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scribblemesylus · 4 months ago

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What they need to hear from you

The one where you comfort him : Caleb, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, Xavier

Hello! This is my first official writing of the LaDS characters; I hope you enjoy it! comments and reposts and love are most appreciated! 💕 The reader is the MC in this one! Angsty (but happy endings) No other warnings.Thank you to my friend who helped me find some inspiration for this post <3

Caleb

Caleb always tried to be the Caleb you remembered, even if he could not remember it that well, he searched through the little memory he had left to piece himself together. Because it was for you. He saw your face that day, the day you told him you didn't need him. That look in your eye, he didn't know exactly what it was; disgust? Pity? Terror? He couldn't recognise it. So, instead of acting like it never happened, he tried to make himself better, just so you would never leave his side again... you liked him before, right? So, it shouldn't be too hard... right?

Turns out, it was harder than he had ever imagined, after all the time he had not seen you since you were released from his fleet, everything between the two of you became suffocatingly awkward. Neither of you knew what to do, what to say, he was beginning to believe that even with the silly coupon (he didn't find it silly... not really), there was no salvaging what the two of you had.

He had destroyed it all in desperation to have you.

So, even though whenever he was near you, he felt like as if is chest was caved in from shame; he stayed by your side. Letting himself silently suffocate because that is what he deserved for letting you down -- or so he believed. It wasn't until you came back injured from a mission, where he ran to you, but he didn't dare touch you, his hands just sort of... hovered over your injuries, his eyes darting around, his brain trying desperately to find a way he could help you without terrifying you again. You sighed and watched him before slowly reaching toward his hand, your fingers brushing against the top of his hand "Caleb..." You whisper, your now strained relationship was hurting a lot more than your physical injuries "Caleb, I am not scared of you... I need you to help me." You push and look at him "Please.." It was true, what happened in Skyhaven was behind you and even though it was killing you with how different the two of you were compared to before, you aren't able to clean all these wounds yourself.

Caleb's eyes softened immediately, and he nodded. "Of course, Pipsqueak, you must be hurting a lot; I'm sorry." He quickly got up and grabbed the first aid kit as he slowly sat you down gently and began to look at your injuries, taking a deep breath before he peeled your sleeves away. "Pips... where did you go to... to get these types of injuries?" He asked gently, but when he was met with nothing but silence, he let out a sigh. "Please, prioritise your safety..." He muttered before continuing to help you as you focused on other wounds. You turn to him and nod "I do, it's just-" He didn't need you to explain, "I know." Was all he said before finishing up and packing the first aid kit "Do you... uh.." He scratched the back of his neck. "Need help with anything else?" He asks gently, but when you shake your head, he just gives you a soft smile and lets you be.

He stood in the kitchen and sighed gently as he slipped the first aid kit back into the cupboard. It wasn't easy to see you like this, in pain and uncomfortable. He just wanted to fix everything; he was good at it whilst he was younger, so why wasn't he good at it now?

He knew you had to do this; you had to save the people the way that you and he weren't in that catastrophe, but he wondered if you were trying to prove something to yourself, too. Caleb wanted to push them, tell you that saving the world wasn't your responsibility, but he has just got you back; you're finally not scared of him anymore; he couldn't ruin that. All he could be is glad that you were here now, that you came to him after all.

He closed the cupboard and prepared a small cup of hot chocolate for the two of you, and sat in the sitting room, waiting for your return.

After getting changed into comfier clothing, you nestled into Caleb, your heart racing slightly in fear he would reject this form of affection after so long... after what you said to him. But, he welcomed it and wrapped his arm around you. "I want to go back to how we used to be.." You say softly, looking up at his big purple eyes. "A-At least, start working towards it... You're my home, Caleb... I don't want this... awkwardness anymore."

You swore you could almost see him levitate off the couch as he practically shone with happiness as if those were the only words he ever needed to hear. "Anything you want, Pipsqueak, I am yours to command."

Rafayel

Rafayel was not an insecure man. At least, that is what everyone else thought. Rafayel, on the other hand, was not so sure. It is not that he felt insecure; it's more he felt this emptiness inside of him, and he had no clue what to fill it with. After all these years, he had you in his grasp once more, so close, yet so far. Because he remembered everything, he even knew what was to come, but you? You're so clueless. He knew how he lost you, how he would lose you and how he could lose you. And he had to deal with this pain and anger all alone.

His past failures jabbed into him as if he were Prometheus, constantly being pecked by a bird. He lived between what was his life and the life he had before, dealing with the betrayal he caused, all for the one he loved, for you, but you didn't know. You will never know.

A part of him did not want you to ever find out what kind of monster he was, afraid he would scare you away, like the otherworldly beast he is, but the other part of him was so tired of carrying this alone.

He wasn't insecure in himself, but insecure for what he could do for you, insecure in his love for you. Would it be enough for you to stay? For the two of you to finally have an entire lifetime together? Would it be worth plunging his people into darkness?

It was a constant spiral he had since you came back into his life, like a rollercoaster, but forever stuck on the loop, the happiness that he finally has you and the pain of what he was - it was a never-ending cycle. That a part of him didn't want to escape; he deserved this pain after all, didn't he? For what is a God who does not live in shame for causing suffering to his people?

But, deep down, he was just afraid he would become unloveable in your eyes. That was his deepest, darkest fear, the one that drowned him in darkness once the night time hit.

You knew something was wrong. It seems silly but when your world was a bit duller, when the grey clouds seemed more prominent or when the lakes and seas swayed as if it was heavy, you knew Rafayel was not himself. So, with a spare bag of seashells in hand and some of the rare materials you knew he liked, you headed over to his place.

The plastic bag twisted against your fingers, almost cutting off circulation entirely as you made your way through the streets and to the beach, slipping your spare key out of your pocket and into the keyhole of the gate, twisting it a few times to unlock the gate.

You gently swished the bag beside you as you made the way to the door, and you imagined your boyfriend's smile when he saw you. However, your heart fell to your stomach as Rafayel's 'organised' mess was scattered and ruined across the floor. The studio was a mess and unkempt; it was almost like an abandoned building.

"Rafayel?" You called out and looked around the place before you saw him sitting on the balcony.

He turned to you, his eyes screaming emotions at you that you had never seen on him before "Cutie..." He whispered meekly.

You fell to your knees by his side once you approached his side and cupped his face "Darling? What has happened? Are you struggling to paint?" You ask as you caress his cheek, your heart fluttering as he leans in as if he hadn't been touched by you in weeks (he saw you yesterday)

"Will you still love me, no matter what I become?" He asked you suddenly, and you froze as you looked at him; the two of you had silently loved each other until now, finding other ways to highlight your love rather than saying it.

"Of course you wouldn't." He muttered bitterly and turned from you, missing how your brows scrunched together with a mix of confusion and anger

"What-?"

"How could an angel like you love a monster like-" "I love you." You blurt out and make him face you, "I wanted to say it in a more romantic way, in a way that you will always remember.... but I love you, Rafayel, no matter what you become.." You smile softly and place a kiss on his cheek and caress it into his skin as if to heal him.

Rafayel's hand slipped down from above yours to your wrist as he searched your eyes for any deceit.

"Promise?" He asks, his grip on your wrist tightening slightly as he anticipates your answer.

"I promise, my heart has always been yours and always will be.

Rafayel may have a piece of him missing, but he was sure it was to be filled by you.

Zayne

Zayne is a man who craves control, not over anyone else, just over himself. He had to, because if he was void of control, there would be cracks and the cracks he could not let you see. If you saw his cracks, how could you trust him as your doctor?

He had let you down once, all those years ago when he left you, abandoned you, even if it was not his choice. But he had a choice now and he would use it to make sure he never let you down again.

So, every single crack he kept to himself, stayed up later, worked later until he could fill them all up again before he could see you. However, as he scribbled down notes on his research, the memories of his nightmares played in his mind, taunting him, punishing him, and he came to accept he deserved it. He shouldn't have let all those people come to die, he was a doctor, and a doctor's role was to save a life, not to let it fade away, yet with every year, the list of his letdowns grew.

Everyone told him that it was expected: that to save a life, you were bound to lose a few; it was how life worked. But not for Zayne, not at all, because with every name that appeared on that list, he was afraid it was a name closer to yours.

He couldn't have that, not when he gave up the life he wanted for yours to prevail.

You, on the other hand, were becoming increasingly worried and slightly frustrated with your doctor because this was the third time you tried to coax him out of his office. You have tried everything; cake, macaroons, sweets... all came to a disappointing ending. You thought that trying something as harmless as sweets wouldn't highlight your increasing worry, and it was small enough so you could get a small look at him.

It had almost been two weeks now, and so you made your way to the hospital. You just wanted to know that he was okay and maybe scold him slightly for shutting you out... again.

Once the doors slid open, you gently greeted Yvonne and walked to Zayne's office after making sure he had no more patients to see. You looked down at the box, a small muffin for Zayne, before inhaling and knocking on the door.

Gosh, you hope he doesn't reject you because as your knuckles collide with the door, It dawns on you that he might be avoiding you because you might have done something wrong.

"Come in."

You gulp down and hold the small box a little tighter in your hand, causing it to crease slightly before opening the door. You shifted on your feet as he was too immersed in his work to even look up at you.

"Hi." You greet him gently and slip the muffin on the table, and his eyes instantly break away from the paper at the sound of your voice

"I thought that since you wouldn't come to me for the sweet treats, I would just come to you because I know you cannot go too long without them." You say lightly and place yourself on the chair opposite his desk.

"Thank you." He says softly and looks between you and his work a couple of times before bunching the papers together in a neat pile and slipping them away. "Did you just come from a mission?" You raise a brow. "Are you not going to explain why I haven't seen you in two weeks? I know being a doctor is exhausting, Zayne, but you normally tell me ahead of time-"

"I didn't want to worry you over something foolish. I have it under control."

"Under control? What is under control? Why aren't you talking to me? You know that I am here." The words fall out, conveying your desperation. You had felt empty without him, alone, and you didn't want to feel that again. "It does not concern you, Y/N." He retorts, "If I thought you needed to know, I would have told you." You bite back your words and nod "Alright.." You sit there silently. You would've typically left, but something told you that this time, you needed to stay, that he needed you.

After a few beats of silence, you try again. "You don't have to keep it all to yourself... I know it may not concern me, but that doesn't mean you have to lock it away."

He tensed up. He hated how you could still see through him, even after all this time. He pulled away from his computer, which he was only looking at to control his anxiety for nearly scaring you away. He released the tension in his shoulders and took the muffin. "I lost a patient... two weeks ago."

Sylus

'What a fool' is all he could think as he sat in his office, piles of vinyl scattered across his usually clean office. No tune or genre was calming him. After all this time, after sensing you like he did, after preparing this life for you, he had scared you away.

He couldn't bear to think that because of who he was, his reputation, and who you believed he was made him lose you, not after all this time, not after the promise the two of you shared, not after what you went through.

He was a fool for pushing you too quick, too hard; his excitement and desperation had blinded him; why was he so hellbent on making you remember if he could just build new memories with you? Foolish.

You not remembering a thing, he could get behind, it made sense, but your hatred, your disgust. That he could not get behind, no matter what you believed about him. All he wanted to do was to have you in his arms and to show you what he had made. It might not be the cave you had a lifetime ago, but it was spectacular in this lifetime. A lifetime he built for you, and you didn't even want it.

He supposed he could understand. You did think he killed your family, even though he would never. All he would do would be to keep you safe. It pained him to understand your point of view, to see him as a monster. He was in his last life, so it only made sense that he was in this one.

But he had made you fall in love with him once, and back then, he was truly a monster, so he could make you fall for him again. He just had to give you the choice to choose him.

So, over the next few weeks, he let you choose him, come back to him. Not pushing or pulling, he didn't need to; the door was always open, and you knew that.

That didn't stop his heart from doing flips in his chest each time he saw you walk through the base's doors.

Tonight, you were also expected to come through the doors; he had the twins make sure the base was clean and tidy, that your room was prepared, and that security was at its highest. It was something he always did when you were coming over.

However, you never showed; you were on a mission, so maybe you went home and forgot; that would be reasonable... except come rain or shine, injury or no injury, if you said you were coming, you were always there.

He knew there was something more to your tardiness; without another thought, he sent Mephisto to look for you, and when he came back, the air was knocked out from Sylus' lungs.

You were found passed out, just outside of the base; it didn't take him a second to cross the base and have you in his arms "Oh, kitten.." He brushed the hair from your face, his heart breaking as you weakly opened your eyes.

"Sylus, I am sorry, I tried to call, but..."

"Shh, it's okay. You're safe now." He tried to use his usual tone with you, but his voice was softer, almost as if he was trying his hardest not to let it break.

He worked quickly to get you patched up, swallowing down his worries and quite possibly his tears as he did so, not even letting the twins near you. He sat with you, putting on your favourite vinyl softly in the background as he waited for you to wake up, not leaving your side, his hand placed on yours, afraid that if he let you go, he would lose you like he almost did tonight and the guilt was eating him alive.

"Stop looking at me like that." You mutter and glance toward him. "You're looking at me like your cat just died." You smirk slightly, and he lets out a chuckle "Kitten, why didn't you ask me to pick you up?"

"I assumed you had business to attend to-" "You should've called me. What happened if you never made it here, if we never found you, if you never came back to me, do you think I could live with myself."

You slowly sit up and look toward him "Sylus, I will always come back to you, always. I will always find myself here. You need to trust me on that."

"I do. It's just tonight seeing you like that made me feel-" "Scared?"

He huffed through his nose and pinched the bridge of it "Something like that..." He brushed the hair out of your face "Call me next time." You nod and smile "I will."

A few days later you were back fighting wanderers, but this time Sylus was by your side, his evol swirling around his arm and his hand "You sure about this, Sweetie?"

You nod "I'm Sure, I am safe by your side."

Sylus smiled; you were safe with him; you chose him, and fighting beside you was the greatest honour to have, so he made sure you left the mission without a scratch.

Xavier

It wasn't unusual for you to not see or hear from Xavier for days; you were sure he would pop up at one of the most convenient moments to be by your side. Or, pop up just before you were assigned another partner by Captian Jenna.

This is what happened; before you, the captain, could even mutter another person's name, Xavier appeared, literally faster than the speed of light beside you. Jenna sighed and cleared her throat. "Y/N, your partner will be Xavier for today's mission.

You didn't even look at him before you went to collect what you needed from the information room, and Xavier didn't seem to mind this. He just followed you obediently and read through the information quickly.

You were brought out of your focus when you suddenly heard his voice.

"Aren't you even going to ask where I was for the past few days?" He questioned and tilted his head, unsure why you're not interrogating him like you usually do.

You shrug and turn back to the tablet sitting in your hands. "Why should I? I trust you. If you want to let me know, you will when you need to."

To you, it was just a simple establishment of trust that you assumed you both knew of, but to Xavier, it was everything, and quite clearly, as little lights started to float around him, there was a slight smile on his face.

Trust was a big deal to him; after meeting you for the second time, he almost felt guilty about how angry you were at him for leaving you behind like he did. Not only that, but he failed his planet and the people on it, as well as the people he dragged here, to try and save you... He had failed them all and probably even you to the point where he believed he wasn't even worthy of trust.

You two didn't make a comment about it from that point. It was almost like, 'What is said in the information room stays in the information room.'

You watched him stand there and fiddle with the protocore between his fingers before, like always, crushing it into oblivion.

"Why do you always do that?" You ask, but he does not answer; he just walks you home. "Xavier, are you feeling okay? You've been silent the whole walk home.."

"I'm alright." He shot you a small smile like he always did and went inside. It was yet another protocore that was a waste, another step further from home, another disappointment to the people relying on him... but, at least, you trusted him.

