling for anything in the world.

"i love you, caleb."

🍎 pomme's notes — clang clang clang clang (usb connect disconnect sound x81981789) . erm . Ya !

[angelickks]

II. hunger 

                         REVENANT, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader

synopsis He drifted state to state, working as a farmhand, horse breaker, ditch digger, and hired gun when it came to that. By the time he ended up in her part of the country, he was thirty-three. Hard-eyed, quiet. The kind of man who’d been beaten too many times to flinch. He arrived after sundown, pack on his back, boots worn thin. The land stretched out gold and empty under a dying sky. He thought maybe he’d work for a few months, then vanish again. Just another hand. Just another name no one remembered. Until she met him with a blade as sharp as her tongue and blood across his throat.

warning(s) famine. trauma. death. grief. colonialism. violence. discrimination. religious undertones. swearing. mentions of alcohol. angst and slow burn as fuck. mention of guns, knives. blood. remmick as a ranch hand. whole lot of character lore. this one’s long as shit guys soz- reader described as having hair long enough to braid. no use of y/n. some flirting. (gif not mine)

 angel talks first off, THANK U GUYS FOR UR LOVE AND SUPPORT ON JUST THE FIRST PART ALONE!! i was a lil worried at first bcuz it was long asf and so so packed with some character building (like this part isn’t packed w it too but i digress) BUT u guys ate that shit up and i couldn’t be more grateful. as mentioned in the authors note i did change remmicks lore around, now in this vers, heavily imagined like roy goode or patrick sumner typa look to him. why did i go that direction? cuz i said so DUH and it so matches. pls heed the warnings cuz this one gets more angst.

#NAV.ᐟ prev - I. damnation ⋆.˚revenant mlist, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader⋆.˚ ao3

"jesus christ, don't be kind to me

honey, don’t feed me, i will come back."

AMERICA DIDN’T SAVE HIM. It just fed him slower.

No, it just devoured him slower—bite by bite, smile by smile, dressed up in false promises and stained tavern sheets.

It didn’t cleanse him. It didn’t sanctify him. It clung to him.

Like smoke. Like hunger. Like sickness that settled into marrow and pretended to be salvation. This country didn’t offer redemption—it offered delay. A slow, aching rot that seeped into his bones like rain he hadn’t felt in decades, foreign and familiar in the worst ways. The kind of rain that didn’t cleanse—just reminded.

Of home. Of death. Of something sacred he’d been running from for far too long

In moments like this—where the road beneath his feet turned to gravel and bone, unpaved and jagged with intent, meant to tear at the soles of those too soft to survive—time had a cruel way of catching up with him. Like a hand he knew too well, fingers cold and familiar, the kind of touch that didn’t soothe but branded. A hand he’d grown to expect. Grown to need. Maybe even love, in the way a wound learns to live with rot.

An Gorta Mór. The Great Hunger. The third year—though truth be told, it could’ve been the second or the fourth. 1846 or 1845. Dates blurred like breath on glass when the world only taught you to count loss. He’d stopped keeping proper track around the time his bones ached with a life long full of pain and strangers stopped saying his name. Just counting bad. Just relying on the crooked maths whispered in crumbling corners of buildings that swore they were homes. They weren’t. Not really.

Now, all these years later, the echo of those numbers still clung to him like damp wool, heavy and sour. Hunger, after all, was a loyal ghost.

He came into the world while his mother bled on cold stone and his father dug burial plots not with tools, but with his own blistered hands. His earliest memories were of death: the curled-up bodies by the roadside, the smell of spoiled oats, the quiet sound of rosaries whispered through cracked lips. They buried their neighbors in shallow graves, their children in peat fields, and their pride with the land. His family were tenant farmers on British-stolen land, the kind where you worked your soul into the soil but owned nothing—least of all your fate. In the hush of night, when foreign men walked the land like they owned the soil instead of listening to it—ripping roots up by their throats rather than letting them run deeper—his father would speak in low, bitter tones about when it was theirs. His. His father’s. His father’s father before that. A line of men tethered to earth by calloused hands and quiet, stubborn pride, long before it was stolen by signatures and steel.

When the people starved, the grain was still exported to England. They burned their thatched roof in 1850 as they were forced out. His father died coughing into a rag on the coffin ship to Liverpool. His younger sister followed two weeks later. By the time Remmick reached Boston Harbor in 1851, he was twelve years old and completely alone. All that remained was his name—stripped of lineage, no surname he could cling to, to stake a claim the way his father once did over stolen land—a boiling rage, and the weight of old prayers clinging to an Irish ridden tongue. Words half-remembered, muttered more out of muscle than faith, like a ghost of belief passed down through blood and famine.

Americans called him “Mick,” spat at his accent, made him fight for wages that could barely buy bread. But rage makes a man useful. It makes him feared. It makes him hungry.

Through every trench, bruise, bloodied fists and an even bloodier face, he worked in stables, factories, railroads—whatever paid enough to keep his ribs from showing. He recounts New York, his turning point, when Irish immigrants were forced to fight in a war they didn’t start, for a country that barely tolerated them. He left for the frontier after that. The West was rough, cruel, unpaved—but at least it didn’t pretend to be kind. He drifted from state to state, remembering every cruel turn and pit of a new place but the same hunger. 

The clang of iron on iron echoed like thunder in his skull. Hot, bitter, and unrelenting, the mill roared with a kind of madness Remmick had long grown used to. Men shouted over the hiss of steam, sweat clung to their backs like a second skin, and the whole damn place stank of coal, blood, and broken ambition. He moved through it like a ghost that refused to die. Not quite one of them, but not dead enough to stop working either.

A hardhat hung off one crooked nail, but Remmick never wore it. It didn't matter how many times the foreman barked about false safety. If something was gonna fall on his skull, he figured it’d be God’s will, not steel’s.

He swung the hammer again—once, twice, the rhythm steady. Not because he cared. Because it kept him breathing.

“Keep movin’, or you’ll rot,” his old boss in Louisiana used to say. The man was dead now, last Remmick heard. Face down in a ditch with gambling debts carved into his skin. Remmick hadn't mourned him, but he remembered the voice. That was enough. He grunted and adjusted his grip, staring down at the glowing metal as if it might tell him something he hadn’t already learned the hard way.

He’d done it all by then. Coal miner, bootleg hauler. Spent three weeks running payroll for a two-bit rail company until he pistol-whipped the wrong supervisor and disappeared across state lines with the man's boots and a pocket watch that never ticked right again.

The only thing he kept was the sack slung over his shoulder—filled with scraps of a life pieced together from what the world hadn’t already stolen—and the last, bitter thing he truly owned: his name.

It wasn’t pride that made him keep it. Wasn’t stupidity either. Remmick knew damn well the weight of a name. Knew what it meant to carry something that painted a target on your back in towns that feared ghosts and men deemed too low for life itself. But it was his. That was the point. They could take his blood, his teeth, the boots off his feet if they worked hard enough. And plenty had tried.

But his name? They’d have to kill him twice to pry that loose.

He didn’t dream anymore, not really. Not unless you count the flashes—ashes in his lungs, a woman's scream, the cold slap of the Atlantic. He figured the memories would fade eventually, but they never did. Just shifted. Warped. There was a scar on his rib from a bullet that never should’ve been his. A chipped tooth on the left side of his mouth from a Tennessee bar brawl that ended with someone else’s jaw broken and a horse he never got paid for. He had more old wounds than stories to explain them.

He didn’t flinch when the furnace roared, didn’t blink when sparks flared like fireworks across his brow. He barely noticed the shouting anymore—men cursing God or their wives or their luck. None of it mattered. On a stolen break, he sat on a dented tin drum behind the mill, rolling a smoke with hands blackened from coal dust. He wiped the sweat from his neck, exhaled slow through his nose, and stared out at the skyline of iron and fog.

“Ain’t no peace in it,” he murmured, not to anyone in particular. Just to the wind. Voice as raw and unfiltered as it was as a boy, “Just harder days and smaller wins.”

He missed quiet sometimes. The way the sea sounded when it didn’t want to kill you. The rustle of grass on a still morning before the world woke up enough to disappoint you. But he’d been chasing that luxury for years, and all he ever got was silence. And that silence…it had teeth.

Later, when he was offered a different job—less heat, more violence—he didn’t say no. A man in a gray coat with a silver pocket pistol and a scar like a canyon on his jaw made him an offer in low tones. Something about a land dispute, something about needing someone who didn’t ask questions. Remmick just nodded. He wasn’t one for speeches.

“Pay in advance?” he asked. The man nodded, passed him a wad of crumpled notes and a single bullet

“This one’s just in case you get sentimental.”

Remmick chuckled dark, shoved the bullet into his coat pocket, and spit into the dust.

“Sentiment’s for men who ain’t been fed to the world yet.”

Then he walked away—boots heavy, spine straight, lungs blackened but still breathing.

Still chasing something. Not peace. Not God. Just another mile between him and whatever was catching up behind

The only constant in his life—as far back as memory served, as far as the ache in his bones could stretch—was the sun, and all the violence it carried. The kind of sun that didn’t warm, but burned. That cracked the earth, blistered skin, and made shadows run long like guilt. It rose without mercy and set without promise, and he followed it all the same, day after day, like a dog chasing something it could never catch.

Now, the soles of his stolen boots were wearing thinner than when he’d first pried them off a man whose face he can't remember. He walked like someone who knew the road wouldn’t be kind and didn’t care. Dust on his cuffs, blood in the stitching. A man made of miles, and of what the sun left behind.

And yet, beneath a moon that forgives with the kind of brutal grace only the night knows—painted pale and shining soft enough to fool the desperate—he hums. Low and rough, a tune half-forgotten but stubborn, one he carried with him ever since he left Texas. It slips past cracked lips into the rim of a grimy glass, filled with something cheap and cruel that burns like memory. All of this—this quiet, twisted version of luxury—was “bought” with stolen or earned bills, not that it mattered, they all spent the same to him. All soaked in sweat and phantom blood, crumpled deep in the seams of his patched-up pocket. Money that never felt like his, not really. Just another thing taken, like everything else. Money that was wearing thin now, in the borderlands. 

Drunkard tales drifted through the saloon like old ghosts, thick with slurred bravado and the scent of spilled whiskey. In the far corner, a nameless singer crooned for his supper, voice frayed like the hem of an old prayer. He sat at the bar, spine aching against the wall, worn down by time and travel. Eyes sharp, tracking every exit, every movement—because old habits don’t die, they dig in. 

Remmick didn’t move much—just nursed his glass of whatever burnt going down and kept his ears open, that low hum still stuck beneath his breath like a buried tune.

By the bar, a pair of workers leaned in too close to their drinks, dusty boots propped on the brass rail, spitting tobacco into cracked clay pots. Their voices carried in a slow drawl, that kind of molasses-thick tone born from heat, hard land, and not nearly enough good sleep.

"Fella passed through Hallow’s Edge last week—y’know, that stretch by the ranch? Place where the fence runs out like it’s afraid of wha’s on the other side?"

"Hell yeah, I know it. Ain’t just a ranch, it’s a goddamn wound. Beautiful though. Looks like someone laid gold over bones."

The other man grunted in agreement, eyes narrowed beneath a brim heavy with trail dust.

"Well, some stranger—city slicker by the looks of him, some tenderfooted fucker if ya ask me—thought he’d take a shortcut through. Came out the other end lookin’ like the devil himself had a bone to pick. Face all tore up, ribs pokin’ through like a damn scarecrow. Didn’t even make it to town proper—just collapsed near the watering trough, blood in his teeth, sayin’ some woman smiled at him ‘fore it all went black."

Laughter wasn’t mean, but it sure as hell wasn’t kind. “Sounds like the ranch gave him its version of a howdy-do.”

Remmick’s brow twitched—just a hair—but he didn’t look their way. Just traced the rim of his glass, watching the amber swirl like he was reading it for signs.

A ranch.

He’d heard tales before—once, maybe twice—like a whispered dare passed between cowards and killers before he crossed state lines. Somewhere sitting pretty around this area. A ranch too beautiful to be real, too quiet to be right. Something about it gnawed at him, slow and steady. He let the conversation bleed back into silence. Let the saloon chatter rise and fall. But the way his shoulders rolled back, how his gaze lingered too long on the map nailed behind the bar, eyes tracing where that ranch would be. 

He’d picked it up fast, out in the borderlands—wasn’t a decent soul for miles. And if by some miracle you stumbled on one, you’d be lucky if they lasted you ten. Ten miles before the land got to you. Not teeth and claws, but something worse. Something soft. Quiet. Cruel in a way only the Earth could be.

The land didn’t have to strike to kill. It just waited. Wilted you slow under its sun, coaxed the salt from your skin, kissed your lips dry with dust. Remmick had danced with that death more times than he cared to name. Knew her rhythm now. The land's touch could be beautiful—seductive even—but her fingers were quick, and her hunger was the patient kind.

She’d feed you comfort, and then gut you clean. And if you weren’t careful, she’d leave nothing behind but your name—and even that would rot in the wind.

Finding work—real work—was always the game. A necessary ritual for a man with pockets that had never known the weight of anything but grief, bad luck, and the slow, steady ache of death trailing him like a shadow. It had been that way since boyhood, since the day he’d been shoved onto a boat too young to understand the depth of the ocean or the weight of leaving everything behind.

Out here, in towns too small for secrets and too devout for mercy, it was harder still. Places like this didn’t offer second chances, let alone first ones. Every soul was accounted for, every name whispered in pews or passed between hands like gossip over warm bread and cheap liquor. There was no such thing as anonymity—just suspicion with a smile.

And God—God was always watching, or so they claimed. A false God, Remmick accused and had a heavy disdain for. One that sat fat and silent while men scrawled names into water-warped books, claimed it was holy just ‘cause the ink ran with prayers. But those prayers? They never reached higher than the steeple roof. Not when they came from hands that beat their own children, from mouths that drank blood and called it wine, from men who punished and pardoned in the same breath.

He knew what faith looked like when it was stolen. Saw it starved out of villages that bore his grandfather's name. Watched it rot in the bellies of fathers buried in mass graves no one prayed over. Back on land that bore his roots, the church wore gold while his people dug through dirt for crumbs—called it famine, called it God's will, like salvation was something you could ration. He remembered the hunger, yes, but worse was the hatred. How the same men who kissed crucifixes condemned their kind with spit and rope. Remmick never forgot that. Never would. And in his chest, beneath scar and sin, sat the heat of a thousand whispered curses—he’d been at this treacherous excuse of a “better life” for too long to even remember the mother tongue, but confident none of them were in English, and none of them meant to be forgiven.

Here, in this town, in this country that held not a single one of his roots, holiness was just cruelty in its Sunday best.

And still, he asked for work. Always asked. Because hunger didn’t care much for theology. And neither did the slow rot of poverty that clung to him like a second skin. 

And like a sinner pacing the length of a confessional, words burning the back of his throat, Remmick moved through the night in search of something—salvation, maybe, or just shelter from the ache gnawing through his limbs. Divine intervention wasn’t on the table. Not for someone like him. God had long since turned His eyes elsewhere, if He’d ever looked his way at all.

To the untrained eye, he walked steady. Boots hitting the dirt in slow, deliberate rhythm, coat pulled tight against the cool hush of approaching dawn. But the truth bled through in the stagger of his steps. A slight wobble when he turned corners too fast. That too-familiar drunken sway that clung to him like a second shadow. He wasn't stumbling out of recklessness. It was habit, exhaustion, and the burn of whatever godless liquor they’d poured down his throat hours before.

The town, if it could be called that, was half asleep. Lamps flickered low in windows. A dog barked once, then thought better of it. Wooden signs creaked above darkened storefronts, their letters faded like old scars. This wasn’t a place for mercy or comfort. It was the kind of place people passed through, left pieces of themselves behind in, and never spoke of again.

And yet—there it was.

Tucked back off the main road, more shadow than structure: an inn. Weather-beaten, sagging a little at the eaves, but still standing. Still lit. A single yellow glow spilled from the front window, warm and hazy like it hadn’t been cleaned in a decade. The paint peeled in curls from the frame. It smelled of woodsmoke, rain, and something older. 

He paused, one hand on the rust-bitten handle, eyes scanning the door like it might bite. Then he stepped inside. The lobby was narrow, quiet, with floors that groaned under his boots. A woman behind the counter looked up from a tattered ledger, her eyes skimming over him with practiced indifference. She’d seen worse. Probably housed it.

“Got a room?” he asked, voice dry—scraped raw from dust, drink, and too many miles unspoken. The Irish accent was buried deep in his throat, tucked into the same hollow pockets that carried his sins. Hidden like shame beneath the smoother one he’d learned to wear—pieced together from overheard conversations on trains, boats, and behind saloons where he lingered too long, just listening. Picking vowels like fruit, softening consonants like bruises. A man who knew how to vanish into his own voice.

“Just the one,” she said, and didn’t ask questions. He reached into his coat and dropped what was left of his money onto the counter—crumpled bills, coins still warm from his palm. Phantom blood money. Stolen, borrowed, all of them teetering on the edge of being earned. The kind that stinks even when it doesn’t leave a mark.

She took it without counting, slid a rusted key across the counter with two fingers.

“Upstairs. Second on the left. Sheets’re clean enough.”

That was all he needed. Remmick took the key and dragged his feet to the stairs. He didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. The door creaked closed behind him with the finality of a coffin lid. And upstairs, in a room that smelled like old cedar and forgotten sins, he fell into the mattress with a groan, boots still on, coat still damp, eyes already beginning to slip shut.

Outside, the wind howled low, like something warning or mourning—he could never tell the difference. And inside, he finally let the long awaited silence come.

He woke with the sharp, final urgency of a man who’s never known real rest—a kind of rising that felt more like survival than routine. The kind carved into muscle memory, into the bones of someone who’s always had to earn their breath.

Outside, the sun was already climbing—hot and mean, with no promises in its light, only hunger wrapped in gold. He watched it bleed through the frayed curtain in the corner of the room, catching on dust like specks of old ghosts. Honey-warm, but just as cruel.

He’d tasted honey once or twice, maybe. Couldn’t say for sure. Most sweetness in his life had been chased down through grit and grime, meals paid for with time and blood he never really had to spare. But today, like every day, he needed something useful. Work. Coin. Anything that might keep him upright a little longer. Another day to trade sweat for nothing and call it a life.

And so, the routine began—same calloused hands, different town.

This morning, those same calloused hands scraped over the coarse scruff lining his jaw—a beard that caught the sun with rust-tinged edges, more red now than it ever was when he first started growing it. It stayed just tidy enough, thanks to stolen blades and the mercy of still pond water when he could find it.

Every so often, as if summoned by the quiet of morning, a flash of his mother’s sharp voice would slip in, coated in a tongue he no longer remembers but his memory, the only thing that served, on occassion, right about him, understood—scolding his father for the "unruly whiskers" she claimed made him look half-feral. Those echoes, softened by time but still barbed at the ends, clung to Remmick’s fingers like ghosts as he trimmed the edges clean. If he caught his reflection, he knew what he’d see—jagged edges, sunburned skin, and those unruly whiskers curling sharp along his jaw. The beard would betray him, always did, especially when the red caught the light just right. A color that didn’t belong to him anymore. A color that whispered things he had no right to remember.

His fingers brushed the back of his neck, pausing over the curls that had grown too long again—soft, defiant things that coiled at the nape like they didn’t know better. He’d have to shear them soon. Before they drew the wrong kind of notice. Before someone looked at him too closely and remembered how easy it is to treat a man like him as nothing but wild, something to be caged or culled.

He dressed with precision, not pride—layering threadbare clothes that blended just enough to pass. Nothing too fine, but everything too worn. Just another face, another body in the crowd. No one worth watching, no one worth stopping. God forbid he draws attention. 

The door creaked open, and Remmick stepped out into a sun so hot it could’ve skinned a man alive just for breathing under it too long. It beat down heavy, merciless, the kind of heat that made the dust curl up off the earth in ghostly swirls. The town was already in full swing—horses clopped along uneven roads, wagon wheels shrieked over gravel, and the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer rang out like distant gunfire. Children darted through alleyways barefoot, mothers shouting after them with hands on hips. And men—too many men—lingered in doorways with narrowed eyes and mouths full of suspicion. Remmick adjusted the wide-brimmed hat he’d stolen two towns back, tugged it lower over his brow.

His sack thudded against his spine with each step. He kept his gait even, lazy, like he had nowhere in particular to be—which was half true. But anonymity is fragile. And in towns like this, trouble doesn’t need an introduction.

He hadn’t made it ten steps past the hitching post when a loud crack rang out—a shout, followed by the unmistakable sound of fists meeting flesh. A scuffle outside the general store. Two men in a tangle of limbs and rage, one already bleeding from the lip, the other hollering about “cheating bastards” and “what’s owed.”

Remmick didn’t stop to think. He never had to.

While heads turned, hands grabbed shoulders, and boots scuffed forward into the fray, he slid sideways like smoke. The man who’d dropped his coin purse in the middle of the chaos never felt a thing. Remmick’s fingers were fast, practiced. By the time he slipped the weight into his pocket and shouldered his sack again, the man was still swinging wild at ghosts.

He kept moving. Down past the farrier’s. Past the brothel with its half-shuttered windows and painted girls watching the commotion with bored interest. He didn’t dare glance back. He could feel it, though—that heat on his spine now thicker than the sun. The feeling of being seen. Maybe not recognized, not yet. But noticed. That was enough. He spat into the dirt and kept walking.

So much for keeping his head down.

Remmick didn’t quicken his pace—that was how you got clocked. Instead, he turned a corner, slipped between two buildings slick with sweat and mildew, and ducked into the shadowed mouth of a shop left wide open. The bell above the door had been silenced with a knot of twine—probably broken days ago and never fixed.

Empty.

Every warm body in town was still crowded around the fistfight out front, hooting like it was Sunday sermon. The shelves were picked over, but not stripped. Crates of dry goods and supple fruits that enticed the low growl in his stomach lined the floor, and a half-full register sat behind the counter. He didn’t bother with that—he wasn’t greedy, just cursed. But beggars can’t be choosers and he makes quick work of a loaf that's been sitting out too long and the fruits he’d probably never see for another number of miles if he was unsuccessful in his pursuits. His boots made soft thuds over wood warped by decades of heat and boots and blood. Behind the counter, tucked into the corner like someone’s afterthought, was a small moleskin pouch, cracked at the edges from use. He picked it up, thumbed it open.

Tobacco. Still fresh.

The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile. God was cruel, but sometimes he played fair for a moment or two.

He tucked the pouch into the inside of his coat, where it joined the stolen coins still warm from someone else’s pocket. Then he slipped back out the way he came, quieter than breath, into an alley that smelled like horses and heat.

The shouting had grown louder. Someone had drawn a knife. He didn’t care. Let the whole damn town carve itself up and bleed into the dirt. They’d forget the man who walked through them soon enough, even if he left a shadow behind.

He struck a match off the heel of his boot, the flare brief and angry in the morning glare. A scrap of paper—creased and soft—was rolled tight between calloused fingers, stuffed with stolen tobacco. He took a drag, deep and slow, just as the first chimes of the church bells cracked through the dust like gunfire.

God always did have a cruel sense of timing when it came to men like him—full of wrath, bone-deep weariness, and not a drop of grace left to spare. Maybe it was a curse. Maybe it was justice. Hell, maybe it was just the way things were for men built the way he was: always reaching, always running, never quite forgiven.

Still, he walked.

Wandering, but not lost. The memory of the map he'd studied too long in the corner of the dim saloon burned behind his eyelids like a brand. Faint lines. Ink-stained promises. Roads etched in whiskey and desperation. A direction carved more by instinct than destination. A path meant only for the desperate and the damned.

And that, he figured, suited him just fine. 

His steps hit the Earth heavy with a hunger older than his body, moved by the worn-out hope that somewhere—anywhere—might feed him long enough to make it through another month without dying or getting caught.

╭━━━━━ ━━━━━╮

Cypress curled in like they were just as worn as he was—leaning crooked and tired over the trail, their shadows reaching long and slow like fingers trying to pull him back. The sun, now dipping low along the horizon, bled gold into rust, casting the land in that strange kind of light that made even dust look holy. It clung to his boots, to the sweat drying on his neck, to the sharp ache that had begun to settle in the base of his spine from walking too long without rest.

His breath came shallow, more out of instinct than need—Remmick had long since learned how to make do with less. Less water. Less food. Less kindness.

He kept walking until the trees gave way to a long stretch of fenced land, wire and wood warped by heat and age. A warning, maybe, for the kind of people who cared about those. Remmick didn’t.

He spotted the hole in the fence before he even realized his feet had slowed. It was small, tucked behind a thicket of brush, but there—like a door left ajar by a land that wasn’t his. The kind of invitation that didn’t need words. Just hunger. Just weariness.

He ducked through the break without hesitation, the wire catching slightly on the strap of his sack before he tugged it loose with a grunt. The land beyond opened wide—overgrown but not dead, like something remembered and revered. A house sat in the distance, stained a deep brown, with smoke faint enough to make him question whether it was memory or present. Maybe someone was home. Maybe someone was dead. Maybe it didn’t matter.

He stood for a moment, eyes sweeping the property, chest rising slow. Then he moved forward—quiet, deliberate, uninvited. Like always. But not without a plan.

Remmick had survived off worse odds, bartered with crueler men. This time, he’d play it smart—hands open, voice level, chin tilted in that respectful, half-submissive way that made men feel a little taller. He’d find whoever owned the place—likely a man, mean and practical—and offer what he had. A body that still worked, a back that could carry weight, and a sharp eye for broken things. Fences, tools, roofs—didn’t matter. He’d offer to fix the break he came through, too. He could smooth that over easy: Saw it on my way by, figured I’d follow it in to tell you myself. Lucky it’s someone honest, huh?

He’d say it with a confident nod, the kind that made people uneasy before they caught themselves liking it.

The land itself was no easy mistress. Remmick had walked enough country, crossed enough cursed ridgelines and blood-wet valleys, to know when soil held memory—and when it held malice. Some places were conquered, torn apart and left to rot beneath whispers of bone and smoke—ghosts of the innocent humming vengeance through the weeds. Others were sweet-talkers, soft and syrupy, beckoning the foolish with golden light and gentle winds, only to devour them whole when no one was watching. And then there were the ones like old men’s hands—hard, cruel, and cracked from labor not their own. Stolen lands, made sacred by force and fear. 

But this stretch? This ranch? It breathed. Not just lived—breathed.

Remmick could feel it in the way the air dragged through his lungs, thick with copper and wild mint. In the way the earth gave a little beneath his boots, like it was testing his weight, measuring him without kindness or cruelty. Just seeing if he’d hold. The fields stretched far and gold-tinged, rolling and dipped like a body resting after battle. And there was something in the soil—not a curse, not a wound—but a weight. A presence. Blood here didn’t feel like a stain—it felt like inheritance. Not taken by force, but birthed. Nurtured. Watered by sweat and sun and generations of staying put, come hell or high water.

This land had roots deeper than anything Remmick could see, and they weren’t the kind you could tear out. These roots held stories, promises, and scars. They pulsed underfoot like veins.

It unsettled him in a way he couldn’t quite place—not with fear, but with familiarity. Like something he’d once known, in another life, or maybe in a dream. The ranch didn’t offer welcome, but it didn’t bare its teeth either. It simply watched.

Endless hills rolled in like waves turned to dust, dipping into steep ravines and sudden cliffs that cut the earth like it had been cracked by God’s own fist. Sounds of water that he knew had to be winding rivers sneaking through it all like veins—still, slick, and deep enough to swallow a man whole if he wasn’t paying attention. The grass, dry and half-dead in the fading sun, crunched under his boots, already brittle from heat. Come winter, he knew it’d freeze stiff, harder than bone.

This harsh beauty—weathered barns, fences that held more curses than nails, posts leaning like tired shoulders after long days. He remembers the talk of this place in the saloon. A place not named kindly, though no one dared speak ill of it too loud. Men lowered their voices when the ranch came up, muttering over their drinks like the land itself could hear them.

Brutal place, one had said, fingers curled tight around a sweating glass. Beautiful, another added, voice soft with something close to reverence.

They spoke of a man—the father—harder than the land he owned. A presence more than a person. Said his word was law out here, and his loyalty ran so deep it bled out of his kin. Said he’d chew a man up and spit out the bones if he crossed him wrong. And his daughter—well, they didn’t speak of her much. Not without looking away first. All Remmick could gather was that she wasn’t for the faint-hearted, and no one got close without earning scars.

He stepped further, every crunch of grass underfoot swallowed by the wind.

A place like this didn’t forget. Not the trespassers. Not the faithful. And sure as hell not the desperate. His eyes kept sweeping the land, sharp and steady, even as the sun began to drop behind the hills—bleeding gold into the tall grass, turning the weeds into firelit threads. Time was thinning. He’d have to move fast if he wanted to secure anything of use before nightfall set in and made every shadow a threat.

Up ahead, tucked low against the incline, stood a barn—small, squat, and cloaked in what looked like a recent coat of paint, the kind of effort that said someone still gave a damn about the place. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. A place like that might have tools. Might have hands that needed more hands. Might even have someone willing to look past a man’s grime if he could swing a hammer or mend a fence.

Remmick spat into the dirt and started toward it, his steps deliberate but slow, calculating how he’d play this. No sudden movements. No tales unless they were asked for. Just sweat and skill and maybe, if luck hadn’t turned completely on him, a chance to stay somewhere a little warmer than the road.

While steps were slow, measured. He didn’t want to spook anything—beast or man. He knew how to approach wild things, and this land, this ranch tucked deep like a secret worth keeping, felt alive in a way that had his every instinct lit up like lightning in his ribs.

He made it halfway to the house, sack still slung over one shoulder, boots kicking up loose dirt with every quiet step. The windows up the hill glowed faint with lamplight, and the scent of woodsmoke drifted through the air like memory. He figured he’d knock soft, ask for work, maybe barter with the last of his strength. If nothing else, he’d offer to fix the break in the fence he snuck through. Just enough to earn a cot in the hay.

But then—a flash of movement in the dark.

He caught it too late.

The breath left his lungs in a grunt as something sharp dragged clean across his throat. Not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to make the world reel and punish. His hand flew to the wound as warm blood spilled fast between his fingers, hot and slick. He staggered back, sack dropping to the dirt, boots scuffing against the packed earth.

“Fuck!” He snarled, low and guttural, the word dragging itself out of his throat in his full, unhidden brogue—rough like gravel, thick like old whiskey. The mask he usually wore had cracked clean through, now paired with a gash across his throat and a trickle of blood blooming from how hard he bit his lip on the sudden impact.

She was already on him. Not some panicked ranch wife with trembling hands and a shotgun held too loose. No, this one moved like a ghost that’d learned how to fight. Controlled. Dead steady. The kind of woman bred for brutality and raised by land that didn’t give out softness unless it was earned, and even then, just sparingly given out like rations he’d live by in factories. Her blade caught the half-moonlight like a smirk made of iron. Short. Personal. The kind used not for show but for gutting things close-range.

“Fuck you doin’ on my ranch, huh?!”

Her voice came low and mean, cut from the same cloth as the wind curling cruel through the grass. It bit worse than the blade she hadn’t even truly used yet.

Remmick blinked rapidly, vision wavering, but he didn’t so much as stagger. His mouth twitched into something that might’ve passed for a grin—feral and red, one tooth stained pink, gleaming with spit and iron.

“That how y’all greet everyone ‘round here? Or just the ones askin’ for a bit of honest work?”

For half a heartbeat, he swore he saw something flicker behind her glare—surprise, maybe. But then it hit.

Her fist cracked across his jaw like gunfire. No warning, just wrath. A clean, practiced punch that snapped his head sideways and sent a fresh wave of blood down his jaw. It poured hot and quick, soaking the collar of his shirt and dripping to the dust below. The ringing in his ears built to a sharp buzz now singing across his face. He barely had time to grit his teeth before her hand was in his collar, jerking him forward with a force that belied her size. 

“Who are you talking to, stranger?” she hissed, all fire and venom. “I oughta gut you and feed you to my fuckin’ dogs for even breathing here.”

Remmick was stunned. Not because of the threat—he’d heard worse, lived through worse. But the woman wielding it? She wasn’t bluff. She was carved from cruelty and command, eyes as sharp as the knife in her grip. No fear. Not a drop of hesitation. She looked at him like a problem she knew exactly how to solve—with blood and silence.

And fuck him, but some twisted, rusted-out piece of him—maybe the same one that always walked toward thunder instead of away from it—respected the hell out of her. Even with her blade a breath from opening his throat like a second mouth.

He’d been a goddamn fool to let silence stretch this long. That was always his trouble—letting things hang too loose, too long, like rope waiting to be noosed. Half the time he didn’t care. But now? Now he wished he’d stitched that habit shut three states back. Because what came next was sharp and loud, a crack that tore through the night just like the one she’d left blooming across his cheek.

She yanked him forward so hard his shirt collar gave way with a violent rip. Cotton tore like paper in her grip, and now the blade hovered real close, the tip pressing just enough to make a threat out of pressure.

“You better speak up and fix the confused face” she hissed, breath hot and steady. “I asked you a question. You don’t answer, I drive this blade down your throat, and you’re gonna wish you’d never crawled outta whatever hole you came from.” Her voice was calm in the way only dangerous people could manage—like she’d done it before. Like she'd already decided what to do with his body once it stopped breathing.

“Jus’—just lookin’ for the man who runs the land,” Remmick rasped, breath hitching, the copper in his mouth thick and bitter. “Honest work, ma’am. I swear it.”

His voice sounded foreign to him, hoarse and cracked like dry timber. Pathetic, almost. He’d fought men twice his size and crawled through places darker than hell with a blade in his gut, but this—this woman, this blade, this goddamn land under his boots—it made him feel stripped and foolish. Stumbling, bleeding, uninvited on land that didn’t even want his shadow near it.

He braced for more. And then came the sound: a sharp, disbelieving scoff that rolled from her throat like it could cut glass. 

Next was her palm—flat, calloused, and mean—slamming into the center of his chest. Not a punch, no, but it knocked the air out of him just the same. Like her hand carried the weight of the entire goddamn ranch behind it. He staggered back, boots dragging in the dirt, breath stolen.

“You’re lookin’ at her, asshole.”

There was fire in her eyes, not the kind that flickered. The kind that ate. She stood square, jaw tight, shoulders rolled like a fighter before a bell. And Remmick? He could do nothing but stare, vision blurring from the blood and the shame curling somewhere in his gut.

She was the one in charge. Fuck.

It landed hard and fast in his chest—he wasn’t looking for the man of the land. There wasn’t one. There was her. And she looked at him like she’d already decided his bones would make decent fence posts at the same break in the fence he sneaked into, if he gave her enough reason.

“My… apologies, ma’am. I’m just—” He faltered, finally registering the warm slickness creeping down his neck. The bleeding had picked up. Fast. His shirt was sticking to him, collar torn from her grip, his pride hanging by even less.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften. Didn’t even blink. If anything, she looked bored.

“Spit it out,” she snapped, eyes sharp as her blade. “Gimme a reason to hand you somethin’ to put pressure on that shit besides my boot.”

Not a drop of mercy. Just rage. Earned rage. The kind carved into someone who’d had to fight for every goddamn inch they owned. And Remmick—stupid, bleeding, cornered Remmick—knew better than to beg. So he offered something else. Something real.

“I can work,” he ground out. “Repairs, fences, livestock, tools. Hell, I’ll clean boots if you ask it. I’m not lookin’ for a handout. Just work. Just a place to sleep and enough to eat so I don’t bleed out in some ditch like a dog.” 

He took a breath that rattled in his chest, dirt thick on his tongue.

“I’ll fix that break in your fence. The one east side, tucked behind a stand of brush,” he added, voice lower, careful. “Didn’t think anyone saw it. But I did. You let me stay, I’ll make it better’n it was before.”

A long silence stretched between them, heavy as dusk. He didn’t beg. Didn’t blink. Just stood there with blood on his torn collar, hope in his voice, and nothing left to lose.

For a beat, she just stared at him—sharp and unmoved, like she was weighing the worth of his bones against the trouble he was already costing her. Her lip curled, a slow, disdainful thing. Then came the smallest shake of her head, like she couldn’t believe the audacity of the mess bleeding in her yard. Her hand dipped into her coat.

For a breath, Remmick wondered if this was it—if she was gonna pull iron and finish the job herself, let the beasts sort out what was left of him. Instead, she yanked out a handkerchief. Worn. Clean. Smelled faintly of saddle soap and cedar.

She shoved it hard into his chest, and he nearly stumbled back with the force of it.

“Go on,” she snapped, eyes blazing. “Told you already—put pressure on that damn thing. You bleeding out ain’t gonna fix you struttin’ up here like some idiot.”

She was fury wrapped in sun-bleached cotton and leather, and he—Remmick, sore and half-dead—did what any man with half a brain would do. He pressed the cloth to his neck and didn’t say another word.

“You’re no damn use to me if you’re leaking all over the dirt. Especially since I should gut you where you stand for being here”

He nodded, curt and now understanding, muttering to the cicadas buzzing around them. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

She didn’t wait for him to find his footing.

“Move.”

And move he did, half-stumbling behind her through the high grass, cradling the soaked handkerchief to his neck while she walked a step ahead like the Devil’s own fury in boots. The barn loomed ahead—broad and weathered but sturdy, the kind that didn’t fall down easy no matter how hard the storms hit. He was right, its wood was painted a fresh coat of white and was silver at the edges, the big doors yawning open just enough to reveal the amber flicker of lantern light inside.

They passed a long row of fenced paddocks, and even in the dim wash of twilight, the horses shone. Big, strong things, coats like spilled ink and molten copper, eyes dark and clever. One kicked at the dirt and snorted as they walked by, the others watching with a quiet dignity that Remmick remembered too well. That silence before the storm of muscle and instinct, before a colt broke wild or worse—broke you.

He slowed just enough to get a better look.

“Don’t,” she snapped, voice slicing through the buzz of cicadas.

Remmick turned his head sharply. She’d stopped walking. Her back was still to him, but her shoulders had squared like she felt his gaze, knew it for what it was.

“You’re bleeding on my land, stranger,” she said, quieter now but no softer. “That means you don’t get to look at my beautiful things. Not until you’ve earned it.”

He dipped his head, chastened. “Yes, ma’am.”

She grunted like that was good enough—for now—and shoved open the side door of the barn. It was cool inside, heavy with the scent of hay and leather, horses shifting in their stalls. She led him to a small room near the back, no more than a cot, a shelf, and a hook on the wall. Clean enough, but it still smelled like old tobacco and the sweat of men long gone.

“You’ll sleep here tonight,” she said. “Up before God himself tomorrow. Porch at first light. You so much as yawn too loud, I’ll put you to work muckin’ out stalls with your bare hands.”

Remmick nodded again, blood drying tacky on his skin, exhaustion sinking in like a stone tossed in a still pond. “Understood.”

Remmick leaned back slightly on the edge of the cot, the metal groaning beneath him, the sting in his neck pulsing dull and wet. His sack of belongings lay at his feet, and the handkerchief in his hand was soaked dark now, clinging to his skin like penance. He looked up at her—this woman who hadn’t so much as blinked when she’d slammed her fist into his face or threatened to feed him to her dogs—and for a moment, all he could think was: Goddamn.

The moonlight, soft as it was, painted her like a myth. It cut across the slats above them and bathed her in silver, like something half-forgiven, half-feral. A face too fine for fists and warnings, too damn carved for the life she clearly lived—but she wore it like armor. And her words, her threat, was the blade beneath.

“You can run, stranger,” she said, voice steady as a bullet chambered. “But I promise you, there ain’t a damn stone in this town I’ve ever left unturned, and that sentiment isn’t startin’ with you. I find even a damn horseshoe missin’ if you decide to leave, I’ll keep my promise, and my dogs are gonna be fat n’ happy after I’m done.”

She stepped closer, casting a longer shadow across the floor. “So do what you came to do and sleep. Don’t stare at my fuckin’ horses too long. And I better find you on my porch.”

Then she nodded—one final exclamation mark to her warning—before turning on her heel.

Remmick blinked, heart thudding slow and heavy like boots in mud. The corner of his mouth twitched—just barely—into a ghost of a grin a man doesn’t earn, not when he’s bleeding. He’d never been the type to put much stock in women past a warm night and a way to blow off steam, but he’d seen beauty before. Plenty of it. Just not the kind that came with a fist to the jaw and a voice like thunder rolling low across a field.

This one didn’t just strike him—she damn near branded him. Fury in a face too fine for the damage she dealt, and still, every bit of it felt deserved. He was an idiot for stumbling in uninvited. Worse for liking the way she reminded him he wasn’t invisible after all.

Jesus Christ, he thought, tasting iron on his tongue again. 

Out loud, his voice came rough—raw like whiskey left too long in the throat, edged with dust, dried blood, and a kind of reverence that wasn’t holy but something close to it in the way only ruined men could understand. 

“Ma’am,” he rasped, letting the word drag slow off his tongue like it hurt to say, “I ain’t ever seen horses that pretty… or a woman who could break a man in half ‘fore he’s even said his name.”

There was a pause. Just long enough for the air between them to still, for the wind outside to howl in approval. She stopped in the doorway, her back lit by a streak of moonlight like some kind of goddamn specter carved from the land itself. But she didn’t turn around.

“You think talkin’ sweet’ll help you?” Her voice cracked like flint against stone—dry, sharp, and carved from the kind of steel no man could sweet-talk past. “What a damn fool you are. That pretty mouth won’t buy you a damn thing out here but trouble.”

She paused just enough for her next words to hit like a warning shot.

“I better find that bullshit scrubbed off by morning. It won’t get you far—not with me, not on this land. You’re treading on ice so thin I can already hear it crackin’.”

He swallowed thick, wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and forced his body not to sag under the ache settling deep in his bones. But his voice, this time, came gentler—not soft, not pleading, but honest. Almost too much so.

“I’ll be on your porch,” he said. Quieter. Firmer. “Swear it.”

And he meant it. Not out of fear. Not even out of debt. But because there was something about her—something ancient, like the way land settles after a quake or how thunder holds its breath before the lightning falls. She reminded him of the parts of himself he’d buried and hoped wouldn’t crawl back up. Fury without cruelty. Order without mercy. And steadiness that could only come from pain carved deep and early.

As her boots thudded away into the dark, crunching over hay and dirt like punctuation marks to a sentence he hadn’t finished reading, he finally let the tension bleed out of his shoulders. He dropped onto the thin cot with a grunt, the old frame groaning beneath him.

The barn smelled like iron and leather and dust. The kind of smell that reminded him of war camps and baptism by fire. He stared up at the rafters, eyes wide, jaw aching, heart thudding like a drumbeat that didn’t know if it was mourning or yearning.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face, knuckles scraping the dried blood.

Not a prayer. Not a curse. Just the only word that fit.

As promised, he was on her porch before even God had the decency to open His cruel eyes.

A different shirt clung to his frame—clean enough, sleeves rolled to the elbows, fabric already damp with the morning’s sweat. The blood on his neck had dried to a dark, rust-colored smear, the gash no longer bleeding but still raw, pulsing in time with the low thrum of his heartbeat. His pants, sun-faded and torn at the knees from too many years and too many miles, hung low on his hips, cinched by a belt he couldn’t remember stealing or buying. Probably stolen. Most things he wore were.

He stood on her porch like a man waiting to be judged—shoulders squared, jaw set, the sharp scent of pine and horse and distant smoke threading through the morning air. He'd been there long enough for the wood beneath his boots to remember his weight. Long enough to forget, for a second, why he'd come. Long enough that he nearly didn’t knock.

But he did. A single, quiet rap against the door. Then another. 

And he waited.

Then, like the crack of a rifle, the door swung open.

She stood there with that same look—hard-eyed, sharp-jawed, and already irritated—as if she'd been waiting to be disappointed by him. The same look she’d worn when she clocked him in the jaw without hesitation. No greeting, no welcome—just cool appraisal, the weight of it heavy as a stone in his gut.

But behind her came the smell. Hot bread. Fresh.

And coffee—real coffee. The kind that bit at your nose before it kissed your tongue. Not the bitter, gritty sludge boiled in old tin pots over dying fires that he'd grown used to choking down. No, this had to be dark and rich, full-bodied, ground with care and made in one of those stovetop percolators he’d only ever seen once, years back in the house of a man who paid him to knock on doors and collect debts at the end of a pistol.

This place had too much softness tucked beneath all its iron. That, more than anything, made his skin crawl.

It wasn’t the warmth that unnerved him—it was what the warmth was hiding. Like a lullaby sung over the sound of a cocked hammer. And maybe it was just the smell of fresh bread and coffee messing with his head, but something about it made his teeth grind.

Apparently, it messed with his stomach too.

Hunger—his most loyal, obedient companion—curled low and mean beneath his ribs. The stolen apple he’d gnawed down to the core in the barn this morning must’ve burned off during the long, silent walk to her porch. Now it was just ghosts in his gut, and the scent of real food felt like sin.

He shifted his weight, jaw clenched tight. Starving was fine. Starving, he knew how to do. Starving meant control.

But this? This kind of morning—with the door cracked open, the smell of a real breakfast, and a woman staring at him like he was already one bad word away from bleeding again—this was unfamiliar territory.

Dangerous in a way bullets and fists had never been.

“Good thing you knew better, we’re doing maintenance today ” she muttered. She herself was a contradiction dressed in dust and deliberation. Remmick had seen his share of ranch wives from Texas to Kansas, and they all seemed to come out the same—laced up tight, soft-handed, smelling of rosewater and resignation. Gowns stitched for show, not for sweat. Their business was the kitchen and the prayer bench, not the corral.

But this one?

She wore a dress, sure—but it had been tailored by need, not fashion. Her clothes, though plainly cut, were nothing like the ranch wives he’d seen in other towns, all ribbons and drooping lace. No, hers were sharp, functional—soft blue linen sleeves rolled high, and the hem of her work dress stitched up in the front to reveal the split sewn for riding, the skirt hitched just enough to keep her mobile. A roughspun thing cinched at the waist with a leather belt that had clearly been repurposed from some old tack. She moved like a woman who had no time for pretense and even less for people slowing her down.

As she moved, the skirt shifted just enough for Remmick to catch a glint of metal strapped to the warm curve of her thigh. A pistol. Well-oiled. Tucked into a leather holster like it belonged there. Like it always belonged there. Small but mean-looking. Worn smooth at the grip. Well-loved and likely more loyal than most men she’d known. Not the sort of weapon you carry for bluff. No, that one had barked before, and likely would again.

Remmick’s tongue went dry. His boots scuffed slightly on the porch plank as he shifted his weight.

“Jesus,” he muttered, more prayer than curse. She turned, eyes sharp under the brim of her hat, or maybe just under the kind of woman-worn fury that didn’t need a brim to cast shadow.

“You see somethin’, stranger?” she asked, voice like dry rope dragged across gravel. Daring him.

He let his busted lip twitch. “Ain’t used to seein’ a woman carry with more style than the goddamn sheriff.”

She didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. But hell, did she glare.

“That’s why your kind ends up dead,” she said flat as winter. “Too busy admirin’ the holster to notice the barrel pointin’ at your gut.”

His hands flexed at his sides—slow, deliberate, palms open and plain for her to see. A quiet show of compliance, the kind a man made when standing in another’s domain and trying not to get shot for breathing wrong.

Not that it would’ve made a lick of difference if she’d thought him dishonest. Hell, if she’d caught even a whiff of deceit on him last night, she’d have slit his throat without losing sleep or her footing. He didn’t doubt it. Not for a second.

But what she had seen—what she’d chosen to clock, even in the dark and bleeding—were hands. Rough-hewn. Scarred at the knuckles and calloused deep enough to mark time. The kind that spoke of labor, not lies. Maybe she figured the man behind them was pitiful—she wouldn’t be wrong—but at least the hands worked. And for now, that was all he had worth offering.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, low and steady. “Duly noted.”

He should’ve sewn his mouth shut along with his habit of letting the silence seep too long three states ago, too. He thought.

“Y’ain’t no use to me if you’re feral and starving. If you make it through today, your quarters will be in the bunkhouse. Follow me.” She spat the words like grit from her teeth, already stepping off the porch before he could muster anything close to a reply.

Remmick moved aside without hesitation, bootheel scraping the wood, her braid slicing through the air behind her like a noose just shy of swinging.