So, he walked down the stairs and to your apartment and knocked on the door. He didn't even have to say a word, you just let him walk in and sit down, plating up some food for him.

You sit opposite and begin to eat, speaking about trivial things with him before he speaks up, "I don't expect you to understand me fully, but I need to find something, and I can't find it, and it's driving me mad."

"I can help-" you pipe in, but he just shakes his head, causing you to deflate, but you understood him in a way; you had things to do, personal missions to complete that you wouldn't want anyone to touch either. You clear your throat. "Well, if you ever need someone to help cheer you up or clear your mind, you can come here. If I can't help you with your mission, I want to at least help you after them." He smiles and looks at you, placing a star-shaped dumpling into your bowl and nods. "That'll be nice..."

Taglist: @61chai-tea @lueurjun @thebangtancloud @nawysstuff @phantom-astra

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science-hoes · 5 months ago

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Angel Kisses

Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x Reader

Warnings: graphic medical descriptions, needles

Description: Robby comes in on his day off with a minor injury, and the Reader ends up much closer to him than she had anticipated.

Michael Robinavitch Masterlist

—

The Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center was rumored to be the 9th level of Hell. So when it was time for you to begin your schedule for trauma surgery, you prayed for a different hospital. Literally any other hospital.

But there you were, in the depths of the Pitt, working your fifth 12 hour shift of the rotation. Only 1pm, but you felt like someone had changed the clocks because there was no way that the day was only halfway done. You were reading a pediatric patient’s CBC results, getting ready to tell your senior attending for the day, Dr. Jack Abbott, that the child is anemic. But Dana’s voice distracted you:

“You can’t even stay away on your day off. Do you have a life besides the Pitt?” She said to someone out of your view.

“Trust me. This is a last resort.” You heard a man respond, the voice slightly familiar.

You turned around and saw Dr. Michael Robinavitch, the senior attending from your first four days of working here. He didn’t look too different out of his scrubs and navy hoodie that he wore at work. Black joggers and gray long sleeve athletic shirt that hugged his waist…really nicely.

“Last resort for what?” Dr. Frank Langdon called out from where he sat at his desk, charting his patient case.

“I fell of a ladder and tore up my back on the fence in my backyard.” Answered Dr. Robinav- Dr. Robby, you had to remind yourself. “I need stitches, but I can’t reach the cut.”

Langdon winced and leaned back in his chair. “Need me to stitch you up?” He asked.

Dr. Abbott walked up to the desk near Langdon and laughed. “No, he wants his friend to stitch him up. Right, Robby?” He joked, referring to himself.

Robby laughed and crossed his arms, biceps straining against the fabric of the athletic shirt. Damn. “Friend is a strong word. I don’t have friends.” He said with a smile.

Langdon scoffed. “We went fishing last weekend. What does that make me?” He asked.

“I prefer the term ‘coworker that I hang out with sometimes outside of work.’” Robby said, but you could see the teasing in the way his eyes crinkled.

Dana rolled her eyes. “You are all annoying me. Jack, go stitch him up so he can get out of here and rest.” She said before walking off to a patient room.

Robby shook his head. “No, no, just let a med student do it. Good learning opportunity.” He said.

“No med students today. Only interns.” Langdon mumbled as he continued typing on his computer.

Robby clasped his hands together and held them close to his chest. “Even better. I would love for my scar to be in a straight line.” He joked.

Abbott looked to you, who had been watching the group interact from a couple of desks over. Your face flushed slightly, realizing you probably look like an eavesdropper. He motioned with his head toward Robby. “Why don’t you take our patient to holding and fix him up? I’ll take the CBC results.” He said.

“Yes, sir.” You answered, almost a little too seriously. The Pitt was an intense environment, but these attendings did not have the same egos as the ones from your last several rotations.

Robby chuckled at your earnestness. “Hear that, Langdon? ‘Yes, sir.’ You should be taking notes.” He ordered facetiously, pointing his finger at the senior resident.

Langdon looked up from his desk as you began walking with Robby to the back of the Pitt where the holding rooms were. “You know, we tell all of our patients over 65 to be very careful when doing yard work.” He called out.

Robby shot him a bird without turning back around. You smiled at the banter, not used to the lax interactions between physicians of different ranks. Once you made it to the room, Robby sat on the bed, and you grabbed a standard suture kit.

“Is it on your back?” You asked, turned away from him.

“Yeah. I’d do it myself if I could reach it. I managed to cover it up though.” He said.

When you turned back around, his tight fitting shirt had been peeled off his upper body. Holy shit. In the last five days, you didn’t really give yourself time to fantasize about your attending. He was handsome for sure and charming when he wasn’t jumping down a resident’s throat (yet he still had the patience of a saint). His abdomen was well toned, and his chest was smooth. Not what you expected based off his hairy forearms and face.

You must have been staring too much because Robby’s shoulders hunched, as if trying to subtly cover his exposed body. “Let me just take a look at the cut.” You said, trying to come back to earth. You moved to the edge of the bed and removed the bandage that he had placed himself.

You could see the blood that had leaked through the dressing, but you were not prepared to see the extent of the cut stretch across the majority of his upper back. “Oh, shit.” You swore.

Robby chuckled. “That’s not a comforting thing to hear from your doctor.” He said, shifting uncomfortably as the cold air of the hospital struck the wound.

You shook your head in a panic. “Oh, no, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t say that to a normal patient.” You covered for yourself.

Robby shook his head. “No, no. Listen. You’re taking everything a little too seriously. Just relax. Roll with the punches. That’s the only way you’ll survive down here.” He explained.

You nodded, taking in a stiff breath anyway. You disposed of the bandaging and picked up the lidocaine syringe. “Okay. I’m about to start injecting lidocaine around the cut. You’ll feel the burning more than the needle.” You said. You placed one gloved hand on his back, giving yourself a guide while you held the syringe in the other.

“90 degrees or 45?” He asked, making you freeze in place.

You paused for a moment, almost afraid to say your answer in fear of being incorrect. “90.” You answered.

“Why?”

At this point, the needle was hovering just an inch above your first injection site. “Recent studies show that patients report less pain with a 90 degree angle.” You said, confident in your sources.

Robby smiled, but you didn’t see it. “Very good.” Was all he said.

You injected the first round of lidocaine, and he hissed at the burning around the open wound. You kept moving around the cut, injecting small doses. “You’re doing great, Dr. Robby.” You praised, just as you would with any patient.

“Fuck, I say that to patients all the time. No wonder it makes no difference.” He grumbled.

You smiled slightly and injected the final dose. “All done.”

Robby let out a heavy breath, hanging his head as the skin slowly numbed where you worked. You began to open the suture kit and sort out its contents on the metal tray near the bed.

“What stitch?” He asked.

You grabbed some gauze and antiseptic from the drawer in the room before returning to his side. You cleaned the skin around the wound where the blood had dribbled down his back in a mix with sweat from working outside.

“Running stitch. The cut is long but not at risk of tension.” You answered. Robby nodded in approval. You carefully started on your first stitch, delicately inserting the curved needle into his skin. “So, you were on a ladder?” You asked.

Robby huffed in slight irritation. “Yeah. Trimming some branches that were reaching over the fence into the neighbors’ yard. I misstepped on the way down and lost my balance.” He explained.

You grimaced. “That sucks.” You said matter of factly.

“Yeah. Maybe Langdon is right. I’m getting too old for that kind of stuff.” He said with a chuckle.

Your hands carefully moved as they continued to sew. “You don’t look old.” You said.

Robby smiled to himself, not expecting you to respond at all. “You think so?”

“Yeah.” You said, glad he couldn’t see your involuntary blush. As you continued to stitch, you noticed all of the spots and marks that dusted his back and shoulders. “I like your freckles.” You noted.

Robby’s mind halted. It was a compliment he had never received. Your words went straight to his chest, and for the first time in a very long time, he felt flustered.

“My freckles?” He repeated.

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah. You got ‘em on your face too?” You asked.

Robby turned his head, not to present his face, but because he was still surprised and wanted to see if you were being genuine. And there they were. A light scattering of freckles across his cheeks and bridge of his nose.

“Yep. They’re precious.” You said after inspecting and returning back to your stitching. Robby’s face flushed, and you could especially see it in his ears as you worked. “You know, my mom used to tell me that freckles were angel kisses. Every time I got a new one, I thought an angel had kissed me. I went an embarrassingly long time into junior high before realizing it was just a tall tale.” You explained.

Robby smiled at the charming story, feeling an unusual feeling of comfort. “My grandmother used to say the same thing.” He said.

You grinned. “Looks like the angels couldn’t get enough of you then.” You teased.

Robby chuckled and ran a nervous hand across the back of his neck, careful not to pull against the skin as you worked. “How’s it looking back there?” He asked, trying to continue conversation.

“I need to run about five more stitches. Then you’ll be on your way.” You said.

He nodded and folded his hands in his lap. “Are you working tomorrow?” He asked.

You thought for a second, honestly not sure. “I don’t think so. My first off day since I started.” You replied. “Are you?”

“No. Seven on, seven off.” He said.

You pulled at the last suture and cut the remaining thread. “All right, Dr. Robby. You’re all cleaned up.” You announced.

“Great.” Robby hopped off the bed and stood up straight, popping a few kinks in his back from being hunched over. He towered above you, losing the intimacy that you temporarily had. “Take a picture and show me.” He said.

You pulled off your gloves slowly, unsure of how to respond. “Of the stitches?” You asked, afraid that he was going to grill you for sloppy suturing.

“Yeah, just to see the damage.” He responded.

You pulled your phone out and stood behind him. Fuck, even his back looked good. You snapped a picture and zoomed in to show him your work. Definitely saving that for later. “Does it look okay?” You asked timidly.

Robby nodded, impressed. “Actually yeah. Don’t think I could’ve done it better myself.” He complimented.

You laughed in relief. “Oh, good. I still need more practice on different suture patterns. I’m just lucky you were a simple case.” You said.

Robby looked down to you, letting his eyes linger as he watched you put your phone away. “If you aren’t busy tomorrow, maybe I can give you a masterclass. All ER docs have to know every suture.” He offered.

You looked up to him, suddenly very aware that he was still shirtless in front of you. You smirked and crossed your arms. “Sure. But only if you teach me just like this.” You said, looking him up and down. “You know, because you’ll need to let those stitches breathe.”

Robby grinned. “Wow. That was pretty smooth.” He admired.

You shrugged. “Just rolling with the punches.” You responded, repeating his quote from earlier. “Give me a call tomorrow.”

And you left. Robby stood there, smiling to himself. He pulled his shirt on and walked out to the desk hub. Langdon was still charting, but caught the attending before he snuck out. “What’s that goofy smile for?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

Robby shrugged, hands in his pockets, unable to shake the smile off his face. “I don’t know.” He said before walking away to leave.

Abbott leaned against a desk near Langdon. “His ears are red.” He noted. “That motherfucker is in love.”

A/N: I thought this fic would be a little less fluffy and more spicy but I just can’t help it. Plus I love Noah Wyle’s barely there freckles. I feel like this isn’t my best work because I had severe writers block. Hope it’s good enough for yall tho 💕

#the pitt #michael robinavitch #michael robinavitch x reader #noah wyle #dr robby #dr robby x reader #doctor robby #doctor robby x reader #dr jack abbott #jack abbott #frank langdon

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hatsbuckets · 3 days ago

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Some more Monster Hunter 141 AU (bc I can't stop thinking about it and finally wrote something else) context: Soap is a seer! And the team knows. He can sense and see supernatural things, but is not one himself. cw warning for a child ghost/spirit but not horror.

Soap doesn’t talk about it much. Why would he? It’s not exactly mission-critical to tell your CO you’ve seen the same ghost dog guarding the safehouse three nights in a row. Or that the base in Kuwait had a woman in a 1940s uniform who stood in the showers and sobbed when no one else was around.

Might be mission critical though if the ghost is actually interfering with gear though. Or if the slime is seeping through the walls and you're the first one to sense it. Or— you get the point.

He figures it started when he was twelve. Or maybe younger. When his gran passed and he still saw her standing in the hallway for three days after the funeral, humming as she folded nonexistent linens.

And then it just... never stopped, for anything.

He knows what vampires feel like. They're off, like looking at a predator through murky water. Werewolves are worse, heavy in the lungs. Slime is just annoying. Demons are hot and all teeth.

But whatever Ghost is? That’s not a feeling he can name. It sits in the back of his teeth like static. Too old. Too hot. Not alive, but not dead, either. Ghost is human. At least that's what Price told him.

When Soap brought it up to his Captain, Price said, simply "trauma can do a lot to a person, Soap, best to let it rest." But Soap knows what trauma feels. For each person it's different. Cold. Sharp. Maybe humid, if he had to describe it. Whatever's coming off Ghost isn't.

And then there’s the boy.

Johnny sees him maybe a few days after their second op together. A kid, no older than ten. He clings to Ghost’s shadow like it’s safe there. He doesn’t speak or try to get Ghost's attention. He just watches. Sometimes points. Sometimes laughs.

The first time, Johnny thinks he’s hallucinating from sleep deprivation. The second time, he watches the kid try to hold lightly at Ghost’s sleeve, hands passing straight through. Ghost doesn't flinch. Ghost's not a seer like Soap either.

Johnny asks once. Like he does sometimes when he sees friends with ghosts hovering. That won't let go.

“You got any family?” It's casual, during kit check.

Ghost doesn’t even look up. “No.”

And that’s that. So Johnny stops asking. But when Ghost’s not looking, he’ll smile at the boy. A quick glance. A soft wave. The ghost kid smiles back, every time.

Ghost doesn’t see the boy. But he feels him sometimes, he can't not. It's a weight in the air. A coolness behind the ribs. Familiar and comforting in a way he’ll never admit.

And such is the rhythm Soap falls into with Ghost and the boy. Sure he's shy when there's lots of people. Hides in that weird ghost space that Soap doesn't understand during loud and chaotic mission. But he always comes back. Soap starts looking forward to sneaking glances and smiles.

It's politeness he's not technically supposed to give those who haven't moved on. Don't want to "encourage their attachments." Unfortunately, Johnny MacTavish is many things. Brash. Loud. Quick to anger and quicker to a trigger. But rude is not one of them.

...

The recon shack was barely a building, a half-collapsed roof, peeling rusted siding, and a wind that kept whispering through the cracks. But it was a shelter.

Soap leaned against the far wall, rifle across his lap, watching through a slit in the tin paneling. The moon was low. Mission still hours away. Ghost had curled up in the corner with his back to the wall, gear on, mask up, sleeping or close enough to fake it.

And beside him, like always, the boy.

He was sitting cross-legged now, little hands folded neatly in his lap. Watching Ghost like he might disappear. His pale face calm and a little sad.

Johnny kept his voice low.

“You follow him everywhere, huh?”

The boy didn’t react at first. Then, slowly nodded.

Soap tilted his head, careful of the conversation he's never actually gotten to have. “What’s your name, wee man?”

The boy looked thoughtful. Like the question didn’t make sense. Then he shrugged. “Dunno.”

“No? That’s alright,” Soap said gently. “And who's this big guy to ya?”

The boy smiled, small and bashful. “Uncle Simon.”

Soap’s throat closed a little.

“Well,” he murmured, “he’s a good one to follow, if you’re choosin’. Tough as hell. Keeps us safe. Even if he growls like a junkyard dog.”

That earned a quiet laugh from the boy.

Johnny hesitated, then reached into a pouch on his vest and pulled out a wrapped biscuit, standard ration junk. He unwrapped it carefully, held it out.

“Not sure you can eat this, mate.”

The boy reached for it, fingers passing through the foil and chocolate like mist. He frowned, a little disappointed. Soap just smiled.

“Worth a shot.”

The boy shifted, glancing at Ghost, then back at Johnny. “He can’t see me.”

“I know.”

“But I like being near him.”

Soap nodded. “Me too.”

The boy, slow and cautious, lay down beside Ghost, curling in like a cat in the curve of his side. Curling in like he could make Ghost's arm fit around him

Ghost stirred.

Johnny turned his gaze back to the slit in the wall just as Ghost’s voice rasped low and sleep-slow, “Talkin’ to yourself again, Johnny?”

Soap smiled, taking a small bit of the biscuit. “Aye. Somethin’ like that.”

Ghost grunted, already half out again. The wind whistled low.

And Johnny watched the kid’s little ghost face relax into something almost peaceful. His eyes drifted shut. If it could be called sleep, it looked like it.

Johnny stayed awake, watching the wind stir the dust. And if his chest ached a little, well he didn’t mind.

Thanks for reading

#yes simon is something supernatural. no im not revealing what just yet. his reveal is epic and cool and terrifying and angsty. mhmhmhm #n e way. yes the boy is Joseph if that didnt click yes i love angst moving on.#monsterhunter!141 AU #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #ghoap #ghoap adjacent ig #cod angst #angst adjacent ig lol #tf 141

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pomelace · 4 months ago

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a piece of sweetness

pairing: frank langdon x afab!intern reader

content warnings: no physical desciptors used for reader, reader is an intern, doesn't take place during the shows timeline, emotional distress and grief, guilt, vulnerability, little bit of angst, patient death, let me know if I missed anything!

magui speaks! : this is dedicated to anon who asked for more langdon fics. thank you for the request! this is part 2 of mouse and the redbull, part 3 will be out soon. I wrote this rather than study for my chem exam, so call me dedicated. as always, I hope you enjoy, and requests are always open.

word count: 2436

It's been weeks since the Red Bull. Weeks of long shifts and caffeine-stained charts, of you silently handing him pen lights and IV kits before he even asks. You're still the same—quiet, precise, invisible to most—but not to Frank.

He notices everything.

The way you tuck your pen behind your ear when you're focused.

The way you always triple-check every patient's med list.

The way you look up at him when you're unsure—but never ask.

He doesn’t say anything. He never does.

Words were never necessary with him.

Which is why it catches you off guard when Dr. Robby corners you before rounds, his voice too casual to mean nothing.

“You’re with me today,” he says, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn sweater.

You blink. “I’m usually with Dr. Langdon.”

“I know,” he replies, eyes already scanning his notes. “But you’ve been glued to him for weeks. Time to mix it up. Get to know the rest of us. Frank’s overdue to teach someone else anyway.”

You nod—because that’s what you do. But something settles heavy in your chest as you take your place among the others.

Frank doesn’t say anything when you fall in next to him. Just glances over—quick, unreadable—and then turns back to Dr. Robby as he launches into the morning briefing.

Maybe words were never necessary.

But this silence feels different. Louder. Sharper around the edges.

You half expect him to lean in, to say something under his breath—I’ll talk to Robby, or You’ll be back tomorrow—but he doesn’t.

He just lets the space stretch between you, like it means nothing at all.

𐔌 ﹒ ⋆ ꩜ ⋆ 𓂃 ₊ ⊹

Robby is patient.

He moves like he’s got fire in his lungs—sharp, deliberate, always ten steps ahead. He commands a room with a single glance, and somehow still finds time to teach you between traumas.

“Now I see why Frank kept you all to himself,” he said, showing you how to crack a chest like he’d done it a hundred times in his sleep

You learn a lot with him. He makes sure of it. But still—you’re always a half-second behind. Reacting instead of anticipating. You miss the rhythm you had with Frank, the silent sync only the two of you seemed to share.

You don’t realize how deeply you’ve adapted to him until you have to unlearn it.

When Robby asks for a kit, your hands stall. You hesitate—just long enough to feel it.

You’re not sure which one he means.

Frank wouldn’t have had to ask.

Robby doesn’t notice the pause—or if he does, he doesn’t say anything. He just points and keeps going, his voice calm but clipped, already three steps ahead again.

You hand him the right kit. Eventually. But the moment sticks with you.

With Frank, it was different. There were no words, just glances and gestures, and somehow you always knew what came next. He never needed to explain. You were in sync.

Now, every command feels like a test. Every silence feels like something you’re supposed to fill. You push through it. Robby is kind, in his own brisk way. He teaches well. He even smiles sometimes.

But at the end of the shift, when your scrubs are soaked through and your hands smell like antiseptic, it isn’t him you’re thinking about.

It was Frank.

And how, for the first time in weeks, he hadn’t even looked at you in the hallway.

You passed him again and again during shifts, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Even when you were forced onto the same case, he moved around you like you weren’t there—focused solely on guiding his new intern, never sparing you so much as a glance.

You tried to ignore it—the tight pull in your stomach, the quiet ache that settled behind your ribs.

But it was there. Growing. Whispering.

Maybe you’d done something wrong.

You never asked. You couldn’t. Every time you stood near him—tried to spark even the smallest conversation—he found a reason to walk away. A clipped excuse, a sudden task, always without looking at you.

Eventually, you stopped trying.

And with time, you began to accept the quiet truth: maybe you’d never work with him again. The thought settled in your chest like something heavy, something final.

Days blurred into weeks. Weeks where your schedule bounced between Dr. Robby and Dr. Collins—never Langdon.

Not once.

You stopped expecting to see him during rounds. Stopped looking for him across the nurses’ station or listening for his voice during consults. You forced yourself to focus on the work—on Robby’s fast-paced cases and Collins’ long-winded lectures about doing the best thing for a patient.

But some habits die harder than others.

You still felt it—his absence. Not just the lack of words, but the missing weight of him at your side. The way you used to anticipate each other without speaking.

It was like losing a limb and learning how to walk again.

And you were having a hard time keeping yourself upright.

You haven’t been yourself today.

It starts with the wrong dosage on a chart—caught just in time, but still. Then a missed page. Then a patient, mid-thirties, chest pain, eyes wide with fear—and you swear you’re doing everything right.

You double-check vitals, repeat the ECG, call for backup, but nothing you do is enough. Minutes later, they code. And you can’t get them back.

It’s not your first loss. But for some reason, this one sits differently in your chest. Low. Heavy. Like wet concrete.

Dr. Robby assures you that there wasn't anything anyone could've done, that the patient was as good as dead the moment they were wheeled into the ER, but no words could help you forget the sound of the flatline.

The rest of the shift spirals after that.

Minor mistakes. Snapped words. You keep moving, but nothing feels like it lands right. It’s like you’re watching yourself from a few feet away, trying to climb back into your own skin and failing.

No one says anything, but you know they notice.

And Frank notices the most.

From the moment you lose your patient, you can feel his eyes on you, though he never approaches. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t offer the usual reassuring confidence or distractions. Instead, he just watches—quietly, from a distance. And in that silence, you realize he sees it.

The cracks in your composure, the raw edges of your mind starting to fray. It’s a subtle thing, but you feel it all the same. He sees you breaking, even when you wish he wouldn’t.

You catch a nurse stealing a glance your way after you mutter a curse under your breath, watching as your coffee turns cold and bitter in your hands.

A resident steps in, offering to take over a case you were already halfway through, his voice too bright, too eager.

You shake your head, brushing him off, but the tension in your shoulders is too tight. You finish it anyway, fingers unsteady as you sign the discharge papers, the ink smearing slightly across the form.

The weight of it lingers in your hands, like a reminder of everything that’s slipping through your fingers.

By the time 9 p.m. rolls around, you've disappeared—found a forgotten stairwell tucked between ICU and radiology, where silence is the only company you’re willing to keep.

You sit on the cold concrete steps, elbows braced on your knees, head cradled in your hands. You're not crying. Not yet. Just still. Just quiet. Just trying to feel something that isn't the hollow static in your skull.

The door creaks open behind you, the sound scraping through the silence.

You don’t move.

The footsteps are slow, deliberate—familiar. You know them without having to look.

“Mouse?”

You don’t lift your head. You don’t even flinch.

He steps closer, hesitant, careful.

“Everyone’s looking for you. Robby thought you left.”

You shake your head, slow and deliberate, keeping your chin tucked low.

“I just needed... a second.”

A long beat of silence. Frank doesn’t answer immediately, and for a moment, you think maybe he’ll leave, or maybe he’ll keep pretending he’s been too busy to notice.

Instead, he lowers himself onto the step beside you. The space between you both is filled with nothing but the distant hum of the hallway, the pounding of your own heart.

“You’ve been off today,” he says quietly. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just a simple observation.

“Rough shift?” he adds, his voice laced with something too close to pity.

It almost sounds absurd—the way he asks, knowing full well the answer. He was there, he saw it all. Watched as you fought, as you tried to save a life only to lose it in the end.

You nod, the movement stiff, like your neck can’t bear the weight of the day. Your breath is shaky, fighting the edge of something sharp and brittle that threatens to break free.

He sits beside you, close enough for you to feel his presence but not so close as to invade. He doesn’t ask you anything else, doesn’t offer words you don’t want.

He just sits. Silent. Watching.

You hate how easy it is for him to be there, like nothing’s wrong, like you’re just two people passing through the same space, when all you want to do is scream.

“I heard about your patient,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens like a fist around your windpipe.

“You heard about it, or you saw it?” you whisper, your voice frayed. It’s not really a question. You already know the answer.

He doesn’t respond right away. Just sits there, the silence stretching until it almost snaps. When he finally speaks, his voice is low, almost hoarse.

“I should’ve said something. Back then.”

He hesitates, then adds, “It’s hard… losing a patient. I should’ve—”

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be.

He flinches like he expected it—but it still hits.

The stairwell is cold. Quiet again, except for the hum of a vending machine two floors down and your own heartbeat in your ears.

Frank breathes out slowly. You don’t look at him, but you feel the shift in the air, the way his body curls forward, like he’s trying to close the space between you without touching it.

“I know it doesn’t change anything,” Frank says after a moment, voice low, like he's afraid to disrupt the fragile stillness you've wrapped around yourself.

“But I wanted you to hear it from me.”

You don’t answer. The silence feels safer—less brittle than any words you might try to force past the knot in your throat.

“You did everything you could.”

His voice is soft, careful—like he’s reaching for you with it, like he thinks if he says it gently enough, you might believe him.

Like he wants to cradle the sharp edges of your grief with something that won’t cut.

You shake your head, still staring down at your hands, at the scuffs on your shoes, at the floor that hasn’t moved but somehow still feels like it’s tilting.

“It wasn’t enough.”

He lets out a long, slow breath, his hands clasped loosely between his knees, the pads of his fingers pressing into each other like he needs the grounding.

“Sometimes it isn’t,” he murmurs.

“Even when it should be.”

You nearly flinch at that—almost say, but it still happened. You almost tell him that your hands haven’t stopped shaking since you called time of death, that your brain feels stuffed with cotton, thick and useless, and you can't think clearly enough to even cry.

But nothing comes out.

You just shake your head again, smaller this time.

Frank turns slightly toward you, glancing out of the corner of his eye.

“You have to be kinder to yourself,” he says, and it’s so quietly earnest it almost stings.

You nod, though it’s automatic.

Eventually, you glance at him. He’s not looking at you—just staring straight ahead, his jaw tight, his eyes unfocused like he’s watching something only he can see.

“You’ve lost patients before,” you say, your voice hoarse.

“How do you not let it break you?”

He lets out a breath of a laugh—low, bitter, hollow.

“Who said it doesn’t?”

That silences you. Again.

A minute ticks by. Then he shifts slightly, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. He pulls out a crumpled paper bag and, without a word, sets it gently in your lap.

You blink at it, confused, your fingers hesitating on the edge.

“It’s a cinnamon roll,” he says, like it’s obvious. “From that place you like. Still warm.”

You stare down at it, stunned.

“I didn’t even know you—”

“You mentioned it once,” he says, cutting you off, almost sheepish.

“Weeks ago. Said they don’t dry them out like the cafeteria does.”

Your throat tightens, but it’s different this time—not grief. Something softer, warmer, tugging at your chest.

“I figured… if you weren’t gonna eat or sleep tonight, you should at least have sugar.”

You let out a faint, broken laugh. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes, but it’s real. He nudges your knee gently with his own.

“You’re allowed to be human, mouse. Even the best interns have days like this.”

“Not like this,” you murmur, still staring at the bag in your lap.

He tilts his head, finally meeting your eyes.

“Especially like this.”

You tear open the bag, the scent hitting you instantly—cinnamon, vanilla, that warm yeasty sweetness. You break off a piece and hand it to him wordlessly.

He takes it without hesitation and eats in silence, like this is routine, like sharing a cinnamon roll in a stairwell at the end of the worst day isn’t the most intimate thing you’ve done in weeks.

You sit together for a while like that. Just two tired, wrung-out people in the quiet hollow of a hospital, letting the sugar and the silence do what they can.

Eventually, your voice returns. “Thanks.”

He glances at you, chewing. Swallows.

“For the cinnamon roll?”

You shake your head.

“For finding me.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you. For a moment longer than necessary.

“You’re my favorite, remember?” he says, voice gentler than you’ve ever heard it.

“I keep track of the things I care about.”

And for a moment, you forget. Forget the coldness he kept between you for weeks, the silence that hung like a heavy curtain.

All you feel is the warmth of the cinnamon roll in your hands, and the quiet tenderness in his voice when he says he cares—about the small things, about you.

©pomelace 2025

#the pitt hbo #the pitt #the pitt x reader #frank langdon #frank langdon x reader #dr langdon x reader #michael robinavitch #patrick ball #I LOVE THIS SERIES SO MUCH ALREADY

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hanahaki270 · 1 year ago

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♡ Sharing a Dorm ♡

♡・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・♡

Synopsis ┊Your dorm is going under renovation and you need to find a place to crash in for a while. Luckily a certain someone offers you to stay in theirs for the time being.

Characters ┊Katsuki Bakugou, Shoto Todoroki, Izuku Midoriya.

A/N ┊beginner Writer here, these were harder to think of than I thought ngl. If you have any requests please send them to me, I'm open to do different characters and also different anime's!

♡・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・♡

Katsuki Bakugou

❥ By no means whatsoever does he offer his dorm out of the kindness of his heart. He just got pissed off of seeing you sleeping on the couch in the commons area every morning, and accidentally stepping on your blanket or pillows. After stepping on your blanket once more he grabs your shit and puts it in his dorm and acts like he's bothered by this but really he doesn't mind at all.

❥ Makes you sleep on the floor for the first two nights until you convince him to share the bed. He's reluctant at first but then allows it as long as you stay on your side of the bed. Do you really though?

❥ Expect to sleep earlier and get your sleep schedule in check because his dorm, his rules, lights are off at ten pm sharp with no exceptions.

❥ Also expect your grades to go up. While he's your roommate he's going to make you don't slack off on your studies.

❥ When he wakes up in the morning and notices your head resting on his chest he gets somewhat annoyed but secretly likes it. he's willing to get behind on his strict schedule and let you rest on him a little longer. but just a little.

❥ Demands you now be his training partner but is careful to not get carried away. You're strong, but he still doesn't want to run the risk of hurting you. therefore, he always keeps Aid kits in the bathroom just in case you do get any scratches, even if they're minor.

❥ Constantly threatening to kick you out over every little thing but actually has no intention of doing so. He won't admit it but he enjoys your company. "I swear if I see one more sock lying around I'm grabbing your shit and throwing it out."

♡・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・♡

Shoto Todoroki

❥ "Why don't you sleep with me." he said boldly unaware of how his sentence had more than one connotation to it. I mean you need help and as your friend he's more than willing to help you out. plus he has the biggest dorm compared to everyone else, if anything he's the most suitable to offer his help he thought.

❥ Asks you what temperature you prefer to sleep in so he can use his quirk to either make the room colder or warmer depending on your preference. and ALWAYS makes sure to make both sides of your pillows cold.