She didn’t wait.

The land yawned out wide in front of them—open, blistered, and brutal in its beauty. The morning mist hadn’t yet burned off the hills, and where the sun touched the earth, everything came alive in gold. Grassland stretched in all directions like a sea with no tide. Fences twisted with time lined the edges of pasture, nailed crooked in places but still holding. A cluster of barns sat in the distance, built more from will than symmetry, and all of it sat under that cruel, endless sky that seemed to judge men just for breathing.

Remmick followed in silence, shoulders squared, sack slung over one. His new shirt stuck to the dried blood on his throat, but he didn’t flinch. Not now. Not when the wind carried the scent of horses and hot dust, not when the earth beneath him thrummed like it remembered every name that ever tried to own it and died trying.

She led with a hard gait and the posture of someone who’d never had anything handed to her—and would gut anyone who tried. His stomach knotted. Not with fear, exactly. With something adjacent.

“You always bring in strays like this?” he asked, voice low, not quite biting.

She didn’t glance back. “Only when I’m short on hands and long on bad luck.”

They crossed the wide dirt stretch between the main house and the corrals. A few ranch hands were already out—three of them near the far post fence, one tossing feed, another saddling a dapple-gray with wide, wary eyes. They paused, sizing Remmick up the way you do when something wild wanders too close to home.

“This here’s a new ranch hand,” she barked, nodding toward him like he was a burden she’d agreed to carry and might still toss over the fence. “He’ll be workin’. Don’t feed into his jawin’ if he gets mouthy. He bleeds easy.”

That earned a sharp chuckle from one of them, a broad-shouldered man with a scarred lip and arms thick with work. The others just nodded, unreadable.

The bunkhouse sat at the edge of the corral fence, framed by two drooping cypress trees that looked like they’d been praying for death since the war. The door was kicked crooked, and the single chimney spit a slow wisp of smoke like a dying breath. Remmick’s boots hit the porch hard, the wood creaking like it might buckle.

Inside, it was what he expected—barebones but built to last. Eight beds, four on either wall. Iron frames, patched wool blankets, each bunk with a chest at the foot and a hook for a coat. It smelled of old sweat, saddle soap, and damp earth—home enough for men who didn’t expect one.

“Pick a bed that ain’t taken. You live clean, you pull your weight, and you get fed. You give me trouble, you’re gone,” she said, arms crossed, still blocking the doorway like she hadn’t decided whether to stake him or let him breathe another day.

Remmick looked around, took it in. The way the lanternlight flickered low, the way one bed had carvings in the headboard—names scratched into wood like men trying not to be forgotten.

He looked back at her. “Reckon I’ll take my chances.”

“You already did,” she snapped, eyes flint sharp. “Don’t make me regret lettin’ you up off your damn knees.”

Then she was gone—boots striking the porch, braid cutting the air again like a mark left behind. He stood there a moment longer, sack still on his back, pulse loud behind his eyes. He smirked to himself—bloodless and small.

“Hell of a place,” he muttered. And chose the bed closest to the back wall. Always near an exit. Always.

Work was back-aching, sun-scorched, and unforgiving—but it was the only thing that kept Remmick upright and fed. And for a man with no kin, no land, and no right to ask for anything more, it was more than he deserved. So when they put him through the ringer—through the blistering, callous-making rhythm of a ranchhand’s first day—he didn’t spit, didn’t gripe, didn’t ask why.

He just worked.

At first light, he was knee-deep in muck, mucking out stalls older than some towns he’d passed through. Flies swarmed, biting into open scabs and sweat-wet skin. One of the older hands—name was Boone, square jaw and crooked nose—spit near his boots and barked, “Low man does the shit work. That’s you.”

By midday, he was hauling tack from the barn to the fence line, then hoisting feed bags twice his weight into the loft, each lift stretching the ache across his spine like a song that wouldn’t end. He broke a sweat before the sun had cleared the top rail of the paddock, and by high noon, it felt like the ground itself wanted to kill him.

“Move like molasses, low man,” another ranch hand jeered when Remmick paused too long, catching breath beside the trough. “You ain’t gonna make it to supper at that pace.”

He didn’t rise to it. Just rolled his shoulders and kept to the work, biting down on the inside of his cheek until it bled. His boots were caked with mud and shit, hands raw from the leather reins and rusted nails, and still he pushed on. Quiet. Focused.

Come sunset, they were cooling the horses down in the round pen—gold light catching on the dust kicked up in long, amber sweeps. The other hands had already started to slack off, laughing rough and loud, half-assing the final chores of the day. Remmick kept moving, tension roping his shoulders tight. He didn’t like leaving things half done.

That’s when the trouble started. Boone again, predictably. Bigger, meaner, and too used to being top dog around these parts.

“Hey, low man,” he called, tossing a coiled rope too close to Remmick’s feet. “You clean my bunk too, or just the shit outta my horse’s ass?”

Remmick didn’t stop. “Don’t need to clean what already stinks.”

The air shifted—like the whole ranch held its breath.

Boone was on him in seconds, kicking up dust like a spooked colt. No warning, no lead-in. Fist to the jaw, hard and sudden, sent Remmick stumbling sideways into the rails. Another tear at his already split lip, maybe. He didn’t taste it yet.

It was quick and ugly after that.

Boots scraping, dust flying, blood getting flung across the round pen sand. Boone was solid, but Remmick fought like a man who’d had every bone broken once already and still came back for more. He ducked low, caught Boone in the ribs, then came up fast and sharp with a headbutt that split skin clean across Boone’s brow.

By the time she arrived, half the hands had gathered like it was a cockfight behind the stables. Dirt kicked up thick and hot, sweat rolling down sunburned necks, and boots scuffling like the devil was keeping score. Some hollered, some wagered under breath, and Boone’s knuckles were already bloodied from the last hit when the sound of her boots split through it all like a thunderclap over dry land.

Solid. Sharp. Measured.

She didn’t shout. Didn’t even blink. She just walked in.

Through the pen gate like it was nothing more than smoke and insult. The crowd parted like wheat in the wind. In her hands, the rifle sat upright, grip easy but unmistakable. Power didn’t always come loud—and hers never needed to. It lived in her jaw, in her shoulders, in the way men twice her size took one look and remembered their place.

“The fuck,” she drawled, voice low and lethal, like flint striking steel.

The silence that followed came swift and immediate. Boone froze where he lay bleeding. Remmick, panting, blood dripping slow down his temple, held his ground but didn’t dare speak.

She moved closer, deliberate steps crunching over churned dirt, the butt of her rifle knocking Boone hard in the shoulder with the kind of force that sent him stumbling like a child caught stealing.

“Get the fuck up. What’s wrong with you?” she hissed, not even raising her voice. Didn't have to. That voice—controlled and cold—had the weight of every round loaded in the chamber.

Boone scrambled up like his pride might follow, muttering, “I’m sorry, ma’am, I just—”

She didn’t let him finish. Didn’t give him the privilege of explaining.

“There’s no fightin’ on my ranch.” The words weren’t a warning. They were scripture. “You wanna throw fists, you take it to the devil himself. But not here. Not on my dirt.”

Then she turned to Remmick, rifle shifting in her grip, mouth hard as the line of her brow.

“You wanna fight again?” she said, stepping once closer. “Come talk to my damn rifle.”

Remmick met her eyes, chest rising and falling slowly. Blood sat like warpaint at the edge of his jaw. His knuckles throbbed, the ache almost welcome. He could taste copper in his mouth, but there was no defiance in him—just that same steady grit.

“Understood, ma’am.”

Her gaze held his a moment longer, then flicked back to Boone. She looked him over like she was picking the spot she’d put a bullet if she had to.

“Clean yourself up,” she said flatly. “And both of you—get your shit together. Tomorrow’s still coming.”

With that, she turned on her heel, braid lashing behind her like a noose cut loose, stride unbroken, dust catching on her boots like the earth itself didn’t dare stick too long.

The hands all watched her go.

Remmick spit blood into the dirt, wiped his mouth, and muttered under his breath as the crowd started to break away. He looked at Boone, still nursing his ribs.

“Guess I earned my keep.”

And like she said, tomorrow came.

The sun had barely cracked the horizon, still low and bleeding gold over the hills when Remmick stepped out of the bunkhouse—first one out, boots already laced, shirt damp at the collar from cold water and sweat. Gash still sitting above it, starting the slow process of healing, of reminding. A slight ache lingered in his side from yesterday’s scuffle, but it was dulled by the familiarity of it all. Work, wounds, repeat.

She was already there. Of course she was.

Leaning against the fence like she’d been waiting all night, her hand dragging slow and practiced along the glossy flank of her stallion—a beast as black as coal and twice as proud. The kind of horse a lesser man wouldn’t even try to saddle. The stallion nickered low, shifting under her palm, muscles rippling like stormclouds beneath his hide.

“Good mornin’, ma’am,” Remmick offered, voice low but steady, rough with sleep and yesterday’s blood.

She didn’t look at him at first. Just let her fingers curl gently under the stallion’s jaw, inspecting the bridle. Then:

“You always this chipper after gettin’ your ass handed to you?” she asked dryly, eyes still on the horse.

Remmick gave a tired smirk, tongue pressing to the cut on his inner cheek. “Only when I’m still standin’ after.”

That earned him a look. Just a glance, over her shoulder—sharp, assessing, like she was measuring whether he was worth wasting breath on.

Then, after a beat: “What do they call you?”

He blinked. Not because he didn’t expect the question, but because no one had asked it like that in a long while.

“Remmick,” he said after a pause. “Just Remmick.”

She eyed him for a second longer, then gave a tight nod. “That’s different. Suits you. Sounds like somethin’ that doesn’t know when to quit.”

He huffed a short laugh through his nose. “Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

She clicked her tongue and adjusted the cinch on the saddle. And like a tide rolling in—one that could swallow you whole but still, you watched and listened anyway—she said her name.

It didn’t slip out so much as settle. Heavy. Sure of itself. It hung in the air longer than it should’ve, like a challenge more than an offering. Like the sea cracking against jagged rock—soft if you weren’t paying attention, brutal if you got too close.

Remmick didn’t say a word in response. Didn’t dare repeat it. Some things felt sacred, even if spoken through grit.

“Didn’t peg you for a woman who gave her name so easy,” he muttered, eyes slipping between tracing your figure and the stallion.

You turned, finally facing him fully now, arms folded across your chest. Your sleeves were rolled up past your elbows, revealing forearms marked with faint scars, sun-darkened and strong.

“I don’t,” you said flatly. “But if I’m barkin’ orders, and considering that I cut up your neck, I may as well get it over with.”

The tension sat between you like an unspoken bet neither of you would admit to placing. He wasn’t afraid of you, but he was wary—and there was a difference. One you seemed to respect more than most.

“You saddle a horse, Remmick?” you asked suddenly. The sound of his name on your tongue hit him harder than your fist ever had—clean, sharp, and with a strange kind of heat that settled in his gut like a coal left smoldering too long.

It wasn’t the way you said it, not exactly. It was the weight behind it. Like you’d carved it out of something that bled and then dared him to own it.

Something stirred in him, slow and forgotten, low in his stomach—a feeling he’d long since buried beneath bruises, whiskey, and the years spent running from things with names. He bit the inside of his cheek at the sensation, jaw twitching. Couldn’t afford softness. Not here. Not with you. Not with the sun barely risen and his blood still drying under his shirt.

“I do.”

“Then grab a rope and don’t fuck up my morning.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and meant it.

And just like that, you swung into the saddle and turned the stallion with one clean flick of your wrist. Dust kicked up behind you, and he moved to follow, your name rolling around his mind like a bullet chambered, not yet fired.

╭━━━━━ ━━━━━╮

The sun was sinking slow over the hills, painting everything in copper and ash. The last of the horses had been brought in, the gates secured, and the scent of hot iron and horse sweat lingered in the air. Already a week in, he’d fallen into the groove of the ranch’s work, Remmick had half a mind to scrub his hands clean and find somewhere to sit that didn’t creak or itch. But your voice came sharp behind him before he could wander.

“You walkin’ around with your head in the clouds or just lost your damn sense?”

He turned slowly, brushing the dust from his shirt. You were posted up against the barn door, arms crossed, that braid of yours falling loose and wild now, stray strands stuck to your neck from the heat. The lowburn fire in your eyes hadn’t dimmed since morning.

“Neither,” he drawled, thumb catching the edge of his belt loop. “Just enjoyin’ the quiet. Feels like I ain’t heard nothin’ but boots and barkin’ all day.”

Your mouth twitched. Not a smile—God forbid—but something passed over your face like amusement disguised as judgment. “You ain’t earned the right to complain.”

“Didn’t say I was complainin’, ma’am.” His eyes lingered a beat too long on your hands, rough and sure, the way they curled around your flask. “Just observin’. Like how you only ever call me when there’s somethin’ that needs fixin’ or lifted or carried.”

“Ain’t that what you’re good for?”

His grin curled slow, sly. “You tell me.”

You took a pull from the flask and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, eyes never leaving his. “You’re good for bruises and trouble, near as I can tell. Don’t make you special.”

“And yet you haven’t sent me packin’.”

“You think that means somethin’?”

“Means somethin’ to me.” His voice dipped there—lower, quieter. Not sweet, not soft. Just honest in a way that made you blink once, slow and unreadable.

You stepped forward, just once, and the sound of your boots on the packed dirt was louder than it should’ve been. Close enough now that he could see the flecks of gold in your eyes, the way sweat clung to your temple.

“You want a medal for stickin’ around a week?” You asked.

“Nah. Just maybe the occasional ‘thank you’ instead of bein’ looked at like a stray dog that bit your boot.”

You looked him over, deliberate, slow. Your gaze dragged from his boots to the still-healing cut across his throat to the scar along his jaw he’d never bothered to explain. When you spoke again, your voice was quieter. Meaner, but in that way that tasted like salt and heat instead of real anger.

“You got eyes like a dog, y’know that? All hopeful and haunted. Ain’t never sure whether you’re gonna fetch or bite.”

“Would it matter?”

You held his stare for one long second.

Then you capped the flask and tossed it to him. He caught it, surprised.

“Go clean up,” you said, turning your back to him. “And don’t drink more than half, or I’ll gut you and make you work tomorrow with your liver in your hand, Remmick."

He chuckled, the sound itself felt foreign, voice rasping with smoke and sweat and something else too old to name. Not missing the use of his name, but that hungry pit in himself, sure as hell was craving the sound of it a little more.

“Yes, ma’am.”

And as you walked off, braid bouncing with each step, he took the smallest sip and kept his eyes on your retreating form. Hell, maybe you'd kill him one day. But it wouldn’t be before he saw what else that mouth of yours could do besides spit fire. That is—if you let him.

TAGLIST  ;   @lunaleah @idiotsatan @arquiiva @bleedingsunlight @kaelizl @nefertiti2003 @damnzelsoul @latebean @creamqvvn @likecherriesinthespring @yepitsmesendhelp @bitter-post-millennial @barnes21cz

[pomegranatelifethis]

In the Hollow of Shadows

The rain stung your face as you stormed out of Wayne Manor, the heavy oak doors slamming shut behind you with a finality that echoed in your chest. Your backpack, slung over one shoulder, held the bare essentials—clothes, a phone with a dying battery, and the tattered remains of your pride. The argument still burned in your mind, a jagged wound that refused to close.

“You’re overreacting, Y/N,” Dick had said, his voice calm but dismissive, like you were a child throwing a tantrum. “You don’t need to be in the field with us. It’s safer this way.”

Safer. That word had been a slap. As if you hadn’t trained, hadn’t begged to prove yourself, hadn’t spent years watching your so-called family leap across Gotham’s rooftops while you were left behind, a forgotten shadow in a house full of heroes. Bruce’s silence had been the worst—his piercing blue eyes fixed on his computer screen, not even sparing you a glance. Jason had snorted, muttering something about “drama queens,” while Tim barely looked up from his coffee. Damian, predictably, had sneered, “If you can’t handle the cave, you’d be a liability.”

You’d screamed, you’d cried, you’d thrown every ounce of your hurt at them, and they’d just… stared. Like you were a ghost they could barely see. So you left. You didn’t expect them to chase after you. They never had before.

The streets of Gotham were merciless, the neon lights flickering like dying stars. You trudged through the rain, your sneakers soaking through, your heart a lead weight. You didn’t know where you were going—just away. Anywhere but that suffocating manor. You didn’t notice the van idling at the corner, its engine a low growl beneath the storm. You didn’t see the figures watching you, their eyes glinting with malice, until it was too late.

The rain had been your last taste of freedom, its cold bite a fleeting memory now buried under days—weeks?—of darkness. You didn’t know how long you’d been in this place, this concrete tomb that smelled of damp rot and despair. Time was a thief here, stealing hours and days until they blurred into a single, unending nightmare. The ropes that bound your wrists at the start had been replaced by chains, their cold links biting into your skin whenever you shifted on the thin mattress shoved against the wall. The room was small, its walls scarred with cracks and stains, the single flickering bulb overhead your only companion. It buzzed like a dying insect, casting shadows that danced mockingly across your bruised skin.

You didn’t cry anymore. Not after the first week, when your tears had run dry and your voice had cracked from screaming. No one had come then, and no one would come now. The men who held you—three of them, though you only knew one by name, Marcus—made sure you understood that. “Scream all you want, sweetheart,” Marcus had said, his crooked smile gleaming under the bulb’s sickly light. “Ain’t nobody out there listening.” His words were a blade, slicing through the fragile hope you’d clung to after they’d snatched you from Gotham’s streets. You’d been so consumed by your anger, your hurt, that you hadn’t seen the van, hadn’t heard the footsteps until rough hands yanked you into the dark.

～～⁠～⁠～

The First Days

The early days were a haze of pain and defiance. You fought at first, kicking, biting, spitting curses you’d heard Jason toss around in the Batcave. You’d thought of him then—his sharp tongue, his reckless fire—and tried to channel it, to be unbreakable. But defiance came at a cost. Marcus’s fists were heavy, his patience thin. A backhand to your cheek left your lip split, blood tangy on your tongue. Another man, stockier, with a scar across his brow, preferred his boots, aiming for your ribs when you refused to eat the stale bread they shoved at you. “Ungrateful,” he’d snarled, his voice a low growl. The third, quieter, never touched you, but his eyes—cold, calculating, lingering—were worse. He watched, always watched, his silence a promise of something you didn’t want to name.

They didn’t just hurt you. They stripped you bare, piece by piece. Marcus’s words were venom, dripping with mockery as he leaned too close, his breath hot against your ear. “No one’s coming for you, princess. You’re nothing. Nobody.” He’d laugh when you flinched, when you pulled away, your chains rattling. The harassment was constant—taunts about your body, your weakness, your abandonment. They knew enough to twist the knife, to make you question whether the Batfamily even noticed you were gone. “Bet they’re glad to be rid of you,” Scarface had said once, tossing a moldy sandwich at your feet. “One less mouth to feed.”

You tried to hold onto memories of Wayne Manor, to anchor yourself. Alfred’s warm tea, Dick’s rare smiles, even Damian’s cutting remarks—anything to remind you that you’d existed outside this room. But the memories slipped, fraying at the edges. Had they cared? Had they ever? The silence from the outside world was deafening, louder than Marcus’s shouts or the crack of fists against your skin. You’d been invisible in the manor, a shadow among heroes. Why would they look for you now?

～～⁠～⁠～

The Weeks That Followed

By the second week, survival became instinct. You learned their patterns. Marcus was impulsive, quick to anger but easily distracted. Scarface was methodical, his violence precise, calculated to break you without leaving you useless. The quiet one—Watcher, you called him in your head—was the enigma, his presence a constant weight. He brought you water sometimes, unprompted, but his eyes never met yours. You didn’t trust it. Kindness here was a trap.

The abuse wasn’t always physical. They starved you for days, then offered food laced with cruel choices—eat what they gave you, no matter how foul, or go hungry. You chose hunger once, your stomach clawing at itself until you couldn’t stand it. When you finally ate, Marcus’s laughter was a bitter reward. “See? You’re ours now.” The chains were another game, loosened just enough to let you hope for escape, only to be tightened when you reached for the door. They wanted you to try, to fail, to learn that resistance was pointless.

The harassment grew worse. Marcus’s hands lingered, brushing your arm, your hair, his touch a violation you couldn’t escape. “Pretty thing like you,” he’d murmur, “could be useful if you played nice.” You’d spit in his face once, earning a black eye and a week without food, but the fire in you hadn’t died yet. Not then. Watcher’s stares were different, clinical but invasive, like he was cataloging you for some purpose you didn’t understand. Scarface was blunt, his threats explicit—promises of what they’d do if you didn’t “learn your place.” You curled into yourself at night, your body a shield, your mind a fortress. You wouldn’t break. Not yet.

～～⁠～⁠～

One Month In

A month passed, or so you guessed from the faint scratches you’d carved into the wall with a rusted nail you’d found under the mattress. Thirty marks, thirty days of survival. Your body was a map of pain—bruises fading into new ones, cuts that scabbed over only to be reopened. Your ribs ached from Scarface’s last “lesson,” your wrists raw from the chains. But the physical pain was secondary now. The real battle was in your head.

You started talking to yourself, whispering memories to keep sane. You’d recite Alfred’s scone recipe, step by step, imagining the warmth of the kitchen. You’d replay Dick’s terrible puns, the ones that made you groan but secretly smile. You’d even conjure Jason’s voice, rough but steady, telling you to “tough it out.” But the memories were double-edged. They reminded you of what you’d lost, of the family that hadn’t come. Had they even looked? Or were they too busy saving Gotham, too busy being heroes, to notice the hole you’d left behind?

The loneliness was a living thing, wrapping around you like a second skin. You’d never felt so alone in the manor, not even when Bruce ignored you or Damian called you useless. There, at least, you’d had the illusion of belonging. Here, you had nothing but the bulb’s flicker and the men who saw you as less than human. You started to wonder if Marcus was right. Maybe you were nothing. Maybe you always had been.

～～⁠～⁠～

Two Months

By the second month, you were a ghost of yourself. Your body was thinner, your strength sapped by hunger and pain. The bruises had layered, old purples blending into fresh reds. Your voice was a rasp, unused except for the occasional plea or curse. The fire in you still flickered, but it was faint, buried under exhaustion and despair. You’d stopped scratching the wall. What was the point? No one was counting.

Marcus had grown bored, his visits less frequent but no less cruel. Scarface was relentless, his boots a familiar punishment. Watcher was the constant now, bringing you water, bread, sometimes a blanket. You hated him most. His small acts of mercy weren’t kindness—they were control, a reminder that your survival depended on them. He’d sit sometimes, just outside the door, silent but present, his gaze a weight you couldn’t shake. You stopped looking at him. You stopped looking at anything.

The abuse had become routine, a rhythm of pain and humiliation. Fists when you spoke out of turn, threats when you didn’t move fast enough, harassment that left you feeling dirty, hollow. They didn’t need to chain you anymore; the fear was enough. You’d flinch at footsteps, your heart racing before you even saw their faces. But somewhere, deep inside, a spark remained. You’d survived the Batfamily’s neglect. You’d survived two months of this. You could survive longer.

You started planning, not escape—not yet—but survival. You memorized their voices, their habits. Marcus drank too much, his temper worse when he was drunk. Scarface slept during the day, his snores echoing through the walls. Watcher was meticulous, always checking the locks, but he left the key on a ring at his belt. You watched, you waited, you endured. If no one was coming for you, you’d save yourself. Eventually.

～～⁠～⁠～

The Edge of Hope

One night, or what you thought was night, you heard something—a faint crash, far beyond the walls. Your heart leapt, a traitor that still hoped. You pressed your ear to the cold concrete, straining to hear. Voices, muffled, angry. Not Marcus, not Scarface, not Watcher. Someone else. You didn’t dare believe it was them, the Batfamily. You couldn’t afford to. But the spark in you flared, just a little.

The door didn’t open that night. No one came. The sounds faded, and the silence returned, heavier than before. You curled up on the mattress, your chains clinking softly, and whispered to yourself, a promise: “You’re still here. You’re still you.” It was all you had left.