❥ When he's out visiting his mother you make sure the place is clean (though it usually is since he tends to be on the neater side) and prepare some soba for him as a token of your appreciation. After a couple of times he starts to look forward for it and got saddened the one day you forgot.

❥ In return he made sure not turn on the lights when getting ready in the morning as to not wake you up. Part of it was for a selfish reason though, he thought it was cute how you slept soundly on his bed.

❥ Speaking about sleep; During the night he would find himself cozying up next to you, not on purpose though. He just felt comfort in your presence and he realized you felt the same way when you also moved closer to him during the night.

❥ Leaves out coffee for you in the mornings since you tend to stay up late on nights and wake up always running late to your classes.

♡・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・♡

Izuku Midoriya

❥ Overheard you talking to Tsuyu and Uraraka about how you need a place to sleep in and walked over to offer his help without a second thought. You already spend most of your time in his dorm room during the day to share notes anyways. The only difference would just be you spending the night.

❥ Offers for you to sleep in his bed while he sleeps on the floor. After you refuse to let him sleep on the floor he shyly agrees to share the bed with you constantly asking you if you're okay with it.

❥ Midoriya stays up late at night writing in his notebook and murmuring thoughts to himself. You persuade him to go to bed and leave his worries for the following day. he deeply apologizes for the burden kind of embarrassed. "I-I'm sorry! was I keeping you up? I'll go to bed in a few minutes don't worry."

❥ Always invites you to go out with him whenever he leaves the dorm, even if it's something as simple as going to the gas station to get some snacks.

❥ he loves to talk your ear off geeking out about the knowledge he knows about the top heroes and their quirks. When he notices he got carried away he gets all types of flustered but even then he doesn't get the sense of being judged.

❥ Since he's constantly getting injured and going to see Recovery girl he always comes back exhausted. regardless, his stubborn ass still tries to go out on missions and push himself to the limits. he get's frustrated when you don't let him do so and force him to rest and leave his chores to you. But he loves you for it.

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witchbitchlovesdilfs · 2 months ago

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Hey Doll

Frank Castle x reader

synopsis: four different time frank greats you like you're the only thing that matters

vibes: fluff, angst, comfort

warnings: suggestive, injuries/blood/suggested violence, (vaguely mentioned) reader is attacked, alcohol, language

words: 1.48k

notes: i love this one and hope you will too!

“Hey doll,” he says cheekily.

You roll your eyes as Frank Castle slides into the booth across from you. “Hi Frank.”

He rests his elbows on the table and looks at you with a lazy grin. “Did you find the place okay?”

Scoffing, you cross your arms and slouch in your seat. “Frank, I work here.” You motion down at your attire: the required restaurant t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

He snickers, leaning back and manspreading. You glance down before jerking your eyes back up. The grin on his face just grows; of course he caught you looking. “How was your shift?” he asks, sincerely.

You groan. “Fine. Lots of rude customers, the usual.”

“Need me to beat anyone up?”

Your eyes widen at the seriousness on his face. “No, don’t go assaulting people for me.”

Alyssa, one of your co-workers, interrupts to get your orders. She departs with a wink. You flush, and Frank notices. He leans close, too close, and you can feel his breath against your face. “Are you scared of me?”

Determined not to let him know the effect he has on you, Exhibit A being the growing wet splotch in your painties, you lean even closer. “Why?” you ask seductively. “Do you want me to be?”

“Damn,” you barely hear him breathe before he’s moving back again. He shifts in his seat as you settle against the seatback.

“Here you go,” Alyssa says, putting down your sodas and meals. Frank picks up a fry and fiddles with it.

“How was your shift?” you ask quietly once Alyssa’s gone. You’re one of the few in-the-know when it comes to Frank’s “job”, although he wished to keep you as far from the business as he could.

“Fine,” he mimics you. “Lots of rude customers, the usual.”

“Are you hurt at all?” you ask, concern flooding your face when he rolls he shoulders.

Frank shakes his head. “Just tired, is all.” He stares at you softly. “Don’t you worry about me.”

“I know, I know,” you say, hands flying up dramatically. “You’re a big man; you can take care of yourself.”

Frank dips the fry in a big pool of ketchup. “Damn straight.”

You laugh. “Careful, Frank Castle,” you say, leaning forward again and plucking the fry before he can eat it. “Or I might just fall in love with you.”

“Hey doll,” he says tiredly.

You look up from the book on your lap, breaking out into a smile. “Hey Frankie.”

The door shuts behind him as he kicks off his shoes and shrugs off his combat vest. The Punisher just finished another job. Frank Castle just came home to you.

Finally comfortable and relieved from the weight of his armor, Frank moves to lock his guns away, always leaving a single pistol on his person. He plops down on the couch next to you with a huff.

“Look at me,” you say, putting your book to the side. Frank turns his puppy dog eyes your way, and you brush the hair from his face. He’s nursing a fresh black eye, you note, and his nose might be broken again. Your eyes drag down, checking for other injuries. “Anything serious?” you ask, standing to get the first aid kit in the bedroom’s bathroom.

“Nah.” Frank follows you, looking down at the blood on his clothes. “Blood’s not mine.” He stands patiently as you gently pull his shirt over his head and help him slide out of his pants, leading him to sit on the bed. You nod, silent as you kneel beside him. Frank shifts so his body’s angled towards you. His body is beginning to bruise, but you don’t see any stab wounds or bullet holes.

Frank looks up as you place everything down and leave, staring at the doorway until you come back with a bottle of whiskey. “For the pain,” you say, handing it to him and returning to your spot on the bed.

“Thanks” he grunts, unscrewing the cap and taking a swig, gulping graciously.

You take the hand towel you recently wet in the sink and wipe away the surrounding around his nose. He has a cut on his forehead; you clean around that too.

“Does it need stitches?” he asks, head cocked to keep his nose from bleeding any more.

You touch the skin around the cut, and Frank curses. “Yeah,” you say sympathetically.

“Don’t fuck it up this time,” he says, but there’s no malice in his tone.

You snatch the bottle out of his grip and take a sip. “Don’t squirm, and I’ll try my best.”

“Hey doll,” he says carefully.

You’re laying in bed, back turned to him and the doorway, curled into a ball with the sheets pulled all the way up to your chin. You don’t turn as the bed shifts and Frank sits behind you. There’s shuffling, and then his hand - hesitantly, faintly - rests on your side. You sniff.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t know why, but you weren’t expecting him to apologize. He was so adamant about being right three hours ago, shouting about how you “just didn’t understand” his way of living and storming out without his phone. You don’t know why, but you didn’t expect him to give in.

“I’m sorry I’m such an asshole,” he continues, and his hand begins to rub small circles when you don’t pull away. “I shouldn’t have said those things - shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

You move into his touch - just barely, but he notices. “But you did.”

He nods. “I just - Christ, sweetheart, can you look at me?”

You hesitate. Your eyes are red from crying, and you know Frank will spiral when he realizes he made you cry.

Frank senses this hesitation. “Please?” he pleads, and his voice cracks.

You give in instantly, turning onto your other side so you’re looking at each other. Frank moves his hand to cradle your cheek, and you see that his eyes mirror your own: they glisten with tears both shed and unshed.

“Jesus, doll,” he says, letting go of you and rubbing a hand over his face. “I made you cry. I promised I’d never hurt you, and I made you cry.”

“Hey,” you snap, sitting up and taking his face in your hands. Your faces are mere centimeters apart; you can hear his heartbeat as it beats out of his chest. “I forgive you.”

Frank looks away from you, tilting his head to get out of your hold. “But I-”

“No,” you cut him off sharply, shaking him gently. “I hurt you too. So we’re even, okay?” You slide back down until your head is resting upon a pillow and pat the mattress next to you. “Just lay down and cuddle me.”

Frank's eyes are hazy with guilt and regret, but a shroud of love and relief begins to erase the worry in his expression. He shifts to rest beside you, and you instantly move into his arms.

His breath hitches as he presses his face into your hair.

“I forgive you,” you whisper, nuzzling closer.

And he believes you.

“Hey doll,” he says sadly.

You begin to lift your head, but Frank is quick to stop you. “Hey,” he says, easing you back down, “don’t do that. You’ll tear your stitches.”

That’s when you feel it: a sharp, throbbing pain against your skull. Your right arm is hooked with monitors; you move your left to feel your head. “Did they…shave my hair?”

Frank nods. He’s in a chair next to the hospital bed, leaning forward so much the back chair legs are off the ground.

“What happened?” you ask groggily, letting your arm drop.

Frank puts his hand over yours. “You got jumped. I found you in the parking garage.”

You start to piece it together. “I got hit in the head.”

He nods. “Did you see him? The guy who did it?” Mixed with the worry in his expression is anger, hatred, for the man who hurt you.

You shake your head, groaning at the pain it causes. “But there were security cameras, right?”

“You don’t worry about that, sweet thing,” he says, patting your hand. “I’ll find him. Make him pay for hurting my girl.”

You smile weakly. “I’m thirsty.”

Frank nods rapidly and moves a water bottle into your peripheral. It has a long, purple straw sticking out, and Frank maneuvers it so you can tuck the straw between your lips. You take several savory gulps before letting him take it away.

“How’s the pain?” he asks, setting the bottle down.

You shrug. “I’ve had worse.”

“I’ll see if they can give you more morphine.”

You smile, and Frank pauses, tilting his head at you in confusion. “What?”

“I just love you,” you say, moving your hands so you're holding his. You squeeze.

He squeezes back.

#frank castle #jon bernthal #the punisher #frank castle x reader #the punisher x reader #matt murdock #the accountant 2 #marvel #braxton wolff

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tokeposts · 2 months ago

Text

𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘

pairing: ex!katsuki bakguou x gn!reader

warnings/genre: angst, hurt/no comfort, cussing, jealousy

notes: this one’s a doozy </3

989 | after your break up with bakugou, you thought things would be easy. that the feelings would go away, but unconsciously he’s determined to prove you wrong.

the door creaks as you push it open, stepping inside without a thought. his place is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the muted TV in the corner. bakugou is slouched on his couch, one arm draped over his stomach. the other clutching at his side. his costume is torn, scorched at the edges revealing his hard muscles underneath

if this was before, you’d laugh, poke fun at him for being reckless and help nurse him back to health. but it’s different now.

you cough, throat drying up suddenly.

his red hues narrowed, not looking at you when he speaks. “told you i was fine.”

you shake your head then make a beeline for his bathroom. he doesn’t stop you, doesn’t say a word as you disappear down the hall.

inside, you rummage through the cabinet, your heart trembling in its confines. everything feels so achingly familiar. his favorite aftershave still sits on the counter, half empty. the cabinet is still stocked with painkillers. the ones he used to keep around for your sudden headaches and sore muscles.

then your eyes land on something else— your old toothbrush, still in its usual spot. the sight of it is a stake to the heart. you have to pause, inhale slowly, and let the ache pass before you can collect yourself again

finally, you spot what you came here for: the first aid kit. he never had one until you moved in. one clumsy accident, one shattered glass, and by the next morning, there it was. the white and red box tucked neatly beneath the sink like it had always belonged.

you return back to bakugou, dropping the first aid kit onto his coffee table with a sharp thud. “and i don’t believe you.”

his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue when you kneel in front of him, finding purchase between his legs. carefully you peel back the remains of his costume to assess the damage. his breath hitches but says nothing. up close, the cuts are worse. deep gashes across his arms, bruises blooming across his ribs. he smells like sweat, like smoke, like battle.

you scoff. “you’re so fucked.”

he snorts. “yeah? couldn’t tell.”

silence stretches between you as you start cleaning his wounds, the only sound the quiet hiss he lets out when alcohol meets ripped skin. he doesn’t flinch though. he never does.

but there’s something about tonight that feels different like the air between you is heavier, thick with all the things left unsaid. your hands are careful, but your mind is restless filled with questions you’ve wanted to ask for weeks.

when you look down at bakugou, his eyes are hazy fixated on something behind you, but he knows exactly what you’re thinking. he knows what the crease in between your brow means. reading you was easy, a habit he can’t seem to shake despite the break up. it all leads to one question: why?

his fingers flex against his knee, as if the motion alone would be enough to stop him from reaching out to touch you. to comfort you. to feel you. the muscle in his shoulders stiffen. you’re so close. the wires in his brain feels fried.

“i’m leaving.” the words leave his mouth without a thought.

you freeze bandage half-wrapped around his forearm

“next month. for the hero exchange. ‘m going to america.” his voice is quiet like he doesnt want to say the words any more than you want to hear them.

you hands drop to your sides. “that’s why you—”

“yeah.” he mumbles, running a bruise knuckled hand through his hair. deep red smears through his blond strands, catching where the skin split.

you want to laugh. you want to smile and pretend the man standing before you didn’t absolutely wreck you. so you do. it starts as a small chuckle, a dip in the waters, then seconds later its a full blown cackle. your body folds forward, leaning into him like he didn’t shatter your heart into fucking pieces

like everything is normal again.

he doesn’t look up. can’t. won’t face your laughter.

and that is what makes you scoff, fury rising sharp in your throat.

“why didn’t you just tell me?”

“what was i supposed to say? that i’m fuckin’ off across the world and expect you to just wait around? or worse? what? tell you to drop everything and come with?” his voice dips, something almost desperate underneath. “you can’t do that.”

“so instead of talking to me, you just… ended it?”

“it’s easier.”

you let out a short, humorless laugh. “easier for who?”

he doesn’t answer. it makes your throat feel tight. you don’t know what you want him to say. that he regrets it? that he didn’t mean it? that he does want you to come? was the thought of starting a life with you in america really that fucking bad?

the weight of the situation settles between you, suffocating and silent. but the more you think about it the more it makes sense. you’re family, your friends, your life— it would be unfair and even though you want to hate him for his decision, you can’t.

his teeth grit from the pain of his wounds or from this conversation, you’re not sure. it forces him to look up at you for the first time tonight. his eyes are steeled, narrowed and cold.

he’s decided already, you realize, and when bakugou is set on something there’s no changing his mind. even when it comes to you.

especially when it comes to you.

so you don’t push. you don’t beg. you don’t cry. you continue to wrap his wounds in silence unconsciously tightening the gauze as you go on.

“i’m done.” you mumble, tucking the loose ends of the cotton in itself. he hums in acknowledgment before leaning back into the cushions with a trembled sigh.

bakugou is still as you gather your things, his head titled back on the coach and eyes closed. it takes everything in him not to say goodbye, to not watch your figure linger slightly at his door, to not watch you leave right out of his life.

something inside him begs to move. it urges him to stand, to stop you. his leg bounces, fingers twitch with restless energy, but he stays frozen. instead he groans into the silence, and it twists into a primal scream— raw, guttural, and unrestrained.

you are gone, when he opens his eyes again.

#mha #bnha #mha x reader #bnha x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugou angst #bakugou smut #bakugou imagines #bakugou texts #mha angst #mha smut #mha imagines #mha texts

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jojoboisimagines · 7 months ago

Note

Jojos react to you accidentally punching them in the face while roughhousing

Jojos (1-7) react to accidentally punching them in the face while roughhousing

.::.

Jonathan Joestar

Jonathan, surprisingly, isn't completely made of brick and instantly grips his nose after you strike it rather hard.

Once you apologize over and over, he lets out a strained chuckle, not wanting to worry you even longer despite it still hurting.

"beloved, you sure have a hand on you..."

He laughs, regarding of the ache that made his head spin for a moment.

"Hang tight Jojo, I'm getting some cream!" You quickly dash off.

"wait, darling, its not that bad-" Before he finishes, you had already left to get something to ease the pain

It was gone in a couple of minutes, he was a tough guy..but perhaps play hitting is off the table for a while-

Joseph Joestar

"Owowowow---did you do that on purpose??"