The crash you heard that night lingers in your mind like a ghost, a faint echo you can’t shake. You tell yourself it was nothing—another trick of this concrete prison, another cruel game your captors play to keep you teetering on the edge of hope. But the spark inside you, that stubborn ember you’ve guarded through two months of hell, refuses to die. You don’t dare believe it’s them. The Batfamily doesn’t come for shadows like you. Still, you listen, ear pressed to the wall, heart pounding against ribs that ache with every breath. The silence that follows is worse than the pain. It’s proof you’re still alone.

Days pass, or maybe hours—time is a traitor here, slipping through your fingers like sand. Marcus hasn’t come since the crash, his absence a gnawing unease. Scarface’s boots haven’t echoed in the hall, and even Watcher, with his cold eyes and calculated mercy, has vanished. The bulb overhead flickers, its buzz weaker now, like it’s giving up too. You’re curled on the mattress, your body a map of bruises—yellowed patches on your arms, deep purples across your ribs, a fresh red welt on your cheek from Scarface’s last visit. The chains are gone, but their weight lingers, a phantom on your wrists. You don’t move much anymore. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts. Thinking hurts worst of all.

You’re whispering to yourself again, a lifeline to sanity. “You’re still here. You’re still you.” The words are a ritual, a shield against the void. You trace the scars on your knuckles, souvenirs from the early days when you fought back. You were fire then, all defiance and rage. Now you’re ash, but ash can still burn. You have to believe that.

～～⁠～⁠～

The door explodes inward, a deafening crack that rips you from your haze. You flinch, curling tighter into yourself, your bruised arms shielding your face. Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—flood the room, and voices overlap, sharp and urgent. You don’t look up. You can’t. Your heart is a drum, pounding too fast, too loud. It’s a trick, you think. Another game. Marcus, Scarface, Watcher—they’re back to break what’s left of you.

“Y/N!” The voice cuts through, familiar but distant, like a song you haven’t heard in years. Dick. You don’t move. You don’t trust it. Hands reach for you, gloved and steady, and you jerk back, a strangled gasp escaping your throat. The touch burns, not with pain but with memory—Marcus’s hands, Watcher’s stares, the violation of every unwanted brush. You press yourself against the wall, your breath shallow, your eyes squeezed shut.

“It’s me, Y/N. It’s Dick.” His voice is softer now, laced with something you can’t name—guilt, maybe, or pity. You hate it. You don’t want his pity. You don’t want anything from him, from any of them. You crack your eyes open, just enough to see him crouched in front of you, his blue eyes wide with horror. He’s in his Nightwing suit, the black and blue stark against the dim light. Behind him, shadows move—Jason’s red helmet glints, Tim’s cape brushes the floor, Damian’s scowl is a blade. Bruce is there too, a silent monolith in the doorway, his cowl hiding everything but the tight line of his mouth.

They’re here. After two months, they’re here. The spark in you should flare, should scream with relief, but it doesn’t. It gutters, smothered by the weight of everything you’ve endured. You don’t feel saved. You feel exposed, raw, like a wound they’ve come to prod.

“Don’t touch me,” you rasp, your voice a broken thing. Dick’s hands freeze, hovering inches from your arm. His face crumples, and you look away, your gaze falling on the bruises that bloom across your skin. You’re a canvas of pain, every mark a testament to your survival—and their absence. You pull your knees to your chest, making yourself small, untouchable. Contact is a threat now, a trigger that sends your mind spiraling back to Marcus’s leering grin, Scarface’s boots, Watcher’s silent promises.

“We’re getting you out of here,” Jason says, his voice rough but steady, like he’s trying to anchor you. He steps closer, and you flinch again, your body betraying you. His helmet tilts, and you can’t see his eyes, but you feel his hesitation, his anger—not at you, but at this place, at what it’s done to you. “They’re gone. The bastards who did this—they’re not walking away.”

You don’t care. You should, but you don’t. Justice, vengeance, whatever they’re offering—it’s too late. The damage is done, carved into your skin, your mind, your soul. You shake your head, a small, jerky motion. “Just… get me out.” Your voice cracks, and you hate how weak it sounds, how it betrays the fire you’ve fought to keep alive.

Tim steps forward, his tablet glowing as he scans the room, probably analyzing every detail—chains, bruises, the scratches on the wall. He’s clinical, detached, and it stings. “We need to move,” he says, glancing at Bruce. “This place is wired. Cameras, maybe explosives.”

Bruce nods, his voice low and controlled. “Y/N, can you walk?”

The question is a knife. Can you walk? As if you haven’t spent two months forcing yourself to stand, to endure, to survive. You want to scream at him, to demand why it took them so long, why they left you to rot. But the words won’t come. You’re too tired, too broken. You nod, pushing yourself up, your legs trembling under your weight. Pain lances through your ribs, your knees buckling, and Dick reaches out instinctively. You recoil, a sharp “No!” escaping before you can stop it. He steps back, hands raised, his face a mask of regret.

～～⁠～⁠～

The journey out is a blur. The Batfamily moves like a machine, precise and coordinated, clearing rooms, disarming traps. You trail behind, each step a battle against your body’s protests. Jason stays close, his presence a silent guard, while Tim murmurs updates into his comms. Damian is ahead, his katana drawn, his silence louder than any words. Bruce leads, his cape a dark shield, but he doesn’t look at you. Not once.

You’re hyper-aware of everything—their footsteps, their breathing, the way their shadows stretch across the walls. Every sound is a threat, every movement a potential attack. You keep your arms wrapped around yourself, your bruised skin hidden under the tattered remains of your shirt. You don’t want them to see, don’t want their pity or their guilt. You don’t want anything but to disappear.

The night air hits you like a slap when you finally emerge, the cold biting into your wounds. Gotham looms around you, its skyline a jagged reminder of the life you left behind. The Batmobile waits, sleek and silent, and you hesitate. It’s safety, it’s escape, but it’s also them—the family that forgot you. Dick notices, his voice gentle but urgent. “Y/N, we need to go. You’re safe now.”

Safe. That word again. It’s a lie, and you both know it. You’re not safe, not from the memories, not from the fear that coils in your gut at the thought of being touched, of being seen. But you nod, climbing into the back, your body rigid as you press yourself against the door, as far from them as you can get.

～～⁠～⁠～

Wayne Manor is unchanged, its gothic spires looming like sentinels as the Batmobile pulls into the cave. The familiar hum of computers, the faint scent of motor oil—it should feel like home. It doesn’t. It feels like a museum, a relic of a life you no longer fit into. Alfred is there, his face paling as he sees you, his hands trembling as he reaches out. You step back, your breath hitching, and his hands fall, his eyes glistening.

“Master Y/N,” he says, his voice thick. “I… I’m so sorry.”

You can’t meet his gaze. You can’t meet anyone’s. The cave is too bright, too loud, the weight of their stares crushing. You’re covered in bruises, your body a testament to your ordeal, but it’s the invisible scars—the fear, the isolation, the betrayal—that hurt most. You’re afraid of everything now, of the hands that might reach for you, of the voices that might promise things they can’t deliver. You’re afraid of them, your family, because they left you to this fate.

Bruce finally speaks, his voice low, controlled. “Y/N, we need to get you to the med bay. Leslie’s on her way.”

You shake your head, your voice a whisper. “No. I just… I need to be alone.” You don’t wait for permission. You turn, your steps unsteady, and head for the stairs. Their voices follow, a chorus of concern and confusion, but you don’t stop. You can’t. You climb, each step a reminder of the night you left, the night this all began. You reach your room, the door still ajar from when you stormed out two months ago. It’s untouched, a time capsule of a person who no longer exists.

You lock the door, your hands shaking, and slide to the floor, your back against the wood. The bruises throb, the memories scream, and the silence is deafening. They’re here now, the Batfamily, but it’s too late. You’re not the sibling they knew, not the shadow they ignored. You’re something else—fractured, haunted, alive but not whole.

You whisper to yourself, one last time: “You’re still here. You’re still you.” But the words feel hollow, a promise you’re not sure you can keep.

[catsoupki]

LOVER ON A LEASH (8.2K) AO3

pairing - katsuki bakugou x reader

synopsis - You feel hot, stuffy. He’s whispering words into your ears that are too filthy to repeat. Closing your eyes, you pull at his shirt, he takes the hint and sheds it. One last time, you think, and never again. (Or, when Bakugou grapples with his blood-stained past, you’re there to help.)

cw - sexual content, fwb dynamic (but not rlly), porn with feelings, insomnia, mentions of dealing with trauma, implied mental illness, codependency, minor manga (post-war) spoilers, angst, hurt/a lil comfort, afab!reader, pro hero katsuki, “are they lovers?” “no, worse.”

a/n - insomniac bakugou inspired by @solarstranger ‘s ward off (this loneliness) ; dynamic heavily influenced by @bkgexe ‘s organic chemistry ; i hope bakugou isn’t ooc in here… im trying to depict his struggles and personality as a grown-up as accurate as possible? i’m making a lot of assumptions here.. i think this might be the start to a multipart series (that can still be read as standalones) because i dont have the patience to write the entire thing in one-go

taglist - @azzo0 @kiwibao @gguksgem @dienamights @xoyuji @lillyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy @katsuisbaby @lipstainedgemini @hatsukeii @staraxiaa

The agency is empty save for the occasional janitor and night-shifters. Most of his sidekicks have already gone home to get a good night’s rest and to return to their families.

Katsuki’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes when he nods past a tired Kirishima, no doubt coming back from a long patrol. He keeps his head down when he mumbles goodbye in hopes that Eijirou won’t notice the bags that drape below his eyes. So he looks at the floor, he thinks about the winks of sleep that have somehow, in the dead of night, leaked from the cracks in between his fingers like sand, he finds that he’s losing himself, a little more than yesterday, every single night.

As if he’s slipping away, as if the colour drains from his hair and from his eyes until pools of ash and red submerge him, until his feet are soaked. When Katsuki lies awake on his cold mattress, oftentimes alone, when sleep eludes him, he’s forced to reconcile with the past. The field that he laid on when he was seventeen (when he wasn’t enough, when he lost) now houses a dozen residential buildings. The blood-tainted dust is buried, but it continues banging on the chambers of his heart to be let out. Much like how he deals with the civilians that need saving, like how he rescues a stray cat that comes baring teeth, he tilts his face away systematically, instinctively, and he deals with his expired trauma the only way he knows how: not at all.

In the wee hours of morning, while his room is sterile like the hospital, white as the moon, the feelings he turns away come back biting like a dog. Sometimes, he admits defeat. He surrenders to the fangs that sink deep into his skin, drawing blood till he’s left empty. Then, the guilt that has tied his career down will be overthrown by muscle memory: his hand will reach for his phone, he’ll squint when the blue light from his screen hits him all at once. It will uproot his ribs and reveal the throbbing ache that was left behind them all those years ago.

And he will call you to soothe it.

“Sir?” His assistant knocks tentatively on the door, briefcase already in clutch, Katsuki then remembers he’s working, he remembers the numbness, his exhaustion. “I saw that on the team calendar—I mean, are you sure you want to pull another shift this Saturday?”

He feels the syllables before he sounds them, “yes, I’m sure.” he says, but the words on his tongue are bitter like poison, a lie, “book me in for next Sunday as well.”

When the justification of his insomnia comes crumbling down, Katsuki tells himself that being a hero means sacrificing yourself for the greater good. He fights like the world expects him to stand back up and to return as the hero that they know, the hero who killed All For One.

Being a hero was never about the awards, it didn’t matter how many plaques or trophies adorned the shelves in his house, much less the weekly rankings published on the HPSC’s website. It had always been about redemption. He fights like his life is on the line each and every single day, as if to say to Edgeshot, to prove to him: my heart was worth it, wasn’t it?

So every time he steps into a fight as Dynamight, it’s done so with violence, he takes punches and throws them back, he spits out blood and grits his teeth and wins. As an act of penance, of atonement, for when he wasn’t enough, for when he lost.

But his lies are picked apart by the voice in the back of his own head, quiet like tonight, small, it screams into the void.

When his assistant pushes on the door, he sees the plate that’s hung on his door, spelling out his pseudonym—but it symbolises less a responsibility as a civil servant and more of a duty to the man who gave up his life for him. For him. That name weighs heavy on his chest because for every step forward, it is pulled back by guilt and obligation with the cold reminder that he wasn’t good enough.

Katsuki sighs.

“Anything else?”

He chooses to resume working, the paperwork he completed earlier today is closed, then reopened again on his computer so he can pretend that he doesn’t see the concern that seeps from his assistant’s eyes.

“No sir, not at all.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was Tuesday when you first met him. You were seventeen, in a hospital after breaking a leg from falling down a flight of stairs. It’s trivial, and you get a few good laughs out of it. Your friends at school enjoy drawing on the cast around your foot and the time you spend in this building is just a minor inconvenience that will go away with time.

You remember seeing his ash blond hair, matted with blood, on the news when he was laying down his life for the world. It’s weird, you’ve seen the most vulnerable moments of his life broadcasted on live television while you’re just a passerby that he doesn’t really register walking past every Tuesday.

Your usual icebreaker dies on your tongue.

You think his eyes have glazed over your features before. Unremarkable, in the hallways of the hospital. Maybe his hand has brushed against yours when you both reach for the last remaining drink in the fridge. Though, you also think, he won’t remember.

But you are your mother’s daughter and you persist. When you’re sitting in your father’s car, your sister is holding your hand on the way home, you think about that boy. You have a week’s time to think about him, to come up with something to say. What can you tell a boy whose name you don’t know?

He is world famous at seventeen. He is your age but he has seen more death than you could possibly imagine, he’s carried more weight on his shoulders than you ever can, and he is known for the sacrifice he made as Dynamight, society knows him by the hair you see on television because he is significant and his life is right in front of him.

You think about the things you could say. You practice in the bathroom mirror, but the insecurities leak too easily from the gaps of your teeth and you fail. You try to run the syllables through your tongue but they become too rehearsed, mediocre. You try your damndest to create brief windows of time that allow you to speak. While he is waiting at the pharmacy, while he’s watching the news, and as he is queueing behind you at the cafeteria.

But when you’re really next to him, in crutches, the wounds that mar his skin can’t be soothed by the words you speak.

You look into the mirror, everyday you smile and you rinse and repeat till your countenance sits right with you, you rehearse till the rehearsed words sound correctly, but you are in your father’s car, your sister is holding your hand and your heart is in one piece. What can you say to a boy who belongs, already, to the world at seventeen?

“What the hell is your problem!” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can look up. You berate whoever it is that knocked his entire cup of hot chocolate into the back of your shirt until you’re burned and drenched.

This is the first time you regret speaking. The hours you spent standing in front of the mirror, learning to shape your mouth and lips into something palatable, relatable to a god, is reduced into nothing when you look up and see him.

“I...” The boy’s voice is weak. Too weak. It’s quiet and if not for the fact that he is right behind you, maybe you wouldn’t have registered it at all. “I’m sorry.”

He’s so awkward when he says it that you can tell “sorry” isn’t a word that usually exists in his vocabulary. He doesn’t look at you, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, and he is anything but the hero that you’ve seen on screen.

You look at his hands, covered in smoking hot chocolate that’s still dripping onto the floor. Now, you think you briefly remember the nurses around you scrambling for the janitor, for the mops. But, then, all that you remember is feeling sadness creep into your bones. This boy who you have spent days thinking about like some hero is weak and twitching in front of you because of a cup he can no longer hold. You look at his hands, the stump that twitches, and his other hand that moves to grab it, to grab the air a few inches above because the spasm of what used to be his right hand is a vulnerability that Dynamight cannot show.

You looked at him like how a man looks at a stray dog—with pity. And he hates that, so he looks down. You realised, then and there, that he was just a boy. He was a boy unaccustomed to the damage that the world chose to give him. He wasn’t a god, he was just thrusted into the middle of it all, forced to see the death that he wasn’t supposed to see, and forced to carry the weight that was unfitted for his shoulders.

You thought he was going to pull away, but you are your mother’s daughter, you persist, and your hand is hooked around his remaining wrist—boney, rough with scars. This is the first of many times in which you say to him, “It’s okay. Things happen.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Katsuki thinks of you when he’s discharged. When he sits in the car with Masaru driving, Mitsuki is next to him and he thinks of the piece of paper that has your number scribbled over it with broken crayons. It sits in his pocket, warm, it tingles his skin.

He forgot what you said, and what you did, but he can’t forget how you made him feel. It’s stupid—he tries to convince himself. It’s stupid to remember a girl he’s talked to a few times here and there at the hospital. He should be focusing on school, on recovery, but he thinks of what you mean, what you can mean. He remembers your grin when you smuggled that piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke, he tries to decipher the words you blur between the lines. What audacity, he thinks, and he can’t help but love that.

He sees you again when he’s at a party he’s been dragged to. He’s freshly eighteen, bravery is plastered onto his face but it is embarrassment that nips at his heart when he makes eye contact with you. He never called you, never texted, but the piece of paper lays amidst his books, unforgettable, undeniable.

He was never good at deciphering your words, or your gaze for that matter. He can’t tell whether you remember him just by looking at you. Your eyes pause a little too long on the scar that slashes his cheek for someone who has seen it before, but what does he know? Everyone looks at him like meat. Your eyes hold a certain judgement he’s scared of. Quiet, accepting, but judgement nonetheless.

He debates whether he should come over and strike up a conversation. If he were to talk to you like nothing happened, what would you do?

When he meets your eye again, sweat is condensing in his enclosed palms with the callouses pressing into his flesh like fingertips, it is now that he realises he should’ve called you, texted you, it is now that he comes over.

“Sorry for never reaching out, just—haven’t had the time.” He lies through his teeth like it is second nature.

This is the first time that he tests you.

“No worries. Things happen.” You say, with a tone that makes Katsuki’s jaw tick. He hates how easiness rolls off of you, like waves, because it isn’t fair that he’s spent the past few months remembering your hand around his wrist, your words in his ear, when you haven’t been suffering at all.

The night is young, but even when it goes on, you never ask him why, but it feels like you’re toeing a line that was just established, like you’re rubbing a fresh wound. So you let him have his boundaries even when it involves you. He’ll ghost you, he’ll lash out at you for something that is not your fault, he will treat you like you’re disposable and like you’re garbage. And maybe you already knew that when you snuck your hand into the pockets of his pants with your lover’s grin. Maybe you already knew what you were signing up for.

You let him come back into your life when he’s ready because you feel like you’re doing something good, like you’re doing charity. You don’t ask questions, you never do, because when you look into the mirror, you’re your mother’s daughter, and what you see between the gaps of your teeth isn’t enough to be begging a god for his time.

When he disappears, he usually comes back in a week or two. He will coat his apology and his excuses in sweet words that you’re not sure what the real meaning is—I’ve been busy; you’re still my favourite, he’d say, and you can’t help but laugh when he lies with unblinking eyes.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He was nineteen when he lost his first kiss. Drunken, he was blushing all the way down to his neck when he shoved against the lips of another girl, albeit a bit off-centred. He doesn’t dare admit to her that it’s his first time, but he thinks she already knows. It’s embarrassing—because the lack of experience is a vulnerability that Dynamight cannot show. So he’s stuck kissing a girl whose name he does not know in the corner of somebody’s house. He’s violent and awkward when he pushes her up against the wall. It’s messy—her spit tastes like a substance that he should not touch, and all that he feels is a burn that numbs his lips.

He forgot how he got here. The faces in the crowd blur together, unremarkable, and Katsuki fails to recognise even a single person in this room.

It’s less magical than what his friends described it to be. Denki framed it as the best moment of his life when he pressed lips with Jirou, and Eijirou claimed that kissing Mina was what made him a man. Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in his system, it makes his head warm, fuzzy, and his blood rush, but this girl feels like nothing in his palms. The way she puts her fingers on his cheek, where people look at for a bit too long, is uncomfortable, it makes his face itch. Her lips are cold, he’s already forgotten what she mumbled before he kissed her, let alone what she did, he only remembers the agony. He feels less like a hero and more like a cheap prostitute that got taken advantage of.

(Maybe it’s the alcohol buzzing in his system. Maybe it’s the fact that this girl isn’t you.)

He thinks, beneath the flashing lights and loud music, a snarl is present on this girl’s face. Her lips are pulled taut by her cheeks but his vision is falling and he can’t tell what she’s saying. What a prude, probably.

He leaves the party right after. He was somehow able to sober up before pushing the girl away. He doesn’t glance at her, because he knows he’ll be looked at with judgement, or worse, with pity. He sneaks past the crowd and out the backdoor all without replying to a single person that screams at him. His hand is in his pocket, the one that tingles his skin, and he’s already fishing out his phone. The blue light from the screen hits him all at once when he dials the number he’s memorised by heart.

You were asleep, but the guilt that steeps in his heart from waking you up was quickly drowned out by your voice. The grumbles that resonate in his ear, somehow, for the love of god, cools his head and puts out the fire that is his lips. You tell him to come over, and he isn’t sure what the implications behind those words are, but he shows up anyway, you kiss him and take the pain away.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It was a Sunday when you two first had sex. The last time he’s talked to you was a month ago. That night, right before the words die on his tongue, he calls you. “I’m lonely.” He says. His voice is grainy over the phone, it’s pressed up against your ear and you can almost feel the hot breath against your skin. He says it like he knows you understand him—and you do. He doesn’t need to spell it out and maybe that’s why he keeps you around. He gets a woman for sex and he gets to keep his pride intact all at once. Your lips will sweep his problems under the rug, you’ll ignore the dark circles under his eyes and you’ll just pretend that he loves you.

He wonders about how long this will go on, how long it can go on. He thinks about your dignity and how he’s held it hostage in a jar. He thinks about your hands, the pity in your eyes, and he doesn’t care.

(He remembers your grin when you smuggled that piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke, he tries to decipher the words you blur between the lines.)

For nights like this, his loneliness becomes the excuse that allows him to call you. In the dead of night, when he mumbles words amalgamated with want and sadness, lust is a disguise that reveals itself a little too easily from the gaps of his teeth, but you show up at his door anyway.

You feel his eyes rake over you, he meanders, he takes his time, like it isn’t cold out, like you owe him to be standing here like this. You shudder, half-mooned lids glide over your skin, like honey. You eat with your eyes first—so you show up in your tight skirts, crop tops and eyeliner—a costume, an armour. But you are your mother’s daughter, you persist, and you feel like a prize to be won.

Katsuki doesn’t say much, he never does. He only hooks his hand around your wrist and pulls, until you topple into his house, until you are wrangled in between his sheets and his limbs before you have the chance to ask “why me?”.

It’s almost like he’s doing this intentionally. He shocks you into submission like a fisherman to his prey because he wants you when you’re soft and docile. But you are capable of reading between the lines—you hear the pleas that hide behind lust and gluttony: take the pain away.

So you do.

Even before the words tumble out of your lips, the vowels and fricatives already feel foreign and slimy on your tongue. It's why you don your costume, your armour: of tight skirts, tight tops, and tight eyeliner. They squeeze the fat of your thighs, the meat on your shoulder, and at your tear glands. But you walk in anyway, you let your legs rest on the linen of his bed, your elbows against the pillows. Your costume clings to your skin, your armour cups itself around your dignity. Mold. Mockery.

You don’t ask because you already know the answer. Because you are your mother’s daughter and you persist: because you are here.

You let him mar you with his teeth. Despite the bites that will show up purple the next morning, you lift your head even more. He is ravenous—holding you down to the bed like a ragdoll, you figured that he doesn’t care about what you think nor how you feel. He doesn’t really register what’s beneath his palms, even when he’s cupping your heart in one and choking you with the other, his prosthetic is cold around your neck, it numbs the bruises he’s sucked into your skin, you can’t help but like that.

“Fuck,” he moans, with his chapped lips tickling the hairs on your neck. “Kiss me.” he says, like you are lovers and these rendezvous are anything close to romantic.

He slides into you easily, like it’s meant to be. He does it so painfully slow that you dig your heels into the muscles on his back: hurry up and fuck me—he understands the words you don’t say.

He’s looking down at you, and you like him like this: when he’s above you with his eyebrows slightly furrowed, vermillion eyes piercing, looking at you. His gaze will move from your eyes to your lips, they’re staring at him, he thinks. He’ll lean down and suck on them. He kisses with his teeth, unkind, aggressive—you like it like that, he knows, when he’s in your arms.

“You’re so pretty when you cum.” You blush. Yeah.