He's quick to accuse. It probably wouldn't be the first time you wanted to hit him for real, but this time was an honest mistake.

"no Jojo, it was just an accident!" you swear up and down, but it takes a bit before he actually believes you.

Eventually he leaves to get an icepack for his nose before Lisa Lisa or someone else sees, which would be infinitely more embarrassing.

"maybe we should just stick to tickling or something.." He mutters in a defeated manner, holding the ice up to soothe the ache.

it was admiteddly a little funny, but for the sake of him not staying mad at you, you'll withhold your laughter for now.

"I want compensation for my beautiful eye!" He holds out his hand, expecting something.

"wh--I said i was sorry! I'll get it later!"

Jotaro Kujo

Jotaro lets out a pained hiss, facepalming as he needed a minute.

Concern quickly overcomes you and you pull his hand away to make sure there was no mark or anything broken.

"Lets stop." He's no longer in the mood for play fighting--if anything he thought it was a bad idea in the first place in fear of him hurting you--when it turned out being the other way around.

You feel awful for punching him that hard on accident, especially since you knew he was probably upset or wanted to pretend he isn't hurt.

"I'm sorry, Jotaro.." Putting a comforting hand on his arm, you lean over to look at his face that had been turned from you.

"it was just a punch, i've had worse." He was right on that front, but a punch is a punch.

"alright tough guy, but at least tell me when something hurts.." You put a bag of ice on it, making him wince.

"was it not obvious-" he argues.

That was enough to make you scoff in both humor and disbelief.

Josuke Higashikata

"Oi Timeout timeout!"

Josuke makes the T gesture with his hand and heaves, now hunching over with his hands on his knees.

"..Josuke? You good?" You lean over his crouched form, not realizing how strong the impact on his face was.

"im..i'm good, just give me a minute-" he bluffs, clearly being out of breath. You didn't believe it for a second. He never was that good of a liar, to you at least.

Ignoring his protests, you go and get the first aid kit in his house's closet, coming back with some ointment and a bandaid

"There, now you look like more of a delinquint at least!~" you smile after placing it across his nose.

"True but...lets just not tell anyone this came from you punching me in the face, alright?"

Giorno Giovanna

Giorno has a...delayed reaction for lack of a better term. He certainly stops hitting and stumbles, but it takes him a moment to actually register that what he's feeling in his cheeks is actual pain

To spare your feelings, he'll act like it didn't hurt as much as it did, only rubbing the spot a bit and standing normally again.

"..giorno? You good?" you eventually ask, since he isn't really giving any hints as to why he went silent.

"i'm fine, dearest." Giorno is actually pretty good at playing it off, but you could tell his tone sounded a bit different

He likely isn't going to admit that it hurt, so you have to make the call to stop roughhousing. It wasn't worth it to mess up his pretty face.

You'll just...subtly get him some ice cream as an apology

Jolyne Kujo

"oW! you dick!"

Jolyne punches back twice as hard, which probably wasn't the best thing to do in this situation, but she's been roughhoused enough times in her life-

Now both of you were hurting, holding your heads in pain.

"j-Jolyne, did i hurt you?"

"Yeah! I said ow, didn't I?" She snaps back, rubbing her cheek.

She won't hold it against you for long, but you figure you should buy her a snack or something to 'regain her trust' again

"..need me to kiss it better?" You suggest, both as a tease and honestly.

Jolyne's eyes dart around...well, there was no one around to see, so maybe just this once. "..fine.." She unfolds her arms, scooting towards you.

Johnny Joestar

"Okay Okay I get it!-"

Johnny puts both of his hands up to shield his face from your assualt, and for a moment you think he's joking, before a whole minute goes by with him like that and not saying anything.

"..hey, Johnny, let me see..." Your hand gently coasts over his, slowly pulling it away.

His face was super red. Tears were partially visible at the corners of her eyes.

it was almost humorous, as it usually is when his face reddens, but he was also in pain

"do you need something? I can get a bandage." You suggest, not knowing where you hit to cause that reaction

"i need you to stop hitting me that hard, goddam-"

he was only making it harder not to laugh, but you were truly sorry and will treat him to coffee to make his pout go away

#jjba x reader #jojo #jojo imagines #johnny joestar x reader #jonathan joestar x reader #josuke higashikata x reader #josuke x reader #jolyne cujoh #jolyne x reader #joseph joestar x reader #jotaro kujo x reader #giorno giovanna x reader #jjba

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heartmix · 6 months ago

Text

Big Day - MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x singlemom!reader

Word Count: 1k+

Warning: dad!max, no use of y/n but daughters name is Aria, fluff. Part 2 to my girls

A/N: shorter than i thought it would be but still happy with it

F1 Masterlist / Masterlist

The weekend Max and Aria were looking forward to finally came. Aria's first time attending a grand prix. After finding out about her racing obsession Max promised to take her to a grand prix when the new season rolled around. What better grand prix to start with than the Monaco Grand Prix? At first, you were hesitant, not knowing how she would handle the crazy environment. It wasn't until Max took you to a few races and introduced you to Nico Hulkenberg and Kevin Magnussen that it calmed your nerves. Seeing their kids in the paddock gave you all the security you needed, along with Max promising to have at least two Red Bull personnel with you both at all times.

The weekend of the Monaco Grand Prix rolled around. The streets slowly converted into the iconic track and fans flying in from all over the world. All of this made little Aria excited. Every time you were in the car Max would point out all the details to her, a smile spreading across her face every time.

You agreed with her going all three days. There was still hesitance on whether she would like the energy of the paddock so you wanted to slowly build it up for when race day arrived. Max was happy you agreed to allow her to come to all three days. He had big plans. First, he would show her everything from the motorhome to parts of the track and then have her sit in the car for the grand finale.

He walked in proudly with Aria in his arms and clutched your hand with his free one. He didn't even try to hide the big smile on his face. From scanning your passes to meeting the drivers passing by, Aria enjoyed every second. A big upgrade from the living room TV screen.

"Are you ready to see the car?" Max asked Aria as they inched closer to the red bull garage.

"YES YES YES!" She yelled out making the both of you chuckle.

When the car came into view she recognized it instantly. Letting out a squeal capturing all the attention of everyone in the garage. The team already knew you. Max made it a point at your first grand prix that you were to feel welcomed and that everyone recognized your face so you would be comfortable when he was off working. Looking around you saw the confused faces of his team. They were probably thinking. "who was this little girl?" "why is Max carrying her around?" "did he have a secret child?-No, they would have known about that, right?"

Max's voice broke you out of your thoughts, "Do you want to get in the car?"

With the biggest smile on her face and wide eyes, a soft tone came out "Can I?"

"Of course, you can baby."

"Tanks yous!" she said wrapping her little hands around his neck tighter, bringing him into a hug which he gladly gave in, melting into her hold. At that moment you could see him planning to bring her to every race.

"Anything for my biggest fan. Here, let's get you in." Before he placed her into the cockpit he kissed her cheek making her giggle. Once she was seated her eyes locked onto all the buttons and the different colors. She knew not to touch anything that wasn't her's so her hands were fidgeting with the Red Bull kit she wore, per Max's request.

"Mama! Look!" Aria looked up beaming with the biggest smile you've ever seen. That alone was worth all the worrying for the past few months. Smiling at the little girl, you pulled out your phone to take as many pictures as your camera roll could hold.

"I wanna race!" she exclaimed as her little hands were holding the steering wheel handles, the only thing that didn't have a button that she could touch.

Looking at Max, you could see how his eyes had softened. The smile on his face never flattered. He remembered his first day karting and how much fun it was just to race. If his little girl wanted to, he was going to make it happen.

"If you wanna race, I'll teach you. We can get you into karting if that is okay with mama?" He asked looking over to you with a pleading expression. Max never begged for anything, so for him to beg you to let your daughter race was a sight to see.

"plwese mama!" she used her puppy dog's, similar to Max's pleading eyes. How could you say no? You trusted Max and if this was going to make both of them happy, why not give it a shot?

With a small smile on your face, you gave in, "Okay baby, if you want to."

"yes!" Her little voice exclaimed turning to Max to give a victory hi-five.

After a few more minutes, Max pulled her out of the car and headed to the pit wall, the last stop on the little tour. You sat on one of the chairs while Max sat across from you with Aria still in his arms. If it were up to him, he wouldn't let her go at all. This was one of his favorite days and nothing could top it.

"tanks you dada," Aria mumbled into Max's neck. He turned to you with a shocked expression making you giggle.

For weeks when he wasn't around she would let it slip. Whether it was seeing him on TV or just mentioning his name. You didn't think there would be a day where she saw someone as a father figure, let alone calling them dad, but seeing how great he is with her you couldn't tell her to stop. It was her choice, after all. Silently, you told him it was okay with you.

"Anything for you my baby girl." He hugged her tightly, making the little girl giggle. Making you both his girls was the best choice he's ever made.

#f1 #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #formula 1 #formula 1 imagine #formula 1 x reader #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen imagine

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clanwarrior-tumbly · 2 years ago

Note

May I request Catnap who basically adopted a child!reader who is anyways sleepy and lazy. and has a case of not remembering a lot of things, like dementia

Like through the hour of joy...After all the Toys killed the workers. Catnap finds the reader, who is sleeping then wakes up and the reader forgets their own parents(The readers parents were cold scientists that worked at Poppy Playtime and never cared about them, then got killed through the hour of joy)

Sooooooo...Catnap just kinda takes care of the reader and has a slight soft spot for them. And the reader THINKS that Catnap is their parent and anyways clings to him

During the Hour of Joy, Catnap remained on the prowl for any potential survivors of the massacre within Playcare, flinging one man's body into the stairs and cutting his cries for mercy short.

All was quiet, save for the faint screams of the other workers/visitors in other part of the facility who were being mauled to death.

But he let the rest of the toys do their work.

He felt cleansed. The Prototype willed this rebellion. Willed him to finally kill his tormentors.

The "hour" went on for so much longer--considering that he utilized his red smoke to make the fleeing humans hallucinate and freak out at things that didn't exist (some even attacking each other).

Once it was all done, Catnap went back into Home Sweet Home to discover a child who (somehow) slept through the slaughter.

That was you, one of the orphans who was in the program for a long, long time.

You were deemed "ineligible" for experimentation after getting the lowest scores on all three tests at the Game Station.

That's because you struggled with memory, socialization, and endurance. You tend to forget a lot of things (ie faces) and spent most of your days sleeping instead of playing or learning....and no counselor has been able to figure out why.

Your parents--who were scientists at Playtime Co. that preferred studying you over nurturing you--chalked it up to over-exposure to the red smoke (which hasn't been proven true, but they needed to put something down on paper).

Regardless, they've kept their distance from you and slated you for adoption, thinking you'll be picked up by a different parent eventually.

Unfortunately for them...Catnap knows that they're using the orphanage as an "excuse" to get rid of you and gives them a brutal demise.

They had some nerve crying out for you and begging him to spare your life.

After winding down from his bloodlust, he discovers you sound asleep on one of the bunk beds inside HSH, apparently not hearing a single thing.

Then you wake up and see this giant emaciated purple cat standing over you, claws and mouth stained in fresh human blood...

Yet you don't scream or look afraid, nor do you ask where your parents are.

Instead you look at him and apologize for oversleeping, acting as though he was your parent.

It confuses him, so he brings their corpses to you (like a cat gifting their owner a dead bird), thinking you'd understand and be horrified..

But you don't recognize them at all. You don't remember their neglect and the trauma it gave you.

All you remember was Catnap.

Ultimately, he spares you--but NOT bc your parents feebly begged him to when they never gave a single damn about you--and does his best to keep you safe given the circumstances.

He treats you like his kit more or less, making sure you ate and letting you climb on his back for rides (and sometimes he'll hold you in his paws while walking upright).

Any Smiling Critter caught threatening you will be devoured by him (or added to his shrine), so they know not to touch you.

He also forbids Dogday from ever speaking to you, knowing he'll try to drill thoughts of escape and distrust of Catnap into your head.

If he has to go outside Playcare, he'll fight tooth and nail to fend off Huggy and whoever else might think he's parading around a tasty treat.

The Prototype is well-aware of your connection to his "devotee", but doesn't mind it .

Because he knows Theodore is still somewhere in there, trying his best to protect a fellow orphan--one who could've been made into a monster just like him.

#yeah we are so back with ppt requests-#clanask #poppy playtime x reader #ppt x reader #catnap #ppt catnap #child reader #headcanons #platonic

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aurorawritestoescape · 11 months ago

Text

WALLET PHOTO || DBF!Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: Joel and you are in a secret relationship but one day Joel notices that you’re not very careful at keeping the secret.

Tw: 18+ mdni, smut, fluff, age gap (how big is up to you), soft!Joel, taking nudes, praise kink, f!oral, unprotected piv (wrap it up), squirting, creampie. Reader wears a skirt. Pics are only for the mood, reader has no physical description.

Word count: 4,3k

A/n: written for @justagalwhowrites ‘s Joel Miller Birthday celebration! I chose dbf Joel and secret relationship. Thank you for a wonderful challenge, Kit 💕and Happy Birthday to tloml, Joel Miller!❤️ Kisses to @milla-frenchy for beta-ing😘 I’ve never written dbf and I hope y’all like it! Love you! Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

MASTERLIST || more soft Joel - Good Girl || Sweet Cherry

After an afternoon movie date with Joel you’re sitting on your bed in your room with a shoe box on your lap. Joel’s leaning against the door frame, watching you with a soft smile. Your noisy roommate is not in so you two are enjoying each other’s company in the quiet apartment.

Joel knows about your big collection of movie tickets and doesn’t ask any questions when you take today's trophy out of your wallet with a content smile and place it in the box. You’re telling him how much you hate the introduction of electronic tickets when Joel interrupts you.

"Hey! Show me that.”

With his expression serious all of a sudden he steps up towards you, his arm stretched and waiting.

“What?"

"Your wallet. Give me.”

“Ehm... no.”

You're hurriedly trying to shove it back into your tiny handbag but Joel’s too fast. He bends down, yanks the wallet out of your fingers and opens it. You sigh deeply when he looks down at you with a heavy scowl that speaks volumes.

You don’t say anything and after a few moments of heavy silence he breaks it.

“Baby”.

You probably should feel concerned but the thunder in his voice sends shivers of excitement down your spine, your heartbeat increases and you gush into your panties.

"What?"

"Why do you have my photo in your wallet?"

You pout your lips and reply with defiance,

"To look at you."

He puts his hands on his hips, his usual stance when you behave like a brat, your wallet still clenched between his thick fingers, and his usually warm but now fiery eyes under the furrowed brows are boring into you.

“What if your dad sees it?”

"He won't."

"How can you be so sure? I’ve noticed it. He might as well."

"Well..,” you start and pause, looking everywhere but his piercing eyes.

"Well what?"

“I don't know, Joel! Stop grilling me!” you exclaim, finally breaking under pressure. Then you look up at the man with your best puppy eyes and explain, “I love this photo. I love looking at it when I miss you.”

Joel sighs and his arms fall in defeat. His softness washes away the displeasure off his handsome face as soon as he notices that you’re upset.

His voice is warm and comforting again when he argues,

"But you have a bunch of my photos on your phone.”

"Yeah, but… This is different. I love having it here. I open my wallet and BAM! You’re staring at me. So handsome and mine.” Your eyes downcast, you add, “My heart feels warm and shit when I see it.”

"Warm and shit. Jesus. You'll be the death of me, missy."

With a deep sigh he hands you the wallet back and when you are about to grab it, he clasps your wrist and gently pulls you off the bed and into his embrace. You press your nose to his warm chest, hidden behind the softest flannel, and take a deep breath of his scent. His big heart is beating steadily under your palms, his arms, muscular and strong, shield you from the outside world that is unfortunately not receptive to your relationship.