He’s breathing hard, his lips break into a smile—a genuine one. He loves it when you pull your kiss-bruised lips between your teeth, when your nails scrape down his back until long red marks appear. He moans even harder, louder.

Against your better judgement, you let this go on. You let him bury himself in you, deep, painful, so he forgets the agony that tortures him everyday. You feel like a martyr—a sacrificial lamb for the pillars of society. You let yourself feel good—charitable—in his arms and in your heart (with his cupping hands), beneath him, you allow yourself the belief that you’re doing something good (your armour, costume). You look at the empty jars in his cabinets and think about your dignity (mold, mockery). You let him hold you by the throat and shudder into your nape (because you are your mother’s daughter and you persist, but no one is there to hold your hand and your heart will be in pieces).

Somehow, you find yourself listening to his snores at dusk. You think he’s gotten better at lying. You’ll smile in his ear and realise a bit too late that you’ve been caught like a deer in headlights.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You’re sitting in front of the television, your head on his shoulder, and Katsuki has his arm wrapped around you. It’s a little cold, but the both of you are too lazy to find a blanket. A show that neither of you care about is playing on screen, it acts as the source of light, and as something to fill up the silences.

You two should both be asleep. He has an early patrol and you have a presentation tomorrow. The show isn’t particularly interesting, but you just can’t find it in you to go home and get onto your bed.

You don’t live here, but you know where things are. You don’t have the access card to his apartment building but somehow the security guard recognises you. There’s a second toothbrush in the sink, your clothes are mixed with his in the laundry basket but your name isn’t put down on paper. It lures—begs—you to have the “what are we?” conversation with him. A part of you wants to know, that part is irrational and wants to be his. That part of you sits down in the shower and imagines what it would be like to hold his hand outside of bed and sex. The rational part of you, though, knows the question will break whatever it is that you have with him. Because you know Katsuki. You know the guilt that pulls on his heart, you’re familiar with the pride that nestles itself into his skull, and you know he won’t let himself have this. And you’d rather have him like this than to not have him at all.

He lets you stay the night.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

It’s winter. The colleagues you entertain get braver and they’ll somehow get you to go out with them. Bar-hopping like you’re in college, sure, you’ll continue entertaining them. You’ll be in your short skirts, tight tops, with your eyeliner smudged. You down the drinks like water while your colleagues holler, you’ll pretend that you don’t notice your supervisor’s gaze on your chest. You’re having fun, you really are.

It’s the group’s third stop of the night, sweat has accumulated on your back with how crowded this bar is. It seems that everyone is here—out on the dance floor while the swaying bodies spill the drinks that leave a sticky residue on your skin.

The group of seven you arrived in have already split into groups of two or three. Your coworkers are nowhere to be seen, maybe they’re throwing up in the bathroom, maybe they’ve ended up on someone’s bed. You don’t really care.

Everyone’s dancing, and this guy nudges your arm with his, you flinch. “You here alone?”

“No.” You say, regret is already pooling in your stomach. Why did you ever agree to come? You know you don’t like going out.

“You should join us for a few, we promise you a fun time,” he winks, and you think you throw up a little in your mouth. You feel the shape of rejection before you sound it, but the words die on your tongue.

“Sure.”

You don’t drink anything more. There’s enough alcohol in your body for you to continue lying to yourself. His arm that started behind your seat slowly inches down, closer, they’re testing you. You entertain him, you let him ghost his sweaty palms over your exposed back, then your thighs.

He drags you to the dance floor, then off, all before the song ends. You know where this is going. He’s pulling you to the walls, he continues looking at your body, he doesn’t even try to pretend he’s here for anything else, and you think this feels worse than your supervisor’s eyes on your chest.

When he kisses you, his breath is an unfortunate mix of alcohols that don’t work well. You wonder how many drinks he’s had when his teeth knock against yours.

He tried to be smooth, you can tell. He’s selfish but he pretends he’s not, and it reflects in how he kisses you. He’ll push you to the edge of the bathroom, his hands will be on your waist, then your thighs again, and you’ll pretend you don’t know where this is going. He’s not as clingy as what you’re used to, he doesn’t grip the back of your neck like you’re going to run away like he does.

The man whose name you do not know is slipping his tongue into your mouth when he’s suddenly pulled away. “What the fuck is your issue?”

Your vision may be swirling, your face feels hot and you’re slightly out of breath. But there’s no confusing ash blond hair and the vermillion eyes that you’ve seen a thousand times when they’ve been on you, above you, crying.

“Fuck off.” Katsuki says with no room for argument. He takes your hand and pulls you behind him. It’s winter, and you can’t help but lean into his warmth.

“Ohhh, I see how it is! Nasty ex?” Laughing, his speech is slurred. Before Katsuki can say anything, though, you speak first. “He’s not my ex.”

He doesn’t seem to register any of that. The statement was useless, but Katsuki grips your hand tighter. Then, for a reason you can’t understand, the man tries to pull you back into his arms.

You feel it before you see it, Katsuki’s eyes flare up with anger, it’s dangerous. It flows and seeps and you already know this isn’t ending well.

There’s a nasty crack—you think the man’s nose is broken. Maybe it’s the trashy bar, because the music just gets louder and people shift away and pretend they see nothing. You’re the one who pulls a heaving Katsuki off the floor. You don’t look at the man who’s still left twitching on the floor, you don’t wish to see the bruises and blood that no doubt line his face. You pay attention to ash blond hair and vermillion eyes instead.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You raise your voice so he hears you over the music. He’s silent, he’s still seething, you think. You wait, because that’s all that you do.

He clicks his tongue and you see the conflict through his eyes. You know his pride is weighing heavy on his shoulders when the anger in his eyes melt into something more vulnerable. It’s something Dynamight can’t possibly show. His eyebrows are downturned, he’s completely sober, you realise. You let yourself imagine what he could’ve said, if things were different. If he was something more than the boy you recognised on television, maybe you wouldn’t have needed to sneak a piece of crumpled tissue into his pants like an inside joke. Maybe, you would’ve been able to walk into this room with his hand around your waist instead.

The smell of smoke and sugar is inundating you when you see the sweat that forms a light sheen on his forehead. Then, you’re pulling him by the hem of his shirt and kissing him.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

You wish you never said anything.

“That can’t be healthy..” Mina is holding your hand like she’s preparing you for the blow. She looks at you like how people look at stray dogs, with pity in her eyes. She’s understanding, she’s nice, it’s why you’re friends with her. But she’s too kind, she’s a hero—and she’s meddling in your business.

You wish you never told her anything.

“It’s, like, a friends with benefits situation?” Your justification is crumbling right beneath your feet. You can’t meet her eyes when these words escape your lips, bitter, like poison.

“He’s using you—!”

“I know.”

Maybe it’s because she can sense the tension, but she leaves soon after that. The wine she brought lays unopened on the table, you try to numb the guilt with shows, music. You can’t, because the truth leaves a gaping hole in your heart.

Some time after Mina left, maybe it’s been a few hours, you’re sitting alone when he phones you. “Hey,” he says, like foreplay, like the both of you don’t know why he’s calling. “Hi.”

“How are you?” he then asks, voice quiet. You’re sitting next to the window, the glass cold against your arm. You want to scream at him, you want to admit that you’re not doing well, but that’s not what Dynamight wants. You look out the window, onto the street, the world that owns him. He says your name, and it makes your breath stutter. You sigh, “I’ll be there.”

He must be feeling particularly lonely tonight, because when you knock on his door, he opens it immediately, like he was standing beside it waiting for you. “Eager?” You whisper. He smiles.

Tugging you by your sleeve, you two fall into his bed, his linen sheets. You feel at home, maybe you’ve spent more nights here than your own bed.

His mouth is over yours already.

You feel hot, stuffy. He’s whispering words into your ears that are too filthy to repeat. Closing your eyes, you pull at his shirt, he takes the hint and sheds it. One last time, you think, and never again.

He kisses you on your lips, he tugs on them before moving downwards. You’re unravelled like a present, clothes fall off your shoulders till he’s down between your thighs. He wraps them around his head, “I love it when you moan my name.” So you do. “Katsuki,” you say, like a prayer, when he licks your clit, fingers scissoring deep, pressing on your g-spot. “Fuck,” you’re pulling his hair, it makes him moan into your cunt. “Make me cum.”

You look down when you finally orgasm, it wracks through your body, until you’re left twitching. He’s pulling his fingers out of you when he puts down your legs, and while holding direct eye contact with you, he puts them into his mouth, as if there’s something more than just lust and gluttony in his eyes, as if to say: I love you.

Then he’s slipping into you again, slowly. The fingers on his prosthetic hand wrap around your throat, it makes your head dizzy. You taste yourself on his lips when he finally begins moving. Kissing, pumping, deep and agonising. He doesn’t last long. His moans get louder in your ear, his hands become desperate, pressing into your thighs until bruises are left behind. “Baby, please. Kiss me.” He comes with a shudder.

It’s quiet, the silence feels fragile.

You’re sweaty when you lay next to him. His movement is languid when he pulls you closer, you let him. His hand is around your waist, yours on his chest. Mina’s right. Your heart is in your throat when you say, “I can’t do this anymore.” A few syllables muttered is enough to make him cold, completely frozen in your grasp. “What?” He furrows his brows, disbelief evident in the way he frowns.

The look you give him makes him want to cry. Sadness pools in your eyes, so he holds you tighter. He cradles your head, but it’s too late. Your mind is set, both of you know that.

It is now that he realises he is holding a person with a soul. When he calls you up, while you’re something less than a bad habit, you’re something more than a porcelain doll in the palm of calloused hands—you are the prettiest girl he’s ever seen since the age of seventeen. You’re the air that he breathes, and it is now that he realises he has ruined you with his maw.

Mina visits you the next day. She comes in with the extra key you gave her with food in her hands, as if she knew before you told her that this has destroyed you.

I broke it off.

Your apartment is a mess. Takeout bags are everywhere and your living room looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in a few weeks. Mina smiles with something you don’t want to know about, pity maybe, sympathy maybe. You’re too tired to feel guilty when she begins cleaning. Packing away metal cans and dirtied plastic boxes, she helps you take out the trash, vacuum, while you stay glued next to the window. Maybe you should’ve never said anything, maybe life would be better if things just continued the way they were.

“You did the right thing.”

She comes again the next day. Then again. She comes over for at least an hour everyday for a week straight. You begin feeling bad for how much of her time you’re taking up, but she insists. She visits just to spend time with you. She makes sure you eat, she makes sure your apartment isn’t a complete mess.

She starts talking about it when two weeks have passed. Gentle prompts that give you the reins to open up however much you wish, and you realise it now just why she has so many friends. But she still looks at you with the same smile, pity and sympathy.

“I think I was okay with letting him use me because I guess I just always felt like—well—like I deserved it. What he gave me actually felt like something more than what I deserve. I’m just normal, you know? And—he’s a god.” She’d hum and let you continue. The silences aren’t awkward like you had feared, but she turns on the television to fill them in anyway.

It takes roughly one more week for her to start giving her opinion.

“You’re not any inferior, okay? He’s just a hero. Just a hero.”

No one really notices, maybe your parents ask once more about “the boy you always mention”, Mina asks whether you want to talk a few more times, you nod sometimes, and shake your head other times. You don't really notice how it gets better, it just does. You smile more at work, your apartment gets tidier and you can look at things without immediately thinking of him.

You’re not over it, you’re nowhere close to that. And when you’re alone in bed, maybe during the nights you can’t sleep, you ask yourself what even is there to get over. You two were never a thing, you existed between boundaries, your lives don’t really cross paths. The only reason you’re friends with Mina was by pure coincidence. He never invited you to hangouts, to events, and your coworkers don’t know about him. He called you when he needed you, and you gave him what he wanted. Only one of your colleagues figured there was something off, but even then, it’s easier to say “oh it’s nothing” than to explain the limbo that you were in. Life continues as if nothing is out of place. You get a promotion at work, you install a dating app then delete it a few weeks later. You go drinking and have sex.

You find out he has a girlfriend three months later. It was involuntary. You find out at work, from people who know nothing about your life gossiping about heroes because they’re far away, because they’re not real people with real souls.

“Dynamight got a girlfriend, you know.” Your coworker says it casually, like it’s the weather, and maybe to her it is.

You should’ve been able to hum and nod like a normal person, but instead you clench up and act like you’ve been caught doing something you weren’t supposed to.

“Oh.” is what you manage, but you straighten up and try your best to act normal. “Really. Who is it?”

“I think it’s Illus-o-Camie, like, the Glamour hero.”

You remember seeing her name on his phone once. You were laying next to him after sex when a notification pops up on screen, she was thanking him for something. You don’t try to hide your gaze back then, Katsuki just rolled over and swiped it away. “Work stuff.” He said.

“That’s nice.” You say, the words bitter on your tongue—a lie. “They look cute together.”

“I know right!”

You text Mina that night, it’s a Friday so you ask her to come over. When she walks in, you get deja vu from how she looks—the pity-sympathy smile—it’s almost like she already knew, and just didn’t tell you. Against your better judgement, you ask, “How long have they been together?”

“A month.”

You feel your heart break. But you’re your mother’s daughter, you persist. You nod and you hum.

“I’ll be okay.”

“You’ll be okay.”

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

He wasn’t supposed to be here. It’s Thursday, it’s cold, but he couldn’t really say no when his friends asked him to go out. The atmosphere isn’t bad, everything’s buzzing and kinda fun. He isn’t drinking because he has something to do early in the morning, he’s also the designated driver. He thinks it’s going to take one or two more hours before everyone heads home, he sighs. Mina is slung over Eijirou’s arm, Denki is in a bathroom stall with Sero, vomiting up the alcohol he’s ingested in the past hour. So now he’s alone. This bar is pretty shit from what he’s seen, but it’s exactly how heroes like them can drop in and not have anyone notice.

He’s waiting outside of the bathroom when he thinks he’s hallucinating.

You don’t like going out. You always tell him that. You dislike the feeling that alcohol gives you and you hate crowds, so he didn’t believe it when he saw you, just—there. On the dancefloor, with a man he couldn’t recognise.

He thinks about what you mean to him. You’re not his girlfriend, maybe not even a friend. So he weighs his options, it seems that no one realises his true identity. Kirishima is too busy with his girlfriend and the other two are nowhere to be seen. No one’s gonna stop him, no one can.

He looks at you, your skin is smooth even under the strobe lights, with a light sheen, probably of sweat. He wonders whether you’re having fun, if the frown on your lips are anything to come by, you aren’t. Your body is still against his, though, a little too close for his liking. How the man touches you leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but he isn’t someone to you. He has no right to do anything, really. He isn’t important enough to go over there and rip him away from you.

He briefly remembers jealousy gripping at his nerves, his entire body is hot and—and then that douche is kissing you, so all that he just thought about goes flying out the window. He’s too much like a tunnel-visioned racehorse when he all but rips the man away from you by his hair. He’s sober, he’s a hero and he’s a god, yet, he’s standing in some trashy bar with words in his heart that can’t be admitted, punching a man’s face in all because of a girl.

He has no idea how you managed to pull him off of the poor excuse of a man that’s laying on the floor, bleeding and twitching. Your lips are moving, they’re still slightly wet from what’s presumably that guy’s spit. They’re bruised, swollen, and he wants to kiss them better. He can’t decipher what you’re saying, but you’re looking at him expectantly, waiting.

He’s frustrated. How dare you. You mean nothing to him. You can’t. You shouldn’t.

But then you pull him by the hem of his shirt, and the rest is history.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

When Camie first brushed his face, he wanted to grimace and cry. He made sure that never showed on his face, because his manager insisted that this was a necessary publicity stunt for his plummeting popularity. It’s partly your fault, for calling your whatever off right before the HPSC check-in.

(He lies, he revels in his delusions, each and every day, each and every passing second, to convince himself that you wouldn’t have stayed.)

There’s nothing wrong with Camie. She’s hot. She’s pretty. She’s got a model body and face, her acrylic nails that are always done tingle the botched bit of skin on his face, while she looks at him with makeup that’s never smudged.

(He schools his face into a non-grimace.)

People like to ship them together. He has a verified fan account that’s dedicated to this very duo. But Camie has always been just a friend, an acquaintance, if anything.

Bakugou isn’t sure why he didn’t push her away. Or make a slightly unpleasant face when they weren’t under the scrutiny of the public. Camie’s smart, she’s good with people. There’s no doubt she’d pick up on his hesitance—unwillingness.

Camie is an accessory on his arm at the annual hero awards. He questions the meaning of this. What does this matter, in the grand scheme of things? Will his image of being a good boyfriend to a fellow hero save more lives? Will it deter any villains from attacking the city? What does his personal life have to do with anything?

(He feels less like a hero and more like a cheap prostitute that got taken advantage of.)

Everything, someone would say. His manager, Camie, you. His mental well-being affects his performance and subsequently the people he saves, the buildings he destroys. But he’s fared alright—well, even—in the worst times. Right after the Great War, after you whispered those bone-chilling words in his ears.

He realises that, somehow, when he tries his best to fulfil a duty he promised a dead man, he loses the very essence that made him a hero, a god. He strips himself of meaning, of purpose, to slowly let himself go. He sheds them off Dynamight like clothes for the public to see, so he is palatable, so he is malleable. He does something that his younger self would have insulted and dismantled with ease—he lets society swallow him with the definition they’ve assigned to the word heroics, and the indignity that is dredged with it.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Camie is not your friend. She’s a fake bitch who just got caught in the crossfire.

Serves her right, you think. She deserves it for the times she’s brought Katsuki to crowded bars, the times she’s forced him to wear matching necklaces that erode with sweat. It isn’t fair. She was labelled with a title you’ve fought tooth and nail for. By the press, by Katsuki. You can’t possibly fathom what she could have done that gave her the right. It feels stolen, as if she came as a thief, and for all the sleep and dignity and face that were confiscated from you, you laid barren on his linen sheets while the identity girlfriend was nicked, like an heirloom, right in the dead of night from your fingertips.

When you see her face, perched against his, it’s like you’ve got vomit on your tongue that water can’t wash off. So you stop flipping through magazines, you don’t use the television and social media has been wiped completely from your phone. You cut yourself off from the world of heroics and all that’s in it. Uprooted and replanted so you can focus on your boring job and boring friends. Work, drink, have sex, cry, and rinse and repeat. This routine is rehearsed until it becomes ingrained into your habits, into every twitch of a finger. You stop seeing Mina, and all of her hero friends too. You dye your hair, pierce your ears and sign up for a gym membership. You become another person.

In a year, you’ve gone from the sheep that lays bleeding in a wolf’s maw to the butcher himself.

(But sometimes, when the skin of hatred slips off, at dawn, with the windowsill cold against your arm, the teeth marks reopen. And despite the desperation with which you pull on the costume of a hunter, your armour, it collapses until you drown in spools of ash and red all over again.)

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

“What are you doing here?”

“Camie and I broke up.”

You look at him—really look at him. He’s meeting your eye with not a hint of waver, he isn’t frowning, but not exactly smiling either. Guilt is the guise that’s on his face but you know Katsuki.

“Let me rephrase the question: what do you want me to do?”

“To take the pain away.”

While you stand at the doorway, he’s the one that’s banished to your windy corridor. He stands there because he knows he owes you something. He lets you weigh your options, but he wants you to open your arms and welcome him home. It’d be so easy to just close your eyes and let him ravage you. But—

“You never liked Camie, not like that.” You remember her acrylic nails, her flawless makeup. Some armour, some costume.

“Shit, was I that obvious?”

You think about what you could say.

Camie didn’t—doesn’t deserve that. No one should be used and disposed of, not even by a god.

“No, I just know you well enough.”

He really doesn’t look guilty, not at all.

“I missed you.” He says.

So you think of his empty words, the promises that were not made to last. You think of the nights he calls you, the times he left you alone.

(“He’s using you—!” “I know.”)

You didn’t deserve that.

“Do you? Or do you just miss what I gave you?”

“That’s not—fuck. I’m sorry.” His voice is quiet. The word “sorry” still isn’t something that comes by his vocabulary regularly. “I don’t know.”

You sigh. It’s Sunday. You have work early in the morning. You’re cold. You haven’t showered.

“What do you want from me?”

“Just—let me try again. I missed you. I really did.” He gulps. “I do. I’ll treat you right.”

When he looks at you with glassy eyes tonight, he’s just a boy you met at the hospital. When you were seventeen, when you wanted to be wanted. He was a god then, and he is a god now.

Will you be able to notice his crocodile tears when all that you see in the reflection of his eyes is mud tangled with your bloodied roots?

You don’t know what to say to him.

When a plant is uprooted, the old pot is left behind to rot. The soil will be depleted of its nutrients, it decays because the plant is nowhere to be found.

“I don’t think you can.”

[nahimjustfeelingit-writes]

Shave ‘Em Dry

Annalise ‘Annie’ Moreau Moore x Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore

Warnings: Smut, Knife play, sensory deprivation kink, crime, dirty talk, spanking, cruel!Smoke, rough sex, sassy!Annie, NSFW 18+ CONTENT, mentions of Hoodoo. AU Sinners.

Summary: the Smoke–Stack Twins are rising to the heights of the southern gangway after murdering an OG they worked for in Clarksdale. The Twins decided to rob a known bank in Arkansas, and things turn bloody. Meanwhile, Smoke’s new wife, Annie, is left wondering when her husband will return home. She knows he’s safe, but his criminal behavior already put him in jail for seven years! She’s sick and tired of it! Ain’t no pearls and bags of money enough to make her happy.

Part One

Annie was born into a line of powerful women. Her grandmother, Miss Letha, was known in Baton Rouge as a midwife and seer. Her mother, Celestine Moreau, was a traveling healer and conjure woman, moving through the river towns and Deep South communities offering her skills. Celestine didn’t just pass down tools—she passed down the memory of power, oral traditions, and spirit-led work.

Annie learned rootwork in childhood, helping grind herbs, fold petitions, tend crossroads altars, and gather graveyard dirt respectfully. After her mother died when Annie was in her late teens, Annie traveled for several years, learning from different practitioners in Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia. She returned seasoned, powerful, and revered—a woman people now call ‘priestess,’ though Annie doesn’t claim the title herself.

Smoke is Annie’s first.

Not just sexually—but spiritually tied. She grew up watching him from a distance, knowing he was dangerous and fine and not meant for her, until one day he became hers anyway.

Their love is carved in survival and fire. She held him when he came back from war, shaking and hollow. When the world felt like ash in his mouth, she was the one who reminded him how to breathe again.

Smoke had his twin brother, Stack—blood, bone, ride-or-die.

But Annie?

She was the home he came back to.

The place no man, no battlefield, no ghost could take from him.

Their bond runs deep but not smooth. They fight. A lot. But every word flung is a tether. Every wound bleeds red, but it binds them tighter.

“I hate how much I love you.”

“Then love me harder.”

Annie knew Elijah Moore before he became Smoke. Before the war, before the blood, before the prison. She knew him when they were both just poor Black Southern kids, raised hard and fast, picking cotton under the sun, running wild in the same dirt fields.

He had that quiet fire even then—the kind of stare that made grown men nervous, and women lean closer without knowing why.

She loved him before he had anything.

Before the guns.

Before the name.

Before the ghosts.

They married before he went away, ensuring to remain bound. He’d kissed her hand in the sugarcane rows and whispered:

“You wait for me, Annie. I’ll come back different.”

Elijah and Elias got locked up in 1925 for robbing a bootlegger, pistol-whipping him, and stealing crates of liquor meant for white hands only. They were twenty-five. Poor. Desperate. Tired of being broke and owned.

Annie had lost hope.

They went down for seven years—hard labor, chain gang, Red River stone quarries. The prison work that killed men slowly.

But Annie never stopped waiting.

And she didn’t just wait, she worked. To get that hope back. Even when she felt their love slipping through the floorboards beneath her feet.

She lit candles every Thursday. The day they were sentenced.

She made him a mojo bag and kept them in her drawer, feeding them with oil, tears, and blood on the new moon.

She buried a lock of Elijah’s hair in her backyard, tied to a coffin nail and a red thread, chanting:

“He ain’t gon’ break. He ain’t gon’ bow.

My man’s comin’ back whole somehow.”

She paid conjure women from Memphis for bone dust, war water, and secret psalms. She left food at crossroads. She carried the burden of belief every time no letter came, no word arrived.

And when she dreamed of blood, she’d burn sulfur and scream his name at the river.

“Don’t you die in that place, Elijah Moore. You don’t leave me here in this world alone.”

When the twins stepped off that prison bus, Annie could sense a change. Especially in Elijah. He was still her man, but he wasn’t the same.

He smiled when he saw her. He kissed her like nothing else mattered. But his eyes were sharper. His hands twitched more. He slept with a revolver under the mattress and didn’t talk about the nights he didn’t sleep at all.

He was happy to be free, yes.

But he was hungry—not just for her body, but for power.

“I ain’t goin’ back to the fields,” he said, “Ain’t breakin’ my back for pennies while somebody else eats.”

She understood. She did.

But she felt it, too—something new growing in him. Something wild. Something cold.

Smoke refused to return to sharecropping. He didn’t give a damn about quotas.

“I did time already. I ain’t gon’ do no more for a white man with a whip made of math.”

He’d rather run numbers. Hustle dice. Take money instead of beg for it.

And Stack?

Stack was the dreamer. The smooth talker. The one who’d sit on the porch at sundown and say:

“We could be kings, Eli. I’m talkin’ juke joints, backroom whiskey, heat in our pockets. We don’t gotta stay broke. We just gotta be bold.”

Smoke believed him.

And Annie?

She saw the road rising ahead of them like a snake stretched out in sunlight.

As their lives turned sharper, Annie’s magic deepened.

She started pulling cards more often.

Worked candle divinations.

Slept with a bowl of water at her bedside to catch visions.

She saw Smoke’s shadow stretching too far. She saw Stack’s eyes turning toward her in moments he didn’t mean to. Her own face, caught between love and sacrifice.

She asked the spirits, “Can I keep him safe and still love him right?”

They answered only with smoke and silence.

Smoke began to believe that money was the only real magic.

“Ain’t no root in the world stronger than a fistful of green,” he argued, “Money make men live longer. Make cops look away. Make white folks call you ‘sir.’”

Annie disagreed.

“Money don’t stop bullets. Don’t stop curses. Don’t stop grief.”

She never backed down. Not once.

“But I do,” she whispered, “Me and the spirits.”

And so began the quiet rift—not a betrayal, but a difference in faith.

Smoke chased control.

Annie conjured protection.

They loved each other with their whole bodies. But they were walking parallel paths, barely keeping touch at the fingertips.

The OG: Clifton “Cleve” Ray.

Born in 1882 in the swamps near Yazoo, Mississippi. His mother was a seamstress. His father, a violent gambler who vanished after a card game gone bad. Cleve grew up in juke joints and gambling houses, running whiskey before he could shave. He watched white bootleggers get rich and vowed to carve his own piece of the underworld, no matter the blood price.

Came to Clarksdale in his twenties. Cleve started small. Dice games in alleys, cheap moonshine in tin cups, a stolen pistol under his coat. By 1915, he had three businesses laundering his income, two women fronting brothels for him, and lawmen on his payroll.

“Rule one,” he told his men, “Don’t get caught without money for bail. Rule two: Don’t get caught twice.”

He earned the name ‘Cleve’ from how he ‘cleaved’ his enemies: split men open with his switchblade before he could afford a gun.

Cleve wasn’t flashy. He was strategic and calculating.

When Prohibition hit, he expanded his territory. Speakeasies, bootlegging routes, moonshine stills out in Lyon and Rosedale. Had a silver-handled cane he took off a white banker he pistol-whipped after the man tried to short him on a real estate deal. Kept it ever since. He survived gang wars with rival crews in Memphis and Greenville by outsmarting, not outgunning. Paid conjure women for luck. Hired thugs for everything else.

“I ain’t spiritual, but I don’t play with spirits.”

Cleve first heard of the Moore boys while they were still in prison.

Word came through his contacts. Two brothers, sharp as blades, fresh from a seven-year stretch for robbing a bootlegger. When they were released, he kept tabs on them. Watched how Smoke moved in silence, and Stack smiled like sin and gold.

Their first interaction came at one of Cleve’s backroom dice games. Stack cleaned the table with loaded charm. Smoke stayed near the door, back to the wall, watching everything. When one of Cleve’s men accused Stack of cheating, Smoke broke the man’s wrist in a single move.

Cleve just laughed.

“That kind of loyalty’s hard to come by. You young bloods lookin’ for work?”

He offered them muscle and money. Said he’d teach them the game if they kept their heads down. Gave Stack a job running books and ledgers, laundering Cleve’s bootlegging profits through a dry goods store. Gave Smoke control over collections and enforcement —his “left hand” as he called it.

“I made this town,” Cleve spat egotistical, “I’m lookin’ for the ones who’ll inherit it after I’m dead. Not before.”

But it was a lie.

Cleve never intended to share his throne. He believed the twins were tools—young, hungry, and eager. Replaceable.

He underestimated them both.

Stack started getting too slick with the numbers. Made side deals. Took meetings Cleve didn’t authorize. Smoke started earning a reputation of his own— feared, admired. Even the police spoke his name in whispers. Worst of all: a woman. A young, light-skinned Black girl Cleve kept as both his mistress and his prisoner. Annie never knew her—but Smoke saw her.

One night, Smoke helped her escape. Gave her train fare and told her to run fast and far.

Cleve found out days later. Didn’t say a word.

But his smile soured.

Cleve sent the boys to ‘handle a job’—collect from a man who owed him for crates of shine. But it was a trap. The man was already dead. Blood on the walls. A planted pistol with Smoke’s fingerprints. If the law got there first, Smoke would hang.

They left fast.

“You feel that?” Stack asked, “That was a funeral Cleve just wrote for us.”

Smoke said nothing. Just clenched his fists and lit a cigarette.

That night, they cleaned their guns, and they don’t wait.

The next night, they show up at Cleve’s juke joint like nothing’s wrong—dressed sharp, clean, cool.

Stack buys drinks. Laughs with the musicians. Smiles at the bartender.

Smoke disappears into the back with Cleve, supposedly to talk business.

Five minutes later, a single gunshot cracks through the music.

He died the way he lived: with a smirk on his lips and a hole in his chest.

“You boys think you runnin’ this town?” he gasped before he bled out.

Smoke leaned close, voice cold.

“We don’t think. We know.”

When Stack pushes through the door, he finds Smoke standing over Cleve’s body — the silver cane in one hand, the bloody pistol in the other.

“He was gonna kill us,” Smoke says simply, “So I killed him first.”

“You sure?” Stack asks.

“Ain’t gotta be sure. Just gotta live.”

They dump Cleve’s body in the river—cut his face, so no one can ID it too fast.

They take his books, his contacts, his stash. Some of Cleve’s men stay loyal out of fear. Others vanish. The Moore twins move fast—clean up the mess, take over the rackets, and quiet the town with violence.

But Stack knows something’s shifting in Smoke.

He’s not just hungry now. He’s blood-fed.

Cleve’s death didn’t just make space, it created monsters. The Moore twins took the empire, but the violence it took to get it never left them.

And Cleve? His name still hangs over Clarksdale like a ghostly whisper.

Some say his ghost haunts the juke joint they killed him in.

Some say he left a buried stash no one’s found.

Some say he watches from Hell, proud as hellfire of the boys who took his crown.

Meanwhile, Annie feels all of it.

The moment Cleve dies, her altar goes cold. She dreams of smoke, blood, and fire on the riverbank. When Smoke comes home afterward—silent, lips tight, jaw twitching—she knows something’s ended…and something worse has begun.

She works a ritual that night, alone in the kitchen.

“Don’t let my man get drunk on blood. Don’t let him turn into the thing he’s fightin’.”

But the spirits whisper.

You ain’t just holdin’ him. You feedin’ him. You love the fire too…

Even with Cleve’s operation in their hands, they need real capital to grow, to pay bribes, arm up, expand beyond Clarksdale.

Stack says it first.

“We get in, get out. Arkansas bank. Payroll day. No one’s expectin’ us.”

Smoke doesn’t blink.

“Long as I get to pull the trigger if someone flinches.”

Stack studies his brother a long time.

“You gonna like this too much.” Stack said.

“Already do.” Smoke replied.

August 1932. First National Bank. Little Rock, Arkansas.

The country’s neck-deep in the Depression. Banks are failing. Working folks are desperate.

Stack got the location and routine from a woman he seduced—a teller who worked the early shift. He charmed her, watched her movements, and learned the layout. The Plan: Hit the bank just after closing on a Friday. Fewer people, limited staff. They’d come in from out of town dressed as a traveling jazz duo: Stack with his guitar, Smoke carrying a horn case loaded with weapons.

The black Ford Coupe rumbled into Little Rock just past noon, heat shimmering off the pavement. Inside, Elijah ‘Smoke’ Moore lit a cigarette off the car lighter, dark shades over his eyes, jaw tight. Beside him, Elias ‘Stack’ Moore adjusted his cuffs and checked his reflection in the mirror, smoothing his hair back into place.

“You ready?” Stack asked, voice smooth as a psalm.

“Always,” Smoke replied, blowing a thin stream of smoke through his nose.

They pulled around the side of First National Bank, nestled between a tailor and a tobacco shop downtown. Stack climbed out first, dressed like a traveling bluesman—double-breasted linen suit, guitar case slung over his back. He didn’t give his twin a backwards glance, wanting to get this shit going to avoid getting caught. Stack entered the bank and he tipped his hat at the pretty clerk inside, flashing gold-capped teeth.

“Afternoon, sweetheart. Y’all still takin’ deposits from the Lord’s musicians?”

The teller giggled. He always had a way of making women forget their job. As she chatted him up, Stack’s eyes danced around the lobby. He clocked two guards, an old white banker in the glass office, a sleepy-looking manager, and just three civilians.

Exactly what the girl had described.

Outside, Smoke exited the car with a horn case slung at his side. Not a note of music inside—just a sawed-off shotgun, two pistols, and a soft velvet bag for the cash.

He stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

“Ain’t no music today,” he growled. “Just business.”

The guards reached, but Smoke moved faster, shotgun raised.

BOOM!

One caught a blast to the shoulder, sent spinning into the marble wall. The other froze, dropped his weapon.

Stack pulled his pistol from his jacket and pointed it at the manager’s head.

“Don’t be stupid. We don’t want your blood. Just your goddamn money.”

Smoke hurled a satchel over the teller counter.

“Fill it. Big bills. No tricks.”

The room fell silent except for the shaky rustle of money being packed into bags.

The vault opened—a stroke of luck, or fear. Inside:

$42,000 in cash. A lockbox of private jewelry, heirloom wedding sets, pearls, uncut stones. Two gold watches, war bonds, silver dollars. Stack lifted a silver cigarette case with engraved initials and smirked.

“Somebody’s daddy gon’ miss this.”

Smoke tossed in a handful of rings and chains, then moved to the front door—watching.

“Two minutes,” he barked, “Clock’s runnin’.”

A new face emerged—a rookie guard, young and dumb, probably just stepped out of the back.

“Freeze!”

He raised a revolver and fired. The bullet clipped Stack’s shoulder—not deep, but enough to piss him off.

Smoke turned and fired once—clean and fast. The guard dropped like a bag of rocks, head against the teller’s counter, blood already spreading across the floor.

“Fuck,” Stack hissed, clutching his shoulder.

Blood seeped between his thick fingers. He hissed with pain and a furrow of his sweaty brows.

“He moved first,” Smoke muttered, “He chose.”

The mood shifted. The civilians whimpered. The banker pissed himself.

“We done here,” Smoke snapped, “Load it up.”

Smoke snatched the bag full of the stolen goods, finding it heavier than he expected. Stack glanced over at the Bank Teller, winking at her before rushing out the door behind his twin.

They burst out the back, climbed into the Coupe, and peeled off down 7th Street, tires shrieking.

They didn’t speed at first. Stack insisted on blending in until they hit the outskirts. Once clear of town, Smoke floored it, roaring through the backroads of Arkansas, headed toward Mississippi.

Little Rock to Helena then they crossed the Mississippi River, straight Into Clarksdale by backroads.

They burned their clothes behind an old shack near Tunica, tossed the horn case into the river. Stack’s shoulder was bandaged in silence. Smoke didn’t say much—just kept stroking the mojo bag Annie gave him, the weight of blood settling in his chest.

“We did it,” Stack said finally, exhaling.

“Yeah,” Smoke replied, “Ain’t nobody gon’ stop us now.”

The shack outside Tunica reeked of mildew, soot, and sin. The inside was lit only by the golden hush of late afternoon. Dust floated thick in the still air. Stack sat shirtless on an overturned crate, teeth gritted, a clean bullet hole in his upper shoulder. Not deep. Not fatal. But it burned like hell.

He poured moonshine over it and hissed through his teeth.

“Son of a bitch got lucky. Shoulda aimed lower. Might’ve earned himself another breath.”

Smoke didn’t answer. He was pacing the length of the room, gun still clutched in his hand, knuckles bared. His shirt was streaked with blood—not his own—and his eyes were somewhere else.

“You hear me?” Stack called, “I said I’m fine.”

Smoke didn’t stop pacing. Just grunted.

Stack pulled the bandage tighter, hissing again. He watched his twin from beneath furrowed brows.

“You still mad about the kid?”

Smoke stopped. Looked up. His jaw was clenched, the cigarette dangling from his lips barely smoked.

“He raised his gun,” Smoke said flatly.

“I ain’t sayin’ you was wrong,” Stack replied, “I’m sayin’ you liked it.”

A beat passed. Smoke’s jaw ticked.

“You ain’t never killed someone and felt a piece of yourself go quiet? Like you don’t hear the guilt, just the silence after?”

Smoke looked at him then—really looked. And something flickered behind his eyes. Not regret. Not remorse.

“No,” he said, voice low, “When I kill, I feel alive.”

Stack leaned back, eyes narrowed.

“That’s what scares me.”

Smoke flicked his cigarette out. Turned away. Began peeling off his blood-soaked shirt.

“Don’t get soft on me now.”

“Ain’t soft,” Stack spoke, “I just ain’t ready to burn up with you.”

They didn’t speak again. The silence between them wasn’t peace. It was weight. Blood. The slow slide toward a line they wouldn’t be able to uncross.

Annie sits in the living room of their Delta cottage as dusk settles in, the blues of the evening sky filtering through lace curtains. The quiet is thick and quiet enough that she can hear a cicada’s buzz deep in the swamp. She settles into a straight-backed chair by the fireplace, her hands wrapped around a tin cup of bittersweet tea flavored with moonflower and honeysuckle. The room hums with roots such as ginger, cedar, and willow, bursting from jars plus the scent of amber and tobacco smoke she’s kept simmering in a small iron bowl.

Years of rootwork have tuned her senses to her husband Elijah and his brother Elias. As she takes a slow sip, she closes her eyes, sinking into a trance. Her breath lengthens, her nostrils flare, and she inhales deeply into the aroma of cedar and smoke. The essence of their presence lives here, in the air she breathed when they were home, the dim corners where they exchanged silent glances, the old oak floorboards that still carry the echo of their boots.

She reaches for a small oyster shell on the table, tracing its edge, and sprinkles a mix of honey, fine ash, and valerian root from a small glass phial. It smolders and curls into smoke. With each rising wisp, she whispers their names.

“Elijah…Elias…” Her voice is soft, barely more than a wind through reeds, “Where are you now? Are you safe?”

In her mind’s eye, she sees two silhouettes creeping low through a moonlit field. Elijah’s broad shoulders leading the way while Elias glided not too far behind. The smoke in the room thickens, shifting like fog on the water. Creepily. Annie watched the swirling vapor, feeling every beat of their hearts, every calculated step, the sound of gunmetal in their fists echoing in her chest. Heavy. Exhausting.

She breathes in their heartbeat, feeling its steady rhythm, not frantic. That alone tells her they made it back, that they’re together and safe…for now. A wave of relief floods her, followed by gratitude and a sharp sting of pride. They’d planned this bank job for weeks, she’d helped them in her own way, crossing their paths with root-barns and honey-jars to dull suspicion, layering spells to keep luck on their side.

The room empties of tension, and for a moment, memory and flame flicker across the walls. The risk, the adrenaline, all of it melted away, and yet the ache for Elijah is fresh and raw. She stands, sets the cup down, and moves to the front window. In the distance, the old bayou whispers secrets against the hush of her house.

She whispers again, a blessing this time, brushing a single, feather-soft dandelion seed across the sill. She knows they’ll find it when they cross the threshold, her silent signal that she felt them home. That she carried them in her bones.

And just like that, she waits. She’s attentive, full of love and lingering fear, but anchored by one unshakeable truth.

they’re alive, they’re together, and in her place of roots and spells, she held them safe.

But then something else stirred within her.

Suddenly, her breath stills. Annie’s hands hover midair, eyes half-lidded. She feels it. That tug. That ache of longing. It’s not on her dress. Not on her skin. It burns deeply, right between her ribs. Like someone’s trying to call her by name but can’t speak.

Her lips part, slowly, “He thinkin’ on me…”

She walks to the front porch, standing in the doorway, moonlight draping her like a second skin. Her hips shift, her hand rests just above her belly, and she closes her eyes. The connection flares again. It’s searing hot and steady. Annie knows in her mind’s eye that Elijah’s holding something of hers. Probably that folded black and white photograph with a permanent crease in the center that she gave him the night before his last run, her laughing in her garden, a headscarf tied up high, lips painted beet red. Or maybe it’s more than that.

Something more salacious.

A pair of her bloomers. All silk, soft, still faintly holding her scent or a little strip of textured paper with her name written in his hand, three times over, blood pricked on the corner. Sometimes, when he’s alone, holed up after a job, Smoke’ll light a cigarette and pull out that keepsake bundle. He’ll press her panties to his face, eyes closed, breathing her in deep like she’s gospel and ghost. His hands would shake, not from fear, but want. Ached-up longing. Deep desire. He can’t be away from Annie for too long. It makes him primal. Animalistic.

Each time he touches those things, especially the mojo bag or her panties, Annie feels it. It’s in the curl of her spine. The warmth that spreads low in her belly. The way her heart skips a beat just before the wind kicks up out of nowhere. Sometimes she’ll hum a tune she doesn’t remember choosing. Sometimes her nipples harden without cause.

Sometimes she stands in the garden, barefoot in the dirt, and whispers soft and strong, “Come home to me, Smoke.”

And somewhere out there many miles away, he shifts in his seat or where he stands, rubbing the pouch and swears he can smell jasmine on the air. Because love like theirs? It don’t fade. Not when it’s rooted in hoodoo, blood, and breath.

Tunica was a rural area—mostly cotton fields, juke joints, dirt roads, and poverty, but also rich with blues culture and river trade. It sat in the heart of the Mississippi Delta, soaked in the same heat, ghosts, and gospel Annie knows. Folks might pass through there on the run, looking for work, laying low, or meeting with dangerous people under cover of night.

Fifty miles north of Clarksdale, the house ain’t much. It’s just one long room, patched with old boards, walls damp with river air and regret. A crooked screen door hangs open to the wind. Smoke sits on the edge of a thin mattress, elbows on his knees, his whole body humming with restlessness. Stack is in a different room, sleeping off the exhaustion of hiding out.

A single bare bulb swings overhead, casting shadows across his face like ghosts still lingerin’. His suit jacket hangs from a nail by the door, dripping wet from river water. He’s peeled off everything else but his slacks, sweat slicking his chest, the scent of blackpowder and steel still clinging to his skin.

Laid out in front of him are a bundle of keepsakes, careful as scripture. A pair of Annie’s bloomers, soft, silken, folded like a prayer. A photo of her, creased at the corners and the center, worn thin from being touched too often. Her smile in the picture got sunlight in it. She’s barefoot, garden behind her, one hand on her hip like she owns the whole damn world. Smoke picks up the bloomers first. Brings ’em to his face. Inhales.

Lavender. Honey. All Annie.

His fingers tremble. He ain’t afraid of no lawman, no devil in the swamp. But that feeling in his chest? That’s different. That’s missing her so bad it makes his ribs ache. He leans back, lays flat. One arm drapes across his forehead. The other clutches the mojo bag around his neck, stitched by Annie herself.

Inside that bag is dirt from under their bed, her hair twined with his, dried violet, his name written in red ink three times. Bound magic. Bound love. And he can feel it now. He can feel her. His woman. His wife. Not just memory. Not just longing. Her spirit presses against him like warm breath on his skin.

“You callin’ me, baby?” Smoke whispered low and hoarse.

He swears he hears her hum, all soft like she do when she’s makin’ salve or sweepin’ the front porch at sundown. He closes his eyes, and there she is in his mind, standing under their magnolia tree, arms crossed under her heavy breasts, lips pursed and sheened with lemon balm.

Then her voice, whispered and bold, drifts into the stillness all distant and aching.

Come home to me, Smoke…

He jolts upright, heart slammin’ like a drum. That wasn’t just his imagination. That was her spirit hand reachin’ through miles of swamp and field, tugging on his chest. He grabs the bloomers, kisses them rough, almost angry.

His voice cracked, “You got me out here losin’ my damn mind, woman.”

He presses her photo to his lips next. Then tucks both deep into the inner pocket of his suit jacket like something sacred. Heavy rain pellets hit harder outside. The wind whistles low through the cracks in the boards. He reaches for his pistol, checking the chamber out of habit, not fear. Ain’t no ghost or man could touch him while he carries her.

“I’m comin’, Annie. I ain’t stayin’ out here no more.” He spoke in a hushed voice soft and steady with a deep rasp.

Smoke lights a blunt with shaking hands, watching the smoke curl up like her scent might ride it all the way back to Clarksdale. Every breath he draws tastes like memory. He stays up the rest of the night, eyes wide, waiting for dawn and the road to carry him home to their porch, her blade, her hips, her arms.

All of it.

The screen door creaks as Annie steps out, her hands dusted with flour, apron tied snug around her waist. Morning light breaks across the field, gold and pink streaking the sky like bruises healing.

She sees them coming up the dirt road in Stack’s car—two dark silhouettes against the mist. The car rolls to a stop beneath the dirt of The Delta, and then they both open their doors in unison. Elijah walks steady, but his eyes are tired. Elias—Stack—has a hand clutched tight to his upper arm, a dark smear running through his shirt sleeve.

Annie’s heart kicks in her chest.

They make it to the porch before either speaks. Elijah’s taller in this light, jaw clenched. Stack is limping slightly, face unreadable behind those sharp cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

Annie spoke stern but soft, “Y’all look like hell froze over and spit you back out.”

Stack grunted, “Ain’t far off.”

Smoke was quiet for a beat, then he parted his lips to speak with a low rasp.

“We made it home.”

She steps forward, holding the screen open with one arm. They cross the threshold like weary soldiers, boots tracking in Delta mud.

Smoke kisses her first—slow, deliberate. His lips land on her cheek but linger far too long, the corner of his mouth sliding near hers like he forgot where it was supposed to stop.

Annie stood half-smiling, pushing at his chest.

“Boy, don’t be actin’ needy soon as you cross my porch.”

Then Stack leans in, brushes her opposite cheek with rough lips—shorter, less weight to it.

“Thank you, Annie.”

She studies the blood on his sleeve, her smile fading. She places her hands on her hips, eyes sharp.

“Elijah Moore, you gon’ let your brother bleed out so you can get handsy?”

Smoke grinned low, “Ain’t like he dyin’. It’s a graze. Man caught a whisper of a bullet, and now I can’t even kiss on my wife?”

“Your what?” Annie sassed.

“You mine, Annie. You know that.” He whispered.

Annie narrows her eyes. The air between them tightens. She pulls Stack gently by the elbow and guides him to the kitchen table.

“Sit down ‘fore I tie you to the chair myself.”

Stack smirked through the pain. Annie removed her apron, nothing but a fitted haint blue dress underneath that left little to the imagination. She could feel Smoke’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.

“That supposed to be a threat or a promise?”

“Hush. Ain’t got time for neither.” Annie said.

She moves fast—pulling out a jar of pine gum salve, a tin of cayenne soaked in vinegar, and clean cloth. Smoke leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her every move. He’s itching, twitching. His fingers run along the edge of the table, eyes glued to her hips as she leans over Stack.

She rips the sleeve with a practiced motion. Stack winces.

“Mmhm. Just a graze, but y’all always act like you done fought the war again.”

He spoke low and rough, “Ain’t fought no war, but I fought the devil himself to get back here.”