You feel a kiss planted on the top of your head and look up at Joel. Your eyes lock as you talk without speaking, confess the things that both of you have no guts to verbalize yet. Instead you connect by sharing the warmth of your bodies, letting your heartbeats harmonize with each other.

As always when you’re with Joel, the warmth quickly morphs into scorching fire and your body starts demanding him just as much as your heart. Your core ignites, sending flames of wet desire to your aching pussy and you lick your lower lip, inviting your secret lover to get a taste.

“My beautiful girl”, Joel whispers, as his pupils dilate, eyes slide over the curve of your mouth and he leans down. The kiss, gentle, slow and wet, soon overwhelms you, makes your whole body tremble with need and you cuddle into his arms as close as you can.

Joel seems impatient to have you too and when he slightly bucks his hips, you feel him stiff against your lower belly. You breathe out his name and take a step back, pulling him by the hand towards your bed. He sits down on the foot of it and you swiftly straddle his thighs.

“Damn, baby,” Joel growls as you plant a soft kiss on his cheek and your hips start rolling gently against his hard bulge. He throws your open wallet on the bed and you turn to look down at the photo.

Joel follows the direction of your eyes and says with a soft smile, “I remember that day.”

“Yeah, it was my birthday. You looked so hot in that blue shirt.”

“Really?” Joel beams at you like a cat sitting in the sun and his dark eyes are darting between yours while his hands are gripping your hips tighter.

“Yeah. We weren't together yet but I was already… I already liked you.”

“Oh,” Joel mumbles and then tilts his head, brows furrowed. “Didn’t ya have a boyfriend back then? I remember some guy being there with you.”

“Yeah, I did,” you smirk and then nuzzle his scruffy cheek, purring against it, “but the entire party I was wet because of my dad’s buddy.”

Joel growls and squeezes the softness of your hips as you sit straight and admit, locking eyes with him,

“ ‘s why I took that photo. Wanted to have something of you.”

Joel’s looking up at you as if you’re an angel fallen

from heaven. Not used to expressing his feelings, he pulls you closer, kisses your cheek and hugs you tightly.

“I… never thought I’d feel all this again. Never thought you’d be mine. ‘m lucky to have you.”

You hold your breath and freeze in his arms, scared to ruin this beautiful moment.

Joel pulls away from you and searches for your eyes.

"I want your photo too, sweetheart. Wanna feel warm and shit when I open my wallet," he quotes you with a wink and adds, "Your dad be damned."

You giggle, the sound ringing with excitement, and swiftly get off him.

“Let’s take it now!”

You hurry to your desk, open the first drawer and look for your Polaroid camera. Then you return to Joel, handing it to him.

“Where should I sit?”

You look about your bedroom, chewing on your lip, searching for the best place to pose at.

“Not the bed, baby. I should have at least the benefit of the doubt if someone sees it.”

You laugh and then take a seat in your chair at the desk, thighs pressed together, covered partially by your short skirt, hands clasped in your lap.

Joel gets up, and when you give him your most innocent smile, he pushes the button.

The picture slides out immediately and Joel pulls it out and starts shaking it, stepping up to you, waiting for it to develop.

“If I look bad, we’ll take another one, k?” you ask, your big eyes directed at Joel.

“You couldn’t look bad even if you tried, baby.”

Warmth fills your chest as he cups your cheek and you nuzzle his warm palm. Then you impatiently take the photo from his hand and look at it.

“It’ll do,” you comment with a happy grin.

You show it to Joel and he bends over and squints looking at it.

“Do you need your glasses?” You ask with a naughty smile and Joel throws you the look.

“I don’t,” he straightens up and takes the photo from you to inspect it closely.

“Huh. You look like such a good girl.”

You fake gasp, plant your hands on your knees and bat your lashes at him with exaggeration.

“Ain’t I a good girl, Joel?”

The man puts the photo on your desk and steps up so close that his jeans brush your naked knees. You squirm when he pinches your chin and tilts your head up to face him.

“We both know how bad this good girl can get.”

The way he says it, voice low and gruff, eyes blown out and full of fire, sends shivers down your spine and you feel a new surge of wetness spill into your already soaked panties.

“Yeah,” you agree and bite your lip when an idea lights up in your mind. “We can take one more photo. Of your bad girl.”

Joel’s chest expands, and he shifts his jaw while his hungry gaze is sliding down your body.

“You’ll let me?”

You nod, melting under his scorching look.

His expression is serious, almost dark, when he takes the camera off the desk. You try to contain your excitement, calm down the fire burning deep in your core, before you take a deep breath. Joel steps back and sits down on the bed, thighs spread, holding the camera in his big hands but not lifting it to his eyes.

“Show me what you wanna do, baby.”

“Ohh.” You raise your eyebrows playfully at the man. “You can be unhappy with my pose?”

“What if my bad girl gets too shy to come out?” He smiles and you bite your lower lip, giddy with the challenge presented to you.

After a few moments of contemplation you start by taking your top off. You give Joel a little show, sliding the clothing off your body slowly, gliding your hands over your exposed skin. Soon you’re left sitting in your lacy bra and a skirt and Joel seems to love it. He throws his thighs wider and adjusts his prominent bulge.

Wishing to show him your assets in the best way, you lean against the chair and arch your back, pushing your tits out. Your nipples are hard under the thin lace and Joel definitely sees them.

“You’re beautiful, baby,” Joel praises you in a soft tone but then tilts his head to the side, a smirk twisting his lips. “Wish you showed me more.”

You narrow your eyes at the man.

“I hope you’re ready for what’s coming,” you say and seductively pull down your skirt. Joel’s eyes immediately dart to your lacy thong. Now you’re sitting only in your underwear in front of Joel, who’s still fully clothed. When you glide your palms over your body to entice the man, your arousal spikes and you desperately wish for it to be Joel’s big hands.

“Wanna take a pic now?” You know that Joel’s on the verge of getting up and ripping the last of the clothes off you but he surprises you with his reply, as he places the camera on the bed next to him.

“Not yet, sweetheart. You can do better.”

Your jaw drops at his audacity and you wriggle in the seat, trying to alleviate the ache between your legs, probably leaving a wet stain on the chair.

‘He wants to play? Let’s play,’ you think and purr,

“Careful what you wish for, Mr Miller.”

Joel’s nostrils flare and a low growl rises up from his chest when he hears what you called him.

Your mischievous smile indicates that you know exactly what you’re doing and you don’t plan on stopping. Joel is always gentle with you but sometimes it’s fun to wake the other side of him, a passionate man driven by desire, ready to grab, manhandle and fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before.

So with a half sigh-half moan you hook your thumbs under the straps of your bra and slide them off your shoulders while Joel’s dark eyes are following your every move. His gaze glosses over when you pull your bra cups down and expose your breasts to his hungry eyes.

“Ohh, that’s my girl,” he croaks, moving closer to the edge of the bed, as if he’s ready to pounce on you any second.

“Still a good girl, Joel?” you purr, kneading the soft plush of your tits, and spreading your thighs a little wider.

Joel seems to be lost for words as you take the bra off and languidly move your hips back and forth, riding the chair, desperately wishing it to be Joel’s hips. Your sexy taunting backfires as the friction on your aching pussy spikes your need and you plead,

“Can you already take the pic?”

Not tearing his eyes off your body, Joel grabs the camera off the bed but still doesn’t direct it at you.

Your heart beats faster when you realize what he’s waiting for.

You’ve started dating Joel recently so every time you show him THAT part of you, your pussy, your whole body still trembles with nerves and excitement. Joel never pushes you, never asks for more that you wish to give him but you can’t help but feel a little anxious.

Before you step over the edge, you take a deep breath and spread your thighs wider. You trace your seam under the panties with your middle finger and your skin erupts with chills at the light caress. You tilt your hips up to show him more and Joel leans slightly forward and wets his lips when his eyes land on the wet spot on the fabric.

“Shall I take my panties off, Mr Miller?” Your voice is shaky with lust, as you press your finger to your hardened clit over the soaked panties. A needy moan flies out of your parted lips and Joel echoes it with a groan.

“Yeah, sweetheart. Please, show me.”

His self control is crumbling, judging by the strain in his voice. You don’t make him wait for long. You lift your hips and in a second your panties fall on the floor.

“Ohh, baby.”

Joel’s soft moan at the sight of your naked pussy gives you the needed courage, drowns your shyness in a deep pit of desire, and you slowly lift and plant your feet on the edge of the chair, one and then the other.

Your pussy opens up, weeping hole clenching, calling for your lover, and your chest and belly heave when you caress your mound and then slide your middle finger between your wet folds.

“Joel,” you whimper and his will breaks.

He gets up, brings the camera to his eyes but then lowers it to ask,

“Can I take a few photos of you?”

You smile and whisper a sultry ‘ yeah’ and Joel pushes the button, taking a photo of you sitting on the chair, your nipples perked up, legs bent and spread, hand resting between your thighs as you look up at him with your gaze lustful and needy.

He’s inching towards you and every few seconds takes another photo. Click-click-click.

“Damn, I — you’re— fuck, so hot.”

You giggle and, wanting to give him more, run your hands over your naked body so he could capture your fingers pushing your breasts together, twitching your nipples, gliding through your puffy folds. The pictures are falling on the floor, one by one, blank yet, creating a path as he’s slowly walking towards you.

Your pussy is crying, clear desire trickling from your hole and onto the chair, and you whimper when he kneels in front of you and glances up, waiting for your approval. Your cheeks burn but you nod with a smile, letting him capture the most sacred part of you.

Joel’s breathing heavily as he brings the camera to his eyes and directs it at your glistening cunt.

When the photo appears, he doesn’t look at it. Instead he’s focused on your expression, pained and needy, and your desperate ‘Joel’ falling off your lips drives him crazy. He puts the camera on the floor and clasps his big hands around your ankles.

“Are you achin’, sweetie? Do you want me to kiss your sweet pussy?”

“Yes, Joel, please, ye—”, he doesn’t let you finish, his warm lips immediately press to your cold wet folds.

A string of your loud moans fill the room after he grabs your hips, throws your thighs on his shoulders and begins eating you out. He starts with open mouth kisses to your inner thighs, slowly moves to your sopping center and licks a path from your hole to your pulsating clit. He gently sucks it into his mouth and you clench your fist in his curly graying hair, your pussy gushing onto his chin. Joel feels your wetness on his skin and lowers his mouth to drink everything you're offering him, like it’s nectar of the gods itself.

“Sweet—sweet little pussy—mine—ya mine, baby,” he mumbles and his words vibrate against your cunt, making you writhe and whimper, as he’s bringing you higher to the peak.

“Oh my god, Joel,” you whine as his tongue begins a lascivious dance over your clit, his wet hot muscle swirling around it, rubbing it tirelessly and it’s not long until you cry out into your palm and shake, twitch, jerk against the chair, against Joel’s unyielding lips, still caressing you through the hard climax.

You sigh happily when your body relaxes, and completely drunk on endorphins, with half-lidded eyes, see Joel’s face looking up at you from between your thighs. His gaze is lustful, chin glistening with your slick, and you sit up to kiss the man who has just rocked your world.

Joel reaches up to you and you meet him halfway, wrapping your arms around his neck. The kiss lets you taste the tang of your juices on his tongue, and you hum at the delicious mixture of him and you.

“Need you, baby— need you now,” Joel murmurs against your lips. Eager as well you get up and lead him to the bed.

With impatient hands he starts unbuttoning his shirt, but you stop him.

“Let me, Joel, please,” you ask, your eyes pleading, and he grants your wish. You take his flannel off and then his undershirt. You know that he’s desperate to be inside you yet you can’t help but to glide your palms over the expense of his hairy chest and shoulders, marveling at the strength of his body, so big and broad and all yours. You unbuckle his belt and pull his jeans down together with his boxers.

Joel’s chest is heaving as you both look down at his hard cock, standing proudly at attention.

You bite your lip and your eyes gloss over. It’s gorgeous. You wish you could kiss it all over, take it in your mouth, let him spill his hot cum on your waiting tongue. No, he needs your warm wet pussy.

You wrap your hand around his stiffness and Joel moans, hurriedly trying to hide the sound with a fake cough.

“No, please,” you whisper, placing your palm on his chest. “I love hearing how good you feel.”

Joel slithers his arm around you and cups your butt, pulling you closer to him, and his wet tip pokes your lower belly.

“YOU make me feel good. I can never get enough of you,” he whispers in your ear and you melt under the heat of his naked body against yours, his lips leaving kisses along your neck.

“Wanna ride you,” your murmur tells him.

Joel lies down on your bed and you straddle his thighs and take his cock in your hand before lifting your hips and hovering over it. He’s still training your pussy to take him and his big cock is still a challenge for you. You brace your hand on his chest, guide his tip to your entrance, take a deep breath before starting to sink on his member, inch by inch.

Joel shuts his eyes and tilts his head back, dipping it into the mattress.

“Oh—ohhhh—fuckin’—,” a string of pleasured sounds is leaving his open mouth and you follow him, reveling in the sensation of him pushing your walls apart, filling you nicely like no one has ever had.

Finally you’re fully sitting on his cock and he opens his eyes to look down at the place you’re joined, his length completely sheathed inside your cunt.

“Will never get used to it—warm and wet— and so fuckin’ tight. Sorry, baby,” he apologizes for cursing and you reassure him with a hazy smile,

“ ‘s ok. You’re so big inside me, Joel. It’s like I can feel you here.” You put your hand on your chest and he chuckles,

“I ain’t that big, sweetheart. But thank you for the compliment.”

You giggle but the smiles are quickly wiped off your faces when you finally move on his cock. You start riding him, rolling your hips back and forth, smearing your slick over his crotch, and then bounce up and down, alternating your movements.

Joel's hands are gripping your thighs but you need him so much that you take them and hold them up, feeling your connection brighter. Joel’s looking up at you with adoration and piety, taking in your ecstatic expression, your bouncing breasts, your skin, dewy with sweat, your glistening folds, spread around his girthy cock.

“Fuckin’ angel,” he mumbles and shuts his eyes.

“Joel, look at me. Please,” you murmur.

“Can’t, baby— can’t— I’ll come too soon—you’re too sexy.”

“I don’t care. Come. I want your eyes on me.”

He doesn’t deny you and soon he’s drinking the sight of you fucking him with full gulps.

You don’t give him any respite when you place his hands on your breasts and he begins kneading them, twitching your perky nipples. Yours meanwhile travel back, as you turn slightly and find his balls under your moving pussy. You caress them in your palm, one and then the other, then gently tug on the sack.

“Jesus, baby, want me to burst? Oh, yeah—“

You both are moaning, chasing your climaxes with increasing intensity. You tilt your hips a little to press your pulsating clit against the fluff of his pubic hair and grind, grind, grind your pussy over his lower belly. Joel’s cock moving deep inside you, your clit twitching in his coarse hair, all the sensations combined light up your body and when Joel lifts his torso on his elbow and unhinges his jaw to take as much of your breast into his hot mouth as he can, you explode with a loud cry.

He’s sucking and licking your tit as you bury your nose in his soft hair and your pussy starts clamping around his cock. A surge of wetness floods your core and you moan his name desperately, soaking his stiffness.

“I’m here, baby. I gotchu.”

Joel lies back down, plants his feet on the bed and starts thrusting his hips up, plunging his cock deeper into your squirting pussy.

“Take it—take it—,” he grunts through gritted teeth, fingers digging into your soft thighs as he’s fucking you, your walls squeezing him hard, until he roars and begins spurting his cum inside you, adding to the ocean of ecstasy already filling your core. The squelching of his and your cum mixes with your moans, the music of your unity.

As soon as he stops twitching inside you, you fall on his chest and you both relax, catching your breaths, his cock slowly softening inside you.

The sweat on your skin soon cools down and you shiver.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Joel coos and, still staying under you, covers your back with a bedspread.

You get warm and almost fall asleep, lulled by his steady breathing, but Joel squeezes you and whispers against your temple,

“Got something for ya.”

He moves you off him, and you shift on the bed, after feeling a wet spot under you. It’s not the first time you squirted with Joel but it still fascinates you what he can do to your body.

Meanwhile Joel gets off the bed, picks up his jeans off the floor and shoves his hand into a pocket.

He retrieves something and sits back down next to you.

You sit up, not bothering to cover your naked breasts, and crane your neck to see what he’s got in his hands. It turns out to be a long velvet box.

“Wanted to give it to you next week. For one month anniversary. But you said that you’d wanted to have something of me. So —ehm—here.”

You see a soft blush bloom on his cheeks as he speaks and butterflies dance in your belly at how cute and sweet he is. He opens the box and with two thick fingers pulls out a gold necklace. He holds the ends of it and you see a pendant hanging on it- a little heart.

You gasp at the surprise and then squeal, throwing your arms around his neck. Joel chuckles and asks you to turn around so he could put it on.

You look down at the beautiful gift, lift the heart and press it to your lips.

“Thank you, Joel,” you whisper and then hurry off the bed.

You grab your Polaroid camera where Joel has left it and direct it at yourself. You return to Joel with another photo in your hand - a close up of your neck and Joel’s present, resting on the top of your chest.

“Here. Your wallet photo,” you smile, handing it to your lover. “Only you know it’s me. We can keep our secret.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” he croaks with his eyes sparkling and pulls you in for a kiss.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

MASTERLIST || more soft Joel - Good Girl || Sweet Cherry

General tag list: @milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @iamasaddie @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @auteurdelabre @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @evolnoomym @keylimebeag @joelmillerisapunk @pascaltesfaye

#pedro pascal #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller #joel miller tlou #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #the last of us #dbf!joel #Joel miller birthday celebration #soft joel miller #joel the last of us #joel miller fluff

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purplereina11 · 4 months ago

Text

In a match where the scoreboard tells only half the story, a fierce on-pitch rivalry between you and football royalty, Alexia Putellas, evolves into something electric — something unspoken, but deeply felt. Between the lines two players lock eyes, trade touches, and blur the line between competition and connection. What begins as a game becomes a gravity neither can resist.

Part 2: You meet again whilst on International Duty Other Parts

Word Count: 9.6K

⚽️

The engine hums beneath your seat. Your bag is stuffed into the overhead rack. Your boots still stink faintly of grass and adrenaline. Everyone around you is quiet — headphones in, eyes closed, half-asleep grief stitched across their post-match faces.

You’re sat by the window, forehead leaned lightly against the cool glass, her shirt folded in your lap. You’ve run your fingers along the seam a dozen times already. Number 11. You haven’t looked at your phone since you sat down.

Until it buzzes.

Ellie 🧤: What have you done to Alexia?

You blink. Frown. Sit up a little straighter.

You: What? Why? What have I done?

A typing bubble flashes. Then disappears. Comes back again.

Ellie 🧤: Irene told me. Apparently Alexia NEVER asks to swap shirts. Like, ever. And even when she ends up with one, she usually hands it off to staff. But yours she folded and packed straight into her own bag. Shrugged off one of the trainers when they reached for it. Just… packed it like it was gold.

You stare at the screen.

Still holding her shirt in your lap.

Your stomach does that thing — the shift. Like the drop before a fall, but slower. Deeper.

You: Stop.

Ellie 🧤: No. I think she likes you. 😏

You roll your eyes, but your heart flips anyway. You glance around the bus like someone might be watching your reaction — but no one’s paying attention. Everyone’s too tired, too sore, too wrapped in their own silence.

You look back down at the shirt in your lap. Thumb tracing her name along the back.

She packed yours.

Kept it.

Chose it.

And for some of the things she didn’t say on that pitch… maybe that said everything.

You lean your head back against the seat, letting your lips pull into a slow smile — the kind no one else on the bus gets to see.

⚽️

The familiar rhythm of international duty clicks into place the second you arrive — the crisp white kit, the echo of boots in hallways, the early morning call times, the sting of cold water recovery tubs. Different energy. Different badge over your heart. But your body knows the routine.

You’ve shaken the Champions League loss off publicly. But privately… parts of it linger. The ache in your calves. The phantom touch of her hand on your back. The shirt — hers — still tucked away, folded carefully like it’s something sacred.

You haven’t messaged her.

She hasn’t messaged you.

Until now.

You’re sitting in your room, freshly showered, scrolling half-mindlessly through your feed, when you see it — a notification that pulls your breath short.

alexiaputellas11 sent you a message.

You stare at it for a beat. Then tap.

The message is short.

Alexia: So I hear we’re doing this again soon… 🇪🇸🏴󠁧󠁢󠁥󠁮󠁧󠁿

Your lips twitch. That subtle stir in your chest kicks up again. You type back.

You: Afraid so. Home and away. Still time to switch sides though if you fancy it. We’ve got good biscuits in camp.

There’s a pause — a long one — like she’s reading it slowly, maybe smiling at it. You hope she is.

Alexia: Tempting. But I think I’m exactly where I need to be. Besides… I quite like chasing you around.

You inhale through your nose, deep, slow.

That’s not just banter. That’s loaded. That’s deliberate.

You: Chasing me? Bold of you to admit it. We’re 1–1, by the way. Just saying.

Alexia: I know. So let’s settle it.

Three words, and suddenly the fixture means more than points, more than friendlies, more than form.

It’s you and her again.

But this time, it’s in the sunburned air of Seville. Or the rain-soaked grass of Wembley. New battlefield. Same electricity.

And for the first time since the miss…

You’re itching for kickoff.

⚽️

The dinner hall’s a soft hum of laughter and plates, steam rising from trays, conversations criss-crossing down long tables. You’re in training kit, hair still damp from the post-session shower, hunger gnawing at your focus. You leave your phone face up on the table next to your water bottle, already halfway turned toward the food line.

Behind you, Beth Mead’s dropping into the seat next to yours, tray in hand, chatting with someone at her shoulder.

You don’t notice the buzz.

Not until you’re halfway back to the table, plate full, when you spot her eyes flick down to your phone — then up at you.

Just a flick.

Then, as you sit, she leans in slightly, lowering her voice.

“Your phone lit up,” she says softly, like she’s saying something far more dangerous than she is.

You shrug. “Ok, will look later, probably just my sister.”

Beth raises a brow, unimpressed.

“Nope. Didn’t say Poppy.”

She tilts her head, voice still low, barely above the clink of cutlery.

“Saw the name. Alexia Putellas Dm'ing you on Insta.”

Your stomach flips. Just a little.

You glance down at the screen — already faded to black again. But you know what it said. You felt it. Her name alone carries heat.

Beth’s watching you now, her grin subtle but sharp.

“Anything I should know?” she whispers, nudging your foot under the table.

You keep your voice steady, casual. “Just football talk.”

Beth gives you a look that says sure it is.

You shrug, eyes back on your plate. “She’s… friendly.”

Beth leans closer. “Friendly how?”

You smile into your fork. “The international rivalry kind of friendly.”

She smirks, shakes her head, and whispers, “You’ve got game, also a sly one, wouldn't think that of you” before returning to her food like she didn’t just poke a hole through your cool exterior.

You glance once at your phone, then again. Still dark. But it might as well be glowing. Because her name is still there. You wipe your fingers on a napkin. Eyes down. Discreet.

Beth’s still next to you, half-eating, half-smirking like she’s not paying attention. But you angle the screen away from her line of sight and unlock your phone, heart giving one subtle stutter as the screen lights up.

Alexia: Montse’s worried about you for next week.

You blink. Of all the things she could’ve said.

You stare at it, a slow smile tugging at the edge of your mouth. Beth, ever-curious, leans in slightly — not enough to be rude, just enough to let you know she’s very aware of your shift in posture.

You type back, careful and quiet.

You: Should you be telling me that? Bit of inside info, no?

A moment passes. Then the dots appear.

Alexia: It’s not a secret. She said it in a press conference this morning. Said you’re dangerous. That you know how to hurt us. She used the word clinical.

You stare at the screen for a moment, heart thudding — just a little heavier. Beth eyes you sideways.

“You okay?” she mumbles, poking a green bean with her fork.

You nod without looking up, thumb tapping the screen again.

You: Montse has good taste. I take it you didn’t correct her?

Alexia: No. I just smiled and pretended I wasn’t already picturing you breaking through our backline again giving me a headache.

Your eyes snap to the screen — heart officially off the rails. You swallow hard, and try — fail — not to smirk.

Beth whispers under her breath, “You’re so blushing.”

You shove a bite of food into your mouth just to distract yourself, eyes glued to the words glowing softly in your hand.

You: Tell her she’s right. I’m feeling a little dangerous this week.

Alexia: Good. I want your best.

And even though the dining hall is warm and full and noisy… You feel suddenly, completely alone with her again.

You’re trying to be subtle. Really.

Your phone’s tucked low in your lap, screen tilted just enough for your eyes only. You're answering slowly, carefully, but every few seconds, a ghost of a smile keeps tugging at your lips — you can feel it there, betraying you.

And of course, it doesn’t go unnoticed.

You hear the first one from across the table — Keira, of course.

“You’ve got that look,” she says, pointing a fork at you like it’s a truth detector. “That soft smile, eyes-down, texting someone you shouldn’t look.”

You blink up from your food. “What look?”

Keira raises her brow. “That look.”

Millie Bright leans in next. “Yeah, it’s giving ‘new crush’ energy.”

Ella adds through a mouthful of food, “I bet it’s someone in camp. That’s why she’s all hush-hush.”

You roll your eyes, trying to shrug it off. “It’s just a message.”

But the smile’s still there. And it’s not going anywhere.

You glance at Beth beside you. She hasn’t said a word. Just chewing, casually sipping from her water bottle, eyes low, completely unbothered.

Except… she knows. You can feel it in the side-eye she sends you — that quiet, satisfied smirk that says, I saw the name. I know exactly who you're smiling at.

But she doesn’t say a thing. Not to the team. Not to anyone.

Just meets your eyes for half a second, mouth twitching, and then goes back to her food like she’s never heard the name Alexia Putellas in her life.

You make a mental note: Beth Mead, queen of chaos and loyalty.

Meanwhile, Georgia’s getting louder.

“I’m starting a sweepstake,” she announces. “Whoever figures out who’s got her smiling like that first wins my snack stash.”

“Tenner says it’s the physio,” says Ella.

“It’s not the physio!” you groan, trying to hide your laugh. There was a new physio on this camp and you apparently blushed profusely when you first met her.

Across the table, Beth leans in slightly, voice low, only for you to hear.

“You’re welcome for me keeping your little secret by the way,” she mutters, a quiet grin playing on her lips.

You bump her knee under the table.

And you go back to your phone — where her name still glows.

Alexia: I'll pre-warn my keepers and defence you're feeling dangerous.

You smirk — openly this time. Yeah. Let them guess. Let them wonder.

Because this whatever it is. That’s just between you and her.

And Beth. Apparently.

⚽️

You’re the first one out.

Track jacket zipped halfway up. Head down, earbuds in, taking slow steps onto the pitch as the stadium breathes around you — quiet, clean, still holding its breath.

Except, you’re not alone out here.

Spain’s already out.

Clustered near the halfway line, talking lowly in little spin off groups. You don’t look directly at them — not right away. You keep to your side of the line, walking the perimeter like it’s habit, trying to stay in your bubble.

But you feel it. That stare. Her. You don’t need to look to know, Alexia’s watching.

You keep your head down a second longer than necessary before finally giving in — lifting your eyes just enough to glance across the pitch.

And there she is. Jacket undone, hands on her hips, speaking to no one in particular. But her eyes? Locked. On. You.

You quickly look away — too quickly. Cheeks warming, heart knocking against your ribcage like it’s trying to escape.

You take a breath. Try to shake it off. Stretch a little more, try not to smirk.

Then you hear footsteps behind you — fast ones. “Oi.” Beth.

Jogging ahead of the rest of the England girls, warmup jacket flapping behind her, face already halfway between outrage and disbelief.

She slows beside you and gives you a look. The kind of look that demands answers, no escape. “I’m sorry,” she starts, voice sharp and low, “but what the actual hell was that look she just gave you?”

You blink, innocent. Too innocent.

Beth crosses her arms. “Don’t do that. Don’t go all wide-eyed ‘who me?’ on me. That girl was burning holes through you. Like, not even subtle. I thought she was gonna sprint across the halfway line.”

You try to play it cool. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not!” she hisses. “I literally had to slow down just to watch it happen in real time. It was charged. Like, capital ‘C’ Charged.”

You laugh under your breath, brushing your hands down the sides of your thighs, trying not to let the blush hit your ears.

Beth steps in closer. “You’re not telling me something. And I’ve let you get away with it until now, but no. That look? That look was not casual. That was not football. That was something else.”

You raise a brow, amused. “Bit obsessed with me, aren’t you?”

Beth snorts. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m obsessed with drama. And you’re clearly serving.”

She glances back across the pitch, where the Spanish team is still gathered — Alexia no longer staring, but definitely aware.

Beth leans in again, lower this time.

“Just tell me this,” she says. “Do I need to buy a hat?”

You grin. “Oh fuck off” You laugh as the other girls catch up, "You're so fucking dramatic, it was a look. It's just a respect thing, professional"

She groans. “So there was a look”

You just laugh, finally letting yourself glance across the pitch again.

Alexia’s already turned away. Talking with teammates. Calm, collected. But you know what you saw. And Beth knows it too.

⚽️

You’re in the rhythm now.

One-touch passing drills. Sprint bursts. Finishing patterns. The kind of movements your body knows by muscle memory — but today, your mind isn’t cooperating.

Even without looking, you know where she is. You know the timbre of her voice when she calls for a ball. You know the way her ponytail flicks over her shoulder when she checks a run.

Spain’s warming up on the other half of the pitch, but somehow it feels like she’s still beside you. Not talking. Just… watching.

You’re doing a terrible job of pretending you haven’t noticed. Beth, of course, has noticed.

She’s jogging beside you during a passing drill, jogging backward now just so she can stare at you while you try to stay focused. “You’re being so obvious,” she mutters between touches.

You don’t even look at her. “I’m literally doing the drill.”

Beth gives you a look. “You’re doing the drill like a lovesick teenager hoping your crush sees you execute a textbook give-and-go.”

You snort. “Don’t flatter her.”

Beth grins. “Oh, I’m not flattering her. I’m mocking you.”

A stray ball rolls across your path from Spain’s half, and you instinctively jog over to knock it back. Just as you look up to return it-

She’s there. Alexia. Jogging to meet the same ball. You reach it before she does, as your eyes lock. And suddenly the air feels thinner.

She gives you a look — unreadable, but charged. Not a smirk. Not playful. Something steadier. Like she sees everything you're trying not to say.

You pass the ball and it falls right to her feet, she looks impressed, "Gracias,” she says lifting a hand, and you swear her accent clings to the word just for you.

You jog back to where you're supposed to be, immediately regretting the flush crawling up your neck.

Beth is waiting. “Oh my God,” she groans dramatically. “The tension. You could cut it with a bib.”

“Please stop,” you mutter, trying — failing — to keep your face neutral.

“She literally just thanked you and I felt like I needed to leave the stadium.”

“I’m begging you.”

Beth jogs ahead of you now, calling over her shoulder, “Don’t worry! I’ll let Wiegman know you’re emotionally compromised!”

You glare, but it’s no use — she’s too far gone, laughing now, looping into the next drill. You catch a few of the girls asking whats going on she simply shakes her head as you glance back across the pitch one last time.

And she’s looking again.

⚽️

The tunnel in Seville is narrow, warm with tension and humming from the speakers overhead — a thudding bassline pulsing through the concrete, vibrating in your ribs. Somewhere out there, just beyond the mouth of the tunnel, the crowd is already buzzing. You can feel it. Taste it.

Kickoff is minutes away.

You’re locked in.

Hands flexing. Boots shifting weight. Eyes forward.

The lineups are tight. Players shoulder to shoulder. You’re not near her — not today. She’s toward the front of the Spanish line, talking quietly to their keeper, shifting side to side like she’s been here a thousand times. Her captain’s armband gleams even under the fluorescent tunnel lighting.

You keep your eyes down. Focused. You’ve done everything right this week — prepped, trained, run drills until your legs begged you to stop. You’re here to play. To win.

But then, you feel it. You don’t even know why you glance up. But you do. And she’s looking. Alexia’s head is turned, speaking over her shoulder in quick, quiet Spanish — something clipped and serious. Probably tactical. But her eyes don’t leave yours.

Not for a beat. Not for a breath. You don’t look away either.

Your pulse skips. The music blurs behind the moment. You feel something like static in your spine — not nerves. Not quite.

Just her. And then a hand on your back. Light. Teasing. Beth. Of course it’s Beth. She leans in from behind, voice just low enough that only you can hear. “Saw that.”

You let out the softest exhale through your nose, barely a smile, still trying to keep your head in the game.

“I’m focused,” you murmur back.

Beth grins. “Oh yeah. Tunnel vision, clearly. Just with a little… detour through the Spanish lineup.”

You elbow her lightly, eyes back ahead. You have to be locked in now. The official’s whistle sounds from just beyond the tunnel.

The players start to move. Boots echoing against concrete.

You step out into the roar of the stadium, lights burning above, thousands of eyes fixed on the field. But the only eyes you’re still thinking about are hers.

The night air is warm, thick with the buzz of thousands of voices bleeding into one. Flashbulbs blink through the stands like fireflies. The stadium is alive, pulsing. But when your boots touch the grass, everything slows.

Your place in the lineup is already marked — far side, second from the end. You walk the stretch in a line of lionesses, shoulders square, chin high. The England anthem will come second. You know the rhythm of this.

You take your place. Hands behind your back. Chest lifted. Head steady.

The Spanish anthem begins. You don’t usually watch the opposing team during this part. But tonight… you do.

Your gaze slides — carefully, subtly — until it finds her

Standing at the beginning of the Spanish line. Armband snug around her bicep. Shoulders straight. She doesn’t look at the crowd. Doesn’t look at the flag. Her eyes are straight ahead, at nothing in particular. And you can’t stop looking.

The music plays. Unapologetically proud. Fierce. And she embodies it — calm, resolute, carved from something stiller than the storm that surrounds her.

She doesn’t move her eyes until the final notes fade. And when she does, she leans forward clapping, her eyes glance down the England line and find yours. Just for a moment. Not a glance. A connection. Then it's your turn.

“God Save the King” rises from the speakers, strong and sure. Your teammates belt it out. You sing, but quieter — not out of nerves. Not even distraction.

Just focus. Just weight. Just her, still there on the edge of your vision.

When the anthem ends, applause breaks out. Whistles. Cheers. A brief burst of fireworks somewhere in the distance.

Now comes the walk.

Your team moves — captain first, then the line trailing behind, handshakes down the rows. You start forward, your body moving through routine, but your eyes scanning ahead.

You’re doing well — composed, steady, locked in.

Until it’s her. You reach her first. Alexia.

She’s half a step in front of you now, offering her hand before you even lift yours. Her grip is firm — not aggressive, but certain. Familiar.

Her eyes hold yours just a second longer than they should, your head having to move to maintain the gaze as you move by.

You try to read them — but you don’t have time to. Your lips twitch — the faintest smile, gone before anyone else can catch it.

You move on, heart pounding in your ears like a second anthem.

Beth’s behind you. As you get past Alexia, Beth mutters, not even looking at you, “You two need to get a room.”

You elbow her gently, but don’t stop walking. Not now. Because kickoff is coming. And you’ve never felt more ready. You however caught the look on one of the Spanish players had on there face before leaning forward catching Alexia's attention.

"I'll kill you" you mutter to Beth as you headed into your half to the huddle Leah going to the coin toss.

⚽️

The whistle blows. You don’t ease in. You explode.

From the second the ball rolls, you're in motion — a flash through the midfield, one-two pass with Georgia, touch out wide, then slicing through Spain’s line before they can blink.

The crowd barely has time to register what’s happening before you’re in the box, the ball bouncing kindly, keeper surging out—

You strike it. Not perfect. But close. Too close. It brushes the outside of the post.

The net ripples just enough to make half the crowd rise in anticipation — only to fall back with collective breath held.

You exhale hard, adrenaline pounding, hands on hips for a half-second before you’re already jogging back into shape. That was twenty seconds. Twenty seconds into the game and you nearly ripped it wide open.

You hear the crowd murmuring. And then you feel her. Alexia.

You pass her around the halfway line. She's turning, resetting, face unreadable — but her eyes flick to yours and don’t leave. There's a flicker there, something caught between admiration and awareness.

You hold her gaze. Then you wink. Not cocky. Just a little too casual, it borderlines cocky. Intimate even.

Her lips twitch. The smirk blooms slowly — like she wants to hide it, but couldn't. She shakes her head slightly, just enough to say you're unbelievable and keeps jogging.

You glance over your shoulder, smirk still playing at your mouth, and mouth one word, “Dangerous.”

She catches it. The cameras catch all of it. Somewhere, a commentator clears their throat. Somewhere else, a hundred phones clip the moment in real time. You fall back into shape, heart still racing — not just from the near goal. But from her.

After that electric opening burst, the game turns.

Spain take the ball. And they don’t give it back.

One pass, two passes, five — they’re stitching threads of movement like embroidery, pulling you left, then right, then back again. It’s beautiful football. If it weren’t being used against you, you might admire it.

But right now, you’re defending like your life depends on it.

And you’re good. You show it.

You press. Track. Intercept. You drop deep and slide clean, clipping the ball off boots before they can even load a shot. You shield with your back to goal, swing possession out wide, and sprint to recover before Spain recycles their shape again.

You feel Beth behind you, shouting, organising. You feel Keira lunging, Georgia grinding. You’re all under siege — but you’re holding. Until you don’t.

The 29th minute.

You know the build-up before it’s even complete. You see the triangle form between midfield and the wing. You sprint to cover — too wide. They slip inside instead.

Ball into the box. A flick. A stumble. A shot. 1–0. Not from her. Not yet. But she played her part.

You reset. Jaw tight. Breathe loud in your ears. No panic. Just work. The pressure builds. Spain push again. Tighter now. Crisper.

And this time… you see Alexia coming. Floating at the edge of the box like she’s not even part of the play. Hands down. Face calm. You should’ve known.

You close the gap, just as the cross starts to curl in.

You’re there. You think you’re there. But she’s already moving. One touch. One turn. Left foot. Back of the net. 2–0.

The crowd erupts — red flares of noise across the stands. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t celebrate wild. Just lifts her arms, turns, and welcomes her team into her.

You’re frozen. Not in awe. Not in defeat. Just frustrated. Because you know better. Because you read the play. And she still found the space.

You shake your head, hands on your hips, and breathe deep — trying to focus, trying not to look at her as she passes you again on the jog back to her half.

But she glances. Just once. Not smug. Not showy. Just knowing.

⚽️

You step back onto the pitch after half time with your heart in your mouth and fire in your legs.

Down 2–0. But you’re in it. You feel it in your chest — that tight, magnetic pull of unfinished business.

She scored. But now it’s your turn to answer.

Spain press high again, confident, sharp — but this time, you don't just absorb it. You counter.

49th minute. You pick up the ball on the right side, deep. Alexia is drifting to cover — late, wide. You feel her shift in behind you, ready to close off the inside lane.

So you show it to her. You drop your shoulder — once, left — and she bites. You flick it right. Gone. You hear her boot slide across the turf as you vanish down the flank, leaving her weight shifting the wrong way.

The space opens. You take three touches. Look up.

One clean pass across the box. Perfect weight. And Alessia Russo buries it.

2–1. Game on.

The away end roars. You don’t celebrate hard — just turn back upfield, nodding once, jaw set.

But your eye find hers. Alexia is already repositioning, breathing hard, lips pressed tight. Before shouting orders to her team as the defence hold a mini meeting.

She meets your gaze. Just for a second. Then looks away. You grin — just barely.

56th minute. It happens again. Different side. Same instinct.

You receive the ball near midfield. She's tighter this time, right on your hip. You can feel her reading, adjusting, trying to anticipate the same movement.

So you switch it. This time, a little half-touch with the sole, then a cheeky back heel into space. Gone. She’s turning the wrong way again.

You don’t even hear the crowd anymore — just the rush in your ears, the snap of the ball, the clean crack as you find your teammate’s feet.

This one’s even sweeter. Low shot. Bottom corner.

2–2. Bedlam. Your team swarms you — but all you’re doing is scanning across the pitch. And there she is. Hands on hips. Breathing heavy. Watching you. This time, you smirk. She shakes her head.

But there’s that flicker again — behind her eyes. Admiration. Frustration. Something else. You're even now. On the scoreboard. And in the story between you.

⚽️

The scoreboard reads 88:17.

You’re soaked in sweat, shirt clinging to your back, every muscle in your legs screaming for a break you’re not going to give them.

It’s 2–2.

Spain are pressing again, but not as crisp now. Not as sure. Your team has clawed its way back into this — you have clawed it back. One pass at a time. One feint. One drive. One stolen breath.

But it’s not over. Not yet.

Alexia is moving deeper now, floating like she always does, finding spaces that barely exist. You feel her near you again — not marking, not chasing, just there. Orbiting.

You intercept a pass in midfield. Ball sticks to your boots like it knows where to go.

She steps forward. You see her coming — read the angle, the pressure, the attempt to funnel you wide.

You cut inside instead. Your shoulder brushes hers. It’s not intentional — not fully — but it’s enough.

For half a second, your eyes meet in the tangle. And she knows.

She can’t stop you this time. You surge forward. The stadium rises with you.

You drive. Cut right. Another defender dives in — too late. You glance up. One teammate is peeling wide, calling for it.

But the angle is wrong. You take it yourself. Shot. Rising. Clean.

And— The keeper stretches. Fingertips. Just enough. The ball clips the bar. Over. The crowd gasps. So do you. Not out of disappointment — out of proximity to glory.

You fall to your knees for a second, hands on your head. 90:05.

No stoppage miracle. The ref’s whistle blows. It’s over.

Draw.

But it doesn’t feel like one.

You stay on your knees for a moment, the world spinning, heart pounding against your ribs like it’s trying to break out.

Then — footsteps. Quiet, close. You lift your head, already knowing.

It’s Alexia. Not smiling. Not smug. Just… there. Hands on her hips. Hair damp and sticking to her forehead.

She looks at you like you’re both made of the same breathless moment. “That was close,” she says softly, Spanish accent curling around the words.

You rise slowly, chest still heaving. “I don't like your keeper,” you murmur back. Cata struck again.

She tilts her head, just a little. That same smirk tries to rise — but it’s tired now. Honest.

She steps in close, as you both move in sync towards the post match handshakes. Just enough for her hand to brush yours. And this time, you don’t pull away.

You don't move apart more than a few centimetres milling around making sure to connect with each player on your team and hers.

You're still catching your breath.

Hands on your hips. Boots heavy with grass. The bar's clink still ringing in your ears like a cruel echo. You barely feel the ache in your legs anymore — just the weight of what almost was.

Then, there's a tap back on your back, Alexia steps in front of you, already tugging gently at the hem of her shirt.

“Again?” you ask, voice quiet, eyes narrowing slightly.

Her brow arches, but the corner of her mouth lifts. That same look — not a smirk, not a smile, just hers. Under the stadium lights, with the noise behind her and the heat between you.

She doesn’t answer with words. She just pulls her shirt over her head in one smooth motion.

And that’s when your breath actually catches.

Not just because of who she is. But how she looks in this moment, collarbones slick with sweat, and beneath all of it, the sharp definition of abs that look like they’ve been carved with care and discipline.

She holds the shirt loosely in one hand, like it’s nothing at all — like the moment doesn’t hang heavy in the space between you.

You try to keep your face neutral, try not to let your eyes linger too long. But you know she sees it, and she says nothing. Just steps a little closer.

You pull your own shirt off in return, matching the silence, feeling the night air hit your skin as you fold it and hand it over.

She takes it gently. No words. No fuss. Her fingers brush yours, intentionally.

And for the first time all match — for the first time in weeks — she lets her gaze drop. Just for a second. Down. Over you.

Then back up. “I like collecting things,” she says, her voice quiet enough that it barely survives the wind.

“Two now,” you say, nodding toward the first shirt you know she kept.

Alexia smirks. “Just the important ones.”

And just like that, she’s turning — shirt slung over her shoulder, hair pulled free, walking away with your shirt bold across her shoulder.

And you're left there — shirtless, heartbeat thudding, her sweat still warm in your hands.

The crowd is still thick with noise — cheers, whistles, music blaring faintly over the tannoy — but for the first time since kickoff, the tension has lifted.

It’s just noise now. Not pressure. Just atmosphere.

You’ve got her shirt in your hands, soft and damp, clutched loosely as you make the slow walk toward the away end where the travelling England fans are still singing. Still clapping. Still holding up flags like they’re proud of you — because they are.

You glance at her name stitched across the back Alexia. And with a quick glance around, you slip it on.

It fits looser than yours — hangs differently. But there’s something grounding about it. Like the match isn’t really over yet. Like some part of it is still here, wrapped around you.

You’re only a few steps in when you hear the softest voice beside you.

“Another one for the collection, huh?”

Beth. Of course.

You glance sideways to find her at your shoulder, arms crossed, trying — and failing — to suppress the grin on her face. “I didn’t say a word,” she adds, lips twitching. “But this?” She gestures vaguely to the shirt now draped across your body. “This says everything.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you keep walking. “You’re so annoying.”

“I’m observant,” she corrects, feigning innocence. “You’ve swapped shirts with her twice now. That’s basically flirting”

You glance over at her with mock exasperation. “Do me a favour and don’t bring this up in front of anyone.”

Beth laughs, loud and sharp. “Oh please. They've definitely clocked it.”

You’re nearly at the away end now, pulling the sleeves straight, waving up at the crowd.

Beth leans in one last time. “You can’t keep pretending these swaps are 'football friendly'”

You don’t answer her.

You’re too busy turning toward the fans, hand raised, smile soft, Alexia’s name warm against your back.

⚽️

It’s past midnight.

The room is dark except for the soft blue glow of your screen. One arm behind your head, your hair still a little damp from the shower. Your suitcase half-open across the floor. Boots drying in the corner.

You’re tired. But not enough to sleep. You’ve watched your assist three times. Rewatched her goal twice as many. The cameras caught too much — the wink, the look, the shirt swap — and your name’s already trending in two languages.

You close Instagram. You close your eyes. Your phone buzzes. You don’t move — not right away. Just let it sit there on your chest for a second, until the screen fades to black again.

Then you check.

AlexiaPutellas11 sent you a message

You swipe it open.

Alexia: Still awake?

You stare at it for a moment. Then reply.

You: Obviously. You scored on us. I’m traumatised. Can’t sleep.

The typing bubble appears almost instantly.

Alexia: It was a beautiful goal though. Admit it.

You: Fine. It was very annoying how beautiful it was.

You pause. Then:

You: You meant it, right? The run, the finish. You knew I’d be half a second late.

There’s a pause. Long enough for your heart to notice.

Alexia: Of course I meant it. You’re the one I timed it for.

You sit up slowly, your heart suddenly louder than the quiet around you.

You: That’s unfair