Annie doesn’t answer. Just wipes blood, applies salve, wraps Stack tight. But her movements slow when Smoke steps behind her, hands grazing her waist. His fingers slide around her hips, thumbs brushing the curve of her hips. His mouth dips close to her ear.

Smoke spoke, voice husky, “Been thinkin’ ‘bout your skin every night. Smellin’ you in my dreams. Had your bloomers in my damn pocket like a fool.”

Stack snorts behind them, shaking his head.

“Lord. I’ll leave y’all two alone ‘fore this kitchen catch fire.”

Annie turns just as Smoke’s lips brush her neck. She slaps his hand—firm but not unkind.

Smoke wouldn’t move. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling deep. Annie chewed on her bottom lip to fight the tremble that fought to break through.

Annie elbowed him, “He still bleedin’, fool.”

Smoke growled, not backing off, “Then let him bleed outside. I’m tryna taste what’s mine.”

Annie looks over her shoulder, chin lifted, a slow smile pulling at her mouth.

“You taste me after you sweep this mess and clean your brother’s blood off my floor.”

Stack stands, nodding once.

“Thank you, Annie. You a good woman. Smoke, I’ma bow out. I’ll catch you later. I need a bath and my bed.”

He leaves without another word, the screen door clattering shut behind him.

Now it’s just them. Smoke steps in closer, arms sliding around her waist from behind. She leans into him, just for a second, then pulls away, smirking.

“Don’t think just ‘cause I missed you I’m gonna make it easy.”

Smoke spoke low, “I don’t want it easy.”

She turns to face him, and the heat between them ignites like the kindling of old sin and older love. Her hands rest on his chest, his heartbeat pounding like it’s tryna tell her something true.

“Then close the door, Elijah.”

And he does—slow, like he’s sealing in something sacred.

Annie stands with her back to the table, arms folded tight under her breasts, lips pursed. Her eyes lock on Smoke, who stands there like he owns the air she’s breathing.

He starts to speak, but she cuts him off with a hand in the air.

“Don’t even open that mouth, Elijah Moore.” Annie spoke low and sharp.

Smoke grinned, “Ain’t even said nothin’ yet.”

“And you don’t need to. ‘Cause I already know how it go. You vanish for two nights. You come back slick with sin and smellin’ like gunpowder. Got your brother damn near shot, and you lookin’ at me like I’m supposed to fall in your arms just ‘cause you brought your fine ass home in one piece.”

He doesn’t move. Just lets her talk. Let’s her feel it.

Annie spoke, voice rising, “I waited, Smoke. I sat up every night, watchin’ that road, fingers itchin’ for that blade, heart poundin’ like it was gonna give out. You out here makin’ moves and leavin’ me in the dark.”

Smoke spoke slow and low, “You done?”

“No, I ain’t done. You don’t get to disappear and then think you can just roll up, kiss on me, and—”

He crosses the space in two strides, grabbing her face in his palms—rough and warm—and tilts her chin up, forcing her to look at him.

He spoke, voice like thunder, “Hush all that gahdamn complainin’, woman.”

Annie’s breath hitches. He’s so close she can smell herself on him—how long he’s carried her scent. The pulse between her thighs throbs against her will.

“I know you mad. You got every right. But I ain’t out there chasin’ nothin’ that don’t belong to us. Every risk I take, every mile I run—it’s for you. For this house. For that fire in your eyes that’s burnin’ me up right now.”

She tries to pull back, but his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to hold.

He continued, voice dipped in honey and iron, “I need you, Annie. Not just your mouth. Not just your hips. I need that peace you carry in your chest and that hell you stir in my bed. So go ‘head and fuss. Let it out. But when you done? You gon’ come over here…” His hands slide down to her waist, pulling her into him, hard, “…and take what you want too.”

Her hands push at his chest, weakly now.

Annie’s breath is still ragged, her palms pressed to Smoke’s broad chest. His voice is in her ear, his hands claiming her hips like he’s afraid she’ll vanish if he don’t hold tight.

But she narrows her eyes, not letting him have all the power—not yet.

Annie’s voice was low, dangerous sweet, “You keep runnin’ off and comin’ back bold…you gon’ find I’ve replaced you with my own peace and a clean blade.”

That makes Smoke pause. His mouth twitches—not in fear, but in pleasure.

He steps back slightly, reaching into the inner lining of his suit jacket, slick and damp from the rain. He pulls something long and narrow, wrapped in an oilcloth stained with soot.

“That right? Then maybe I oughta give you what I found…somethin’ to remember me by if I don’t make it home next time.”

He unwraps it slow—like a man offering something sacred.

It’s a knife. Not just any knife.

The handle is carved bone, smoothed by time and use, shaped to fit perfectly in a woman’s hand. There’s a faint rose motif etched along the base, and the blade gleams like silver lightning.

But it’s the engraving that stops Annie cold.

Right near the base, small and clean and wicked as sin, it reads

For a good boy.

Annie inhales sharply, lips parting. Her whole body tenses, thighs pressing together without thinking.

“Lord have mercy…” Her fingers twitch, needing to touch it. She reaches out slow, runs her thumb across the hilt, then the blade, “Where’d you find this?”

“In a drawer ‘longside some man’s wedding band and two stacks of dirty money. He ain’t need it no more. Figured…you would.”

He watches her eyes darken as she lifts the blade up to the light, admiring the craftsmanship, the weight, the message.

“You know what this say?”

“I know exactly what it say, baby,” Smoke leans in, voice low, “And I ain’t never been nobody’s good boy…but I’d be yours, if you ask right.”

Her lip curls, smile wicked now

“That so?”

Smoke spoke stern and hungry, “I brought you blood, money, and steel. All I want is you.”

She turns the blade in her hand once more, then looks him over slow—up and down, eyes heavy with want and mischief.

“Then you best act like it.”

That’s when he moves—fast, strong, scooping her clean off the floor. She lets out a soft, breathless yelp but doesn’t fight it this time. The knife remains in her hand as he carries her through the narrow hall to the bedroom.

Smoke spoke gruff and possessive, “Keep that knife close. You might need it…case you wanna mark me as yours while I’m underneath you.”

She laughs—low, dangerous, aroused.

“You already marked, Elijah Moore. I ain’t gotta carve nothin’. You carry me in your bones,” Annie spoke low and breathless, “You think you just gon’ sweet-talk me and I’ll melt like sugar in ya’ hands, Elijah?”

Smoke smiled slow, “Ain’t gotta think. I know.”

Annie spoke firm, but softening, “You ain’t gon’ disappear again, Smoke. Not without tellin’ me.”

“No, ma’am. I done learned my lesson.” Smoke said, voice thick.

“And you still owe me for them sleepless nights, nigga.”

“Oh, I’ma pay. In full. With interest.”

Smoke drops her on the bed like an offering. She lands with a soft gasp, dress bunched at her hips. He stands over her, dark eyes sweeping her from curls to toes.

“Now quit all that fussin’ and come get what you been missin’.” Smoke barked out.

Smoke just looked at her. Slow. From head to heel. Then back up. His chest rose with a deep breath, the kind that came before trouble. He reached up and undid the top buttons of his shirt with rough fingers, not rushing—not one bit.

“Take it off,” he rasped.

Annie didn’t move.

He let his shirt hang open, exposing a chest broad and scarred, with thick muscle carved from war and work. Sweat glistened in the dips of his collarbone, his skin the color of polished bronze kissed by dust and sun. A trail of hair led down past his navel, to where his slacks hung low, heavy at the crotch.

“I said, take off that goddamn dress.” Smoke barked out.

Annie sucked her teeth but obeyed, slow and deliberate. Letting the straps fall one at a time, baring thick, heavy breasts with dark nipples that jutted out like a challenge. Her belly curved soft and round, hips wide enough to birth a kingdom. That dress hit the floor, pooling at her feet like spilled conjure soap.

“Mmm…mmm…”

Smoke dropped his shirt. Undid his belt with one pull. His dick sprang free when he shoved his slacks down—thick, veined, already hard and twitching. Bobbing up and down in her face. Annie’s tongue poked out at the sight.

“Damn, Smoke…”

Smoke cocked his head as he stared her down, “You miss this big dick but wanna yell my fuckin’ ear off ‘bout me bringin’ bread home for us. I’m ’bout to tear your ass up, Annie.”

Her breath hitched but her eyes remained cold.

He stepped out of his boots, bare now, looming, his chest rising with short, deep breaths.

“I ain’t come home for no talk,” he growled, “Ain’t come back for no damn backtalk or bedtime stories. I came home for my wife. And I came home to bury myself between them thick thighs and take what’s mine.”

Annie’s eyes narrowed, lips parting to speak—but he cut her off.

“Nuh uh,” he warned, voice low and mean, “Don’t say a word. Not a sound ‘less it’s a moan. Or a cry. Or my name. ‘Less you want me to shove this dick down your throat to quiet you.”

He stepped closer, fingers curling around her jaw, rough and hot.

“You know what I been doin’, girl?” he whispered against her mouth, “I been sniffin’ them bloomers you left me. Lickin’ the crotch like a goddamn dog. I could taste you. Damn near lost my mind in that room, strokin’ my pole with your scent all over me.”

Annie whimpered—soft, defiant.

“I need the real thing. Need it wet. Need it wide. Need it now.”

He pushed her back—rough—onto the bed. She bounced against the mattress, thick thighs parting without him having to ask. But he still did.

“Wider,” he growled.

Annie spread for him, mouth parted, hands clutching the sheets.

“That’s it,” he muttered, climbing over her, “Just like that. Look at you—look at what you give me. Goddamn, you always open up so sweet.”

Smoke got down on his knees and used his tongue to slither between Annie’s pussy lips. Annie’s hips bucked. Smoke wasted no time using his long, thick tongue to suck and lick his wife’s neglected pussy. Annie kept her legs wide and her knees to her ears but Smoke applied a firm hand to keep her open. He wanted to see that pink. He wanted to see her open so wide with nowhere to go.

He slurped up her clit between his plush lips, making sure to keep it sloppy with his spit mixed with her arousal. He would close his eyes whenever the tip of his tongue slipped inside of her, tasting what spilled, then he would open his eyes to watch her face. He had her clit stiff and folds flushed and throbbing with a type of horny she’d been trying her best to satisfy in his absence.

Annie watched her husband suck her pussy up with a gaping mouth and shimmering eyes. Her breath would hitch and a choked up moan would escape each time his tongue flicked her clit.

“Fuck, Elijah.”

“Found ya’ voice? Eating this phat puss so good got you quiet now, huh?”

Annie gripped the back of his head.

“Elijahhhhhh—”

“Nuh uh…shut up.”

She was dripping so much it sounded like a stream between her thighs. Annie felt the beginning flutters of release. Smoke slowed down his feasting to give her open mouth slurps. His bottom lip would glide while his top lip remained flush against her clit. His tongue flicked up and down at a torturous pace.

Annie rolled her head from side to side, bringing her hands up to hold both fat tits. From Smoke’s position, all he could see was two big ‘ol titties with jutted out nipples swaying back and forth. He groaned so deep Annie shuttered. Smoke reached up to roll her nipples between his fingers.

“Smoke…I’m a cum…”

He didn’t speak. He continued with his slow eating. Lips smacking. Tongue flicking.

“Unhhhhhhhhhh—”

With a final flick of his thumb on her nipples and a graze of his tongue Annie fell apart. Smoke continued to eat her through her release.

Annie felt another creeping up. She couldn’t move. Smoke had her pinned and open.

“Fuck you, Smokeeeeee—”

Annie’s entire body writhed beneath his tongue.

Smoke gave her a final kiss to her clit that made her hips jerk. He stood and hooked his hand on the underside of his shaft, raising it up a little before releasing it, watching it collapse between her pussy lips with an obscene noise.

He pressed the tip of his dick against her wet folds, teasing the slick heat but not sliding in yet. He wanted her squirming. Wanted her needy. Wanted her ruined.

“You miss this dick?” he asked, grinding slow against her slit, “You miss me stretchin’ you out? Poundin’ you till your eyes roll?”

Annie didn’t answer. Just moaned—head thrown back, hands gripping the bedframe now.

Usually he would make her speak but the way her wet pussy felt on his dick he couldn’t take it.

So Smoke slammed in with one hard stroke.

“Goddamn—” he cursed, choking on the feel of her.

The bed groaned. Then rocked.

Annie groaned so deep. She gripped him tight.

Smoke pulled out to the tip and then drove into her again. Harder. Deeper. The slap of skin echoed through the room, rhythmic and filthy. He grabbed her thigh, bent it high over his shoulder, splitting her open and fucking her rough, unforgiving.

“You feel that?” he growled, “Ain’t no man ever gone fuck you like this. Ain’t nobody else ever gonna touch this pussy. You hear me?”

Annie tried to nod. Tried to breathe. Titties swaying and slapping into each other.

Smoke leaned in, sweat dripping from his brow onto her chest. He sucked on her nipples, unable to control himself because they were sitting erect and begging to be played with. He drilled with a roll of his hips. Never breaking aim at her spot.

“I’ll fuck you till you can’t walk. Till you limp for days. So everybody know you mine.”

She clawed at his back, mouth open in a silent scream. Her body shook, thighs trembling.

He didn’t stop. Not till he felt her break apart beneath him, her back arching like a bow, her climax rippling around his dick like a vice.

Smoke braces himself on her thighs, got up on his toes, and slammed down into her. Annie took it all like she always did, pussy so used to his big dick.

“Fuck your pussy, Papa!”

“Where am I?” Smoke growled.

“On Papa’s spot! On Papa’s spot!” She cried.

“Fuckin’ that attitude out real quick.”

Smoke slowed down. He buried himself deep, then his let his hips withdraw slow and steady, all the way to the tip. Then he would sink back in slow and with a roll of his hips. Over and over on his spot. Annie was at a lost for words.

She looked down and saw cream and whimpered.

“You gushing, baby…tell Papa how good he make this fat pussy cream.”

“Oooh–Papa…shiiit…you–fuuuuck…you makin’ it creamy…so damn good…”

Annie reached between and cuffed his balls. Heavy and tight. She rolled them in her palm while he stroked.

“I can feel it…”

Her voice was faint but Smoke knew. He knew his wife’s pussy. She was ready to let go.

“Keep that hand on my nuts…and keep this puss open.”

Annie used her free hand to spread her left cheek. Smoke increased momentum. The iron headboard banged louder and louder and louder the faster he went.

Sweat droplets flew from his body.

His balls sat warm in her hand.

His dick twitched against her walls.

“I’m ready to fuckin’ cum….gahdamn, Annie…”

Annie let go of his balls and felt them slap against her ass. The sensation mixed with the way he was claiming that pussy had her eyes crossing. Smoke leaned in and sucked on her jaw. Hard muscle surrounded plush flesh. Annie’s finger nails dragged down his arms, but his skin was so sweaty it didn’t mark him. Smoke peppered his kisses down her neck, over her nipples, and back to up until his lips founds hers. He buried his tongue in her mouth to quiet her.

When he broke the kiss, only then did he grunt, spill deep, and grind slow, letting every drop mark her as his.

When it was done, he hovered over her, chest heaving, voice thick with worship.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby,” he whispered, “This home. You my home.”

And the bed rocked one last time beneath the weight of his love.

The week after the heist rolls in hot and heavy, thick with summer heat and the kind of need that don’t fade with morning light.

Smoke’s been on Annie like a man starved.

He fucks her in the hallway before she can reach the kitchen, backs her against the pantry door with one hand up her dress and the other wrapped tight around her hair. He bends her over the table in the front room, knocks over her candle jars, and don’t even flinch.

He takes her in the rootroom, too—up against the shelves where she keeps her oils and dried herbs, her dress hiked high and her moans swallowed in the crook of his neck. The scent of sage, pine, and sex lingers in the walls now like incense that won’t lift.

They don’t talk about it much.

But it’s clear—ever since he came back, ever since he brought that blade and dropped his guard—he’s been claiming her over and over, body and breath, like a man afraid she might slip away.

And Annie lets him.

She lets him because every time he touches her, it’s with the heat of guilt and something deeper—like he’s trying to make up for every hour he left her wondering. When he kisses the inside of her thigh, it feels like an apology, slow and aching. And when he whispers “you mine” against her skin, he don’t mean it as a threat.

He means it as a prayer.

Outside, the house hums with life.

Smoke’s out back, hammer in hand, rebuilding the porch steps that have been threatening to give way all summer. He’s shirtless, sweat slick across his chest and shoulders, broad back flexing with every movement. The Mississippi sun glows off his bronze skin, the slope of his collarbone catching light like a blade.

He’s wearing coveralls, but the top half’s tied around his waist, hanging low on his hips, dirt smudged across the knees. A red rag’s tucked in the waistband. His boots are unlaced. There’s a cigarette tucked behind his ear and a thin streak of sawdust across his stomach.

Annie watches him from the kitchen window, one hip cocked, apron tied tight, her arms folded under her chest.

He don’t even know how good he look.

She turns back to the stove, stirring a pot of smothered pork chops. Collards simmer on the back burner, seasoned with smoked turkey neck and a little sassafras. Cornbread’s cooling on the counter. Sweet tea’s sweating in a glass jar near the sink.

She don’t say it out loud, but it feels good to take care of him like this. To feed a man who’s put so much fire in her and left so much ash in his own mouth.

And yet…

He ain’t hers all day. Not with what’s rising in Clarksdale.

Word travels fast in the Delta. Since Clifton “Cleve” Ray’s blood soaked the dirt behind the juke joint, Smoke and Stack been pulling in power like a high tide.

Bootleggers, gamblers, brothel owners—they all checking in with the twins now. Asking permission. Paying tribute. Some out of respect. Most out of fear.

Smoke’s been gone more and more—meetings in backrooms, shady deals behind barns, handshakes soaked in blood and whiskey. He leaves in the morning with a pistol tucked under his arm and comes back smelling like other men’s sweat and dirt and long silence. But every time he steps through that door and finds Annie barefoot in the kitchen, curls wild and her eyes watching like she sees straight through him?

He softens.

At least, for a while.

The screen door creaks. Smoke steps inside, shirt still off, rag now wiping his brow. He smells the food before he sees her.

Smoke spoke low and smiling, “You tryna feed me or fuck me?”

Annie didn’t look back as she spoke, “Both.”

She spoons gravy over his plate, still in her house dress, nothing under it but skin. Her thigh glints where the slit parts. The same garter he loves still wrapped high.

Smoke steps behind her, crowding her space. He pressed his body against hers, her backside against his crotch. He smelled like sweat and whatever his natural musk was.

“Goddamn, woman. You tryna kill me in my own home.”

“Just remindin’ you where you supposed to rest.”

He kisses her neck, lips hot and slow.

And Annie—despite her worries, despite the ache in her chest every time he’s gone too long—leans back into him and lets herself be held.

Because for now?

He’s home.

He’s hers.

And the rest of the world can wait.

The kitchen is thick with warmth—sweet tea sweating on the table, the smell of smothered pork chops hanging in the air like memory. The screen door still swings gently from where Smoke came in, carrying the heat of the Delta and something heavier on his shoulders.

He’s halfway through his plate when the silence between them grows too thick to ignore. Annie’s at the counter, wiping her hands on a dish towel, but she’s watching him with that look—the one that sees through bone.

“Me and Stack…we settlin’ in. But this thing? It’s bigger than we thought.”

Annie turns, leans back against the counter, arms crossed beneath her breasts.

“You mean takin’ over after you two buried Cleve in the dirt like a dog?”

“He earned that dirt,” Smoke spoke with a gruff tone.

“Didn’t say he didn’t.”

There was a momentary pause.

“Just wonderin’ what y’all thought was gonna happen after you cut the head off the beast.”

Smoke sets his fork down, eyes low, jaw ticking.

“Didn’t expect it to go smooth. But now everybody sniffin’ ‘round. Out-of-towners. Folks that used to bow to Cleve tryna decide whether to bow to us—or test us.

“So now you gotta bark louder. Carry bigger guns. Sleep lighter.” Annie said.

“Stack’s tryin’ to build structure. Numbers. Runners. I’m handlin’ the ones that need handlin’.”

Another pause.

Smoke continued, “We ain’t just fillin’ Cleve’s shoes. We burnin’ ‘em and makin’ our own.”

Annie watches him a long moment.

“You makin’ money. Keepin’ your name in men’s mouths. That what you want?”

“I want control. So nobody ever gets to pull strings on us again. Not like Cleve did. Not like anybody did.”

Annie walks over slow, holding her hand out.

“Then give me that mojo bag.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He slips the worn leather mojo bag from around his neck and drops it in her palm like a weight he’s ready to surrender.

“It still holdin’?” Smoke questioned.

“It’s tired. Like you.”

She closes her fingers around it, and without another word, walks out of the room.

In the front room, the altar is quiet, glowing with low candlelight and the hush of old spirits. Annie kneels, legs folded beneath her, white cotton robe brushing the floor. She unwraps the mojo bag, empties it into her palm. Dirt from under their bed. His hair. A sliver of bone. A small square of red flannel tied with black thread.

She breathes in deep, lips barely moving.

“Keep him grounded. Keep him safe. Keep his mind sharp, his hands clean, his body whole. And keep him mine.”

Annie adds crushed bay leaf, fresh snips of his hair, a pinch of red pepper. She smears it with a dab of her oil—one she made herself, heavy with patchouli and iron filings.

She ties it back up, wraps it tight.

Smoke’s still at the table, shirtless, chewing slow. His eyes drift toward the front room. One hand rests on the table; the other rubs at the space where the charm used to hang.

He don’t like how it feels—being without it, even just for a while. He finishes his plate but doesn’t move, like his body knows she’ll be back before long.

Annie steps back into the kitchen, bare feet silent against the floorboards. She places the recharged mojo bag in his palm.

“Wear it. Keep it close.”

“I will.” Smoke spoke softly.

He slips it back over his head, lets it fall against his chest, skin to skin.

“You built yourself a kingdom outta Cleve’s ashes. But don’t forget—power can feed you or eat you whole.”

Smoke replied sincere, “I ain’t forgettin’. That’s why I come home to you.”

She brushes past him, and he watches her move—hips swaying under her cotton robe, soft strength in every step.

And in that moment, Smoke knows the truth:

He might rule outside these walls…

But inside this house?

Annie is the crown.

It’s deep in the night. The kind of stillness that feels pressed down by the weight of the Delta heat, everything hushed but the distant sound of cicadas and a soft drip of water from the bath.

Smoke steps into their bedroom, steam still clinging to his skin. The towel around his hips hangs low—too low—riding the line of temptation. His chest glistens, water beading along the hard lines of his torso. Wide shoulders, arms thick and veined, torso carved by work and war. There’s strength in him—but also softness in the belly, just above the dip of his navel, where Annie loves to press her lips. His skin is the color of dark bronze left out in the sun—rich, warm, and glimmering where droplets trail down from his collarbone to the dark hair on his chest. He’s toweling his head, slow and lazy, and he hasn’t even noticed her watching.

Annie sits at her vanity in a silk slip the color of cream. Her full thighs spill over the seat, legs crossed, coils wild and haloed around her face. Her eyes are locked on him through the mirror—hungry. She picks up a small bottle of oil she blended herself—infused with cinnamon bark, orange blossom, and a drop of sweet almond to keep it soft on the skin. It smells like fire and sugar.

She spoke softly, “Come here.”

Smoke lifts his head, towel slung over his shoulder now. A smirk plays across his mouth.

“What you plannin’, woman?”

“I’m plannin’ to oil what belongs to me,” Annie paused, eyes dragging up and down his body, “Before the streets take another piece of you.”

He doesn’t argue. He steps closer and stands before her like an offering—barefoot, tall, solid, heat rolling off his skin. Her eyes travel over him, slow. She uncaps the bottle, pours a little into her palm, rubs her hands together until they glisten.

Then she begins.

First, she oils his neck, thumbs pressing into the tension at the base of his skull, rubbing slow circles down the cords of muscle. His head tilts back with a low groan. Then his shoulders—broad and thick beneath her hands. She kneads deep, slow strokes gliding over scars and strength.

“Mmm…Lord…you tryna make me beg, baby?”

“Not yet.” She teased.

Annie moves to his chest, spreading oil across muscle and bone, letting her fingers linger at the rise of his pecs, the thick muscle beneath the soft that only she’s ever touched tender. Then his abdomen, slow strokes across the ripple and dip—her nails scrape lightly just above his hip, and he shudders. She turns him and does his back next—broad, strong, the kind of back that’s carried burdens and bodies. She takes her time, sliding her palms from his shoulders to the small of his spine, then down again, oiling every inch like he’s hers to preserve.

When she’s satisfied, she turns him around to face her.

“Sit down, baby.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. Legs wide. Breathing heavier now.

Annie kneels.

Her hands glide over his feet, ankles, shins, up to his thighs—slow and measured. She doesn’t rush. The towel’s barely hanging on now, the shape of him pressing full and heavy beneath it.

She rests her palms on his knees, then slips the towel aside.

He’s already hard—thick, long, dark, and pulsing.

Annie pours a little more oil into her palm. Then she wraps her hand around him—slow, smooth, twisting at the top with practiced ease.

She spoke low and filthy, “Look at you. So full. So hard. You been carryin’ all that weight out there in them streets, and still come home heavy for me.”

Smoke grits his teeth, jaw clenching, his thighs tensing under her.

“You know this dick don’t belong to nobody but me, right?”

Smoke growled, “Yes ma’am.”

She strokes him slow, base to tip, letting the oil glide as her other hand cups his balls, squeezing gently. Smoke groans, tilting back. His dick reminded Annie of a steel rod covered with flesh. The sensation of his veins, the girth stretching her fingers, the crown of his dick wide and purplish from arousal. Smoke teased her with his full lips.

“You kill men. You run Clarksdale. You sit on a throne made of fear and blood. But right now?” She squeezes tighter, speeds her stroke just a little, eyes locked on his face, “You just my good boy.”

Smoke moans—deep and hoarse, one hand bracing on the bedframe, the other sliding into her curls.

“Goddamn…Annie…”

“That’s right. Give it to me. Let me take it.”

Ain’t nobody gon’ hold you down like I do. Stroke this dick like I do,” Annie held him at the base and slapped his dick against the palm of her other hand.

“So heavy and thick…”

Annie lowered the straps to her slip and her heavy breasts spilled out. She slapped her cleavage with his tip. Smoke furrowed his brows and groaned.

She let go of him and watched how his dick pointed up on its own like a stick in the mud. Annie grabbed each heavy breast and circled his dick with both, gliding up and down. Smoke rocked his head back, revealing his neck that glistened from the oil. Each time her breasts would come down they would smack against his thighs.

“Fuck, just like that, baby, fuck…”

Annie continued titty-fucking him, licking her lips as he starts loft his hips to chase that feeling.

His tip would disappear and reappear and each time Annie would flick her tongue in his slit. Smoke fisted the quilt beneath him and flexed his thighs. He was about to fall apart under her big titties, hips jerking, breath ragged.

“Annie,” Smoke reaches down to grab both tits, releasing his dick, watching it bounce free, “Time to give me my pussy, girl. You done fucked ‘round and woke Papa up.”

Smoke didn’t give Annie a chance to stand up. He lifted her himself and yanked that slip the rest of the way down.

“Got me goin’ crazy since I been back in this damn house, shit,” Smoke circled behind her and double cuffed both her ass cheeks. That motion brought Annie on her tip toes as she tilted forward against the bed.

“This body don’t make no sense, woman…be having my Johnson achin’ for you.”

Annie loved when he spoke like that—filthy, desperate, greedy—it made her pussy wetter and her body more pliable.

“On ya’ knees. Open up.”

Annie stared at herself in the vanity mirror. Smoke caught her eye. She arched her back and when her ass pointed up Smoke drew back a wide open palm and whacked her so hard on both cheeks. Back and forth. Back and forth. Like a sensual dance.

Whack. Whack. Whack. Whack

“Spankin’ this big ass good, huh?”

Annie leaned into the strikes. That sting had her pussy dripping.

Smoke was pointed straight out like a flag pole. He was ready. Annie scooted further to the edge. She knew to bring both arms up, hook them around Smoke’s neck with her hands cradled. Smoke dipped his hips. He lined himself up and then pushed up into her wet pussy with one stroke.

Annie moaned beautifully.

Smoke rest his hands on her love handles and stares straight ahead in that mirror.

Breasts hanging.

Belly sitting low.

Big thighs spread open.

Then his eyes fell to her back.

Spine arched.

Ass sitting wide.

He wasted no time banging her back in. Each stroke was like a tidal wave, slamming into her and creating ripples across her brown flesh. Smoke dug his fingers into her flesh and drove his dick in deep and shallow. Annie had this defeated, ‘fucked out’ look in her eyes.

Dick drunk.

Annie couldn’t hold on anymore. She let go of his neck and reached back for his hands. Smoke interlocked his fingers with hers and Annie fell forward, cheek hitting the quit.

“FUCK ME, PAPA!” Annie shouted with ecstasy.

Smoke did just that. Handling her good. Rough. Tender.

Had that bed rocking.

The quilt was warm beneath her hands, her breath ragged from the momentous heat. Her body is arched, hips tilted back, the soft weight of her breasts swaying with every thrust. Behind her, Smoke moves slow and deep, hands gripping her wide hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Her eyes flick up—and there it is.

The reflection.

Her full figure bathed in low lamp light, skin glowing and slick with sweat. Her ass bounces with every push of his hips, jiggling beneath the force, the garter belt still clinging to her thighs like a vice. Her back is arched into a perfect curve, spine dipping down to where they meet—where he’s buried deep, stretching her full, making her cry out in time with every roll of his hips.

His body gleams. Chest and stomach sheened with the oil she rubbed into him earlier. Muscles flexing under bronze skin, veins thick in his forearms. And his eyes—Lord, those eyes—locked on the mirror, locked on her, face smoldering, jaw clenched, sweat dripping from his temple to her back.

“You feel that? How deep I am?” He spoke low with a gravel.

She moans, mouth parted, watching herself gasp. She looks beautiful like this—undone but powerful. Her hair wild, her lips trembling, her body being worshipped through motion and rhythm.

She spoke, breathless, “God, yes…You in my stomach, Elijah.”

He grunts, hips slapping harder now, the sound filthy, wet, possessed.

And all she can do is stare at the mirror, watching the way her body blooms around him, how good she looks being taken—owned—and how gone he looks inside her.

The mirror ain’t never lied.

It told her the truth—

She was made for this. And he was made to take her.

“Elijah, you thick in me, Papa!”

“You don’t want me to go, do you?”

“No!”

Clap. Clap. Clap. Clap.

“Where you want me to stay?”

“Deep in your pussy!”

“Why you like for me to fuck you like this? Say it.”

“‘Cause you deep and in my stomach, Papa!”

“You ready to cum?”

“Yessssssss—”

“Paint this dick!”

Annie stilled, body frozen with her release. Smoke kept stroking. Annie’s toes curled, her eyes squeezed shut, her hands fisted the quilt.

Smoke wasn’t far behind. Hisses spilled from his thick lips and repeated grunts bubbled in his throat.

Annie rolled her hips as she threw it back on his tip and his tip only. Smoke poked out his bottom lip and shut his eyes. His fingers twitched on her hips.

“You on my tip…Annie…fuuuck…I love this pussy…fuckin’ my tip good…Annie…fuck, woman…pussy wet…ughhhhhhhhhhhhh—”

And when he came, it was with her name in his mouth and his eyes locked on hers—like she’s the only altar he’s ever knelt before.

The room is quiet now—just the soft tick of the wall clock and their breathing, slowing in rhythm.

Smoke is still inside her, hips pressed flush to the curve of her ass, his chest blanketing her back. His arms are wrapped around her middle, hands splayed wide—one over her belly, the other slipping higher to rest just beneath her breast. Their bodies are slick, skin sticking slightly with sweat and oil. The scent of sex clings to the air, warm and heady.

Annie’s cheek rests against the quilt, her eyes half-lidded. Her lashes flutter. She’s boneless, breathless, lips parted in a soft moan that never fully left her throat.

Smoke spoke lowly behind her, “You still with me, baby?”

Annie hums. Doesn’t speak. Just presses her hips back into him the smallest bit, as if to say Don’t move. Stay.

And he does.

He nuzzles into her shoulder, lips brushing the skin right where neck meets collarbone.

“Ain’t never seen anything as pretty as the way you look when I’m inside you.”

There was a comfortable pause.

Smoke continued, “Like your body know me better than I know myself.”

His voice is thick, worn at the edges. Tender.

She shifts slightly, the motion pulling another soft gasp from both of them. Her voice comes out quiet but sure.

“You feel so good…still fillin’ me up.” Annie whispers.

“I ain’t ready to let go,” He tightens his grip, arms firm around her belly, anchoring her there, “We don’t get peace like this out there. World full of enemies, snakes, men grinnin’ while they plottin’. But right here? This the only place I trust to breathe.”

Annie closes her eyes. Her hand reaches back, fingertips brushing his thigh. A silent I hear you. I got you.

He presses a kiss to her shoulder. Then another, softer. Slower.

Smoke whispers, “I wanna grow old with you, Annie.”

She lets that settle. Lets the ache in her legs remind her she’s alive. Lets his weight sink into her. And finally, she speaks—barely above a whisper.

“Then stop disappearin’.”

A beat of silence.

“I’ll try.”

A pause between words settled.

“…God help me, I’ll try. I’ll try, baby.”

They stay like that for a while—joined, pressed together, her wrapped in his arms, him wrapped in her body, in her scent, in her strength.

And outside, the Delta wind shifts—but inside?

They are still.

Held.

@theereinawrites @angelin-dis-guise @thee-germanpeach @harleycativy @slut4smokemoore09 @readingaddict1290 @blackamericanprincessy @aristasworld @avoidthings @brownsugarcoffy @ziayamikaelson @kindofaintrovert @raysogroovy @overhere94 @joysofmyworld @an-ever-evolving-wanderer @starcrossedxwriter @marley1773 @bombshellbre95 @nybearsworld @brincessbarbie @kholdkill @honggihwa @tianna-blanche @wewantsumheaad @theethighpriestess @theegoldenchild @blackpantherismyish @nearsightedbaddie @charmedthoughts @beaboutthataction @girlsneedlovingfanfics @cancerianprincess @candelalanegra22 @mrsknowitallll @dashhoney25 @pinkprincessluminary @chefjessypooh @sk1121-blog1 @contentfiend @kaystacks17 @bratzlele @kirayuki22 @bxrbie1 @blackerthings @angryflowerwitch @baddiegiii @syko-jpg

[himasgod]

I think requests are open? So you know that feeling of devastating elation when a person you thought was dead turns up? And I’m not talking about like an hour after whatever incident they thought took you. It’s been DAYS. They thought you were dead for DAYS. They were hardcore MOURNING when you show back up.

If you can, I’d love to see your take on this, either the point of reunion or the aftermath, where they are definitely overprotective (for good reason). Or both, I ain’t gonna limit you. You’re free to use whatever character(s) you want =^^=

LEONA X READER

Where you have been missing after an accident for days

It's been five days since a Spelldrive explosion during an unsanctioned match in Savannaclaw. You were playing with some Savanaclaw students when you decided to use a spell you'd read in a forbidden book in the library. It was supposed to have worked out. You’d gone missing in the smoke and wreckage. No one found your body. The only thing left was your broken magic pen — and Leona hadn't slept properly since then.

art credits to kura_usagi217 on twitter <3

Savanaclaw was quiet in a way that didn’t feel natural. No fights. No roars of challenge echoing from the training yard.

Leona sat, slouched low in one of the worn-out chairs, a bottle of untouched water beside him and Ruggie pacing nearby.

“You gotta sleep at some point,” Ruggie muttered. Again.

“You’re not gonna be able to do anything if you collapse.”

Leona didn’t answer. He hadn't answered that question the first time.

Or the second. Or the fiftieth.

His gaze was fixed on the shattered fragment of your pendant, the one you'd worn every day. The one they’d found in the wreckage of that cursed spelldrive field five days ago.

They had declared you missing.

After the third day, Crewel used the word "presumed."

But Leona didn’t. He didn’t say anything.

Not when Crowley offered to hold a memorial service.

Not when Azul offered condolences in that too-polite tone that always made Leona want to punch him.

Not even when Ruggie found him, head bowed in the sand behind the dorm, fists dug into the earth like he was trying to bury the grief with his own hands.

So now, on day five, he sat in the lounge. Not waiting. Just not moving. Just breathing. Barely.

At first, he didn’t look up. Just assumed it was Ruggie returning from another failed search sweep. Then he heard a voice.

“Leona?”

Everything inside him stopped. He turned.

And there you were.

Dirt-streaked and limping, one arm pressed against your ribs, your uniform torn. There were scratches on your face, blood all over, too-slow and weak breath.

But your eyes. They were bright.

Alive.

He stood so fast the chair crashed backward behind him.

You flinched.

And then he was there.

His hands grabbed your shoulders, a little too hard, like he couldn’t convince himself you weren’t a mirage.

“Where the hell—” He roared. “Where the hell have you been?”

You tried to speak, but your throat tightened.

“I— I was trapped,” you managed.

“The blast threw me into the ravine behind the field. My magic was gone, I couldn’t climb out. I screamed for days—”

He pulled you into his arms so fiercely you gasped. You didn’t even get the chance to finish your sentence.

He held you against him like he could squeeze life back into your body. Like maybe if he held you hard enough, the days would reverse, and none of this would’ve happened.

His voice was muffled against your hair.

“Five days.”

“I know.”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I know.”

“I—” He pulled back just far enough to look at your face. His eyes were bloodshot. And wet. Leona Kingscholar was crying. Just enough to shine.

“You left me. And I couldn’t even follow.”

“But I am back.”

And he closed his eyes like that was the only thing that mattered anymore.

You fainted right then and there.

You woke up in the infirmary with the strange smell of healing potions in your nose.

Your body ached in places you didn’t even know existed, but you were alive. Safe, and warm. And Leona was there.

Curled in the chair beside your bed, his head tilted back, mouth slightly parted. One leg was propped up, and his arms were crossed over his chest —out of tension.

He hadn’t slept much, but this was the first time you’d seen him close his eyes since your return.

You shifted slightly, and instantly—

His eyes snapped open. Alert. Focused.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He sat forward.

“You’re awake. Good.” His voice was low, roughened by disuse.

“You need to drink something. You’re dehydrated.”

“I’m fine, Leona—”

“You’re not.” He reached for the pitcher beside you and poured you a glass. When he handed it to you, you noticed the tremble in his fingers. Your heart hurt at the sight.

“Leona…”

He set the glass down. Didn’t meet your eyes.

“It was my fault, again. Should’ve known it wasn’t safe. Should’ve stopped you using that damn spell.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I let you out of my sight. I trusted that nothing would happen to you.”

“You couldn’t have known—”

“I should’ve,” he snapped, louder than before. His ears were pinned flat. You squeezed his hand. There was silence.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose.

“I’m not letting this happen again,” he muttered. “From now on, you don’t leave campus alone. You don’t use fucking secondhand spell tech. You don’t skip meals or run off to go ‘train in peace’ like some hero. You tell me where you are. Every time.”

“That’s a lot of rules,” you said, trying to soften the moment.

“Damn right it is.”

“A little overprotective, don’t you think?”

“I thought I was gonna have to bury you, I haven’t even told you how I feel yet.”

“...You mean—?”

“Don’t make me say it right after I thought you were dead,” he growled, looking away. “I’ll say it when you’re not half-doped up on potions.”

“Okay. Deal.”

[rosie-posie1313]

Dr. Jack Abbot Fic Recs

06/05/2025

Updated: 06/15/2025

⭒Fractured, But Not Broken by @aquaholicsanonymousworld

Her and Jack were no strangers to trauma—what had happened to them still lingered in every quiet moment, in every unspoken word. Though they were together, an invisible wall stood between them, built by grief, guilt, and the inability to let go.

⭒The Other Dr Abbott by @/aquaholicsanonymousworld

⭒ Because Of You: by @bullet-prooflove

⭒ Boston by @/bullet-prooflove

⭒ Snapband by @/bullet-prooflove

Jack’s worst fear comes true during a mass casuality event.

⭒ Kaleidoscope by @science-hoes

Jack likes to find his peace and quiet on the roof of the hospital, but someone interrupts his morning routine.

⭒ Early Spring Snow by @/science-hoes

The Reader learns some surprising news after taking a fall that lands her back in the Pitt after her shift.

⭒ You Are In Love: Chapter One by @/science-hoes

Jack needs the reader to help him with a VIP patient, but she soon learns about his chosen family.

⭒ Send Me An Angel - Chapter One by @kilojulietsierra

The darkness didn’t just go away because he was home, especially after a night like that, but it did start to feel a little less heavy. Eventually.

⭒ Send Me An Angel - Chapter Two by @kilojulietsierra

⭒ I Don’t Have A Best Friend by @/kilojulietsierra

The universe put them together in this hell hole and they made the best of it. They are like brothers/best friends… that doesn’t mean they always have to be happy about it. Especially when Jack’s wife decides she needs to set Robby up with a cute nurse friend.

⭒ Back a Ways Part One by @youvebeenlivingfictional

It’s not the first time that someone has made that assumption—thought you and Jack were together, or had a past. But the fact of the matter is, you don’t think that the man’s ever seen you as anything more than his brother-in-arms’ little sister. He’s been around for a long time—since the first time your brother came home for Christmas break from the academy.

⭒ Back a Ways Part Two by @/youvebeenlivingfictional

⭒ Don’t Go where I Can’t Follow Part ½ by @at-this-point-i-dont-even-know

You join Jack at the hospital after waking up alone, and the activities of the day bring up bad memories as the shooter closes in on the hospital

⭒ Don’t Go where I Can’t Follow Part 2/2 by @/at-this-point-i-dont-even-know

⭒ 4th of July by @/at-this-point-i-dont-even-know

⭒ Don’t Make Me Someone You Can’t Have by @abbotjack

The fallout didn’t start the day of Pitt Fest—it started when you told Jack Abbot how you felt and he told you he didn’t want you. A week later, grief, jealousy, and everything unsaid ignite into something impossible to bury.

⭒ The Handoff by @/abbotjack

Jack proposes in the trauma bay. You say yes. Before the wedding, you ask Robby to walk you down the aisle.

⭒ The Camouflage Onesie by @/abbotjack

⭒ We know Jack writes letters. By abbotjack

⭒ I Can’t Protect You From Everything by abbotjack

⭒ Built for Battle, Never for Me by abbotjack

⭒ A Year of You by abbotjack

⭒ Wearing War by abbotjack

⭒ Strip Her by @quickestgold

Amidst a mass casualty event, Jack’s medical instincts clash with his personal life when the woman he loves risks her own life to save another. Is he about to watch you die?

⭒ Say It First: by @/quickestgold

Jack has grown used to the emptiness in his heart, a quiet companion that has kept him safe for too long. But when you finally speak your truth, he realizes the hardest battles aren’t fought on the field or in the chaos of the ER, but in the silence between two hearts longing for each other.

⭒ Someone New: by @/quickestgold

After witnessing the fallout from Jack's failed marriage, Dana and Robby have been skeptical of his new relationship. But when a freak accident forces them to see the depth of Jack’s feelings, their perspectives shift.

⭒ Still Alive: by @/quickestgold

Delivery complications during the birth of your son leave Jack caught between grief and hope, life and loss. In the stillness that follows, those who witnessed it begin to confront their own silent trauma, navigating recovery, healing and bonding with a newborn.

⭒ Semper Fi | [1/8] by @asxgard

You’re the ray of sunshine to Jack’s rain cloud. What do they say about opposites attracting?

⭒ Cast by @/asxgard

After an incident at baseball practice, you and your son end up in the ER.

⭒ Any Excuse by @/asxgard

⭒ in the wreckage by @/asxgard

⭒ don’t leave me here without you | one by @lunarcowgirl

dr abbot finds your resume and thinks you are leaving the pitt - absolute disgusting and pathetic behaviour ensues, its all very endearing.

⭒ feelings unfettered | three by @/lunarcowgirl

⭒ who you let in by @eddiesfaerie

Jack has a soft spot. He didn’t expect you to be the one to find it.

⭒ Valkyries and Betting Pools by @nocapesdahling

The staff of the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital’s Emergency Department bet on everything. One of the most popular and secret betting pools is focused on what’s going on with you and Dr. Abbot. The bets range from everything under the sun, but who’s going to win?

⭒ bitter/sweet by @millers-girl

when a stubbornly charming chef keeps showing up in his ER, Dr. Jack Abbot finds it harder and harder to ignore the pull toward something—or someone—he didn't plan for…

⭒ Fallout by @/millers-girl

you and your sister plan to spend the day at Pitt Fest but instead spend the night in the hospital, and Jack is left to pick up the pieces.

⭒ Busy Bee by @mercvry-glow

you and your son take a trip to the pitt after an encounter with a bee. unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, your husband’s working.

⭒ love me hard love me soft by @/mercvry-glow

jack abbot isn’t a soft man, but he’ll learn for you.

⭒ All that glitters by @/mercvry-glow

jack isn’t a materialistic man, and you try your best not to be spoiled—but when your man gets flirted with, maybe it’s time to flaunt the rings?

⭒ Hey Lover by @/mercvry-glow

⭒ break in the system by @/mercvry-glow

⭒ all that gleams by @/mercvry-glow

everyone seems to be hitting on you tonight, and your husband doesn’t seem to appreciate all of the attention you’re getting

⭒ Stop making this hurt by @/mercvry-glow

jack knew he didn’t want to go to pitt fest, instead suggesting you take a few of your girl friends on your day off. little does he know that decision leads to you experiencing the worst day of your life without him.

⭒ The Abbot Family - Pittfest Part 1 by @fioreimagines

When he is at work, Dr Abbot keeps his life private, and keeps his head focused on being an attending of the Pittsburg Trauma Medical Center. No one knows what he does at home, until Pittfest happens.

⭒ The Abbot Family - Pittfest Part 2 by @/fioreimagines

⭒ The Abbot Family - Dana by @/fioreimagines

⭒ The Abbot Family - Pittfest Finale by @/fioreimagines

⭒ you and dr. abbot have a lot to discuss, and this is just the beginning. By @spaceyaemonds

you and dr. abbot have a lot to discuss, and this is just the beginning.

⭒ Coffee Swap by @tedmustache

It starts with coffee. Then it becomes something more.

⭒ Adrenaline by @/tedmustache

In the nonstop chaos of The Pitt, two ER doctors find something dangerously steady in each other. Between late shifts, locked doors, and close calls, they navigate a secret that’s as thrilling as it is fragile—because in a place where nothing stays quiet for long, hiding how you feel might be the riskiest move of all.

⭒ Healing Wounds by @/tedmustache

When an attack shakes Dr. Y/N Abbot, Jack helps her heal while she questions her medical career.

⭒ In sync by @/tedmustache

Two doctors work in perfect sync, sparking curiosity among new interns. After shift, subtle truths begin to surface.

⭒ Chocolate Bars and Injuries by @nineteenninety-six

Jack unintentionally bonds with a young patient and then somehow even more unintentionally, falls for his older sister.

⭒ Chocolate Bars and Injuries [3] by @/nineteenninety-six

⭒ i would, for you by @maoricth

"i have a patient coming in for mifepristone later." but it's the reader, jack's girlfriend, and he still goes through with false ultrasound measurements to help her get the abortion she wants.

⭒ you’re gonna be a dad, congrats by @/maoricth

⭒ you’re a superhero by @/maoricth

⭒ whitaker and robby’s reaction to you and jack naming your baby after them by @/maoricth

⭒ Masterlist by @abbotsanatomy

⭒ taking care of each other in the ER by @/abbotsanatomy

⭒  HEART IN YOUR THROAT by @/abbotsanatomy

⭒ PROTECTING THE HIVE by @/abbotsanatomy

⭒ Seeing Green by @/abbotsanatomy

⭒ (I’LL BE WATCHING YOU) by @/abbotsanatomy

⭒ TODAY’S SPECIAL by abbotsanatomy

⭒ First meetings by @eden031

After agreeing to do Dr. Robby a favour and transfering to the night shift she has to face that working with Dr. Jack Abbot might not be the easiest.

⭒ First meetings pt 3 by @/eden031

⭒ Sweet boy by @/eden031

When her son is having a rough patch, she asks her attending to come to his games, just as a temporary arrangement, of course. Though sometimes something temporary becomes normal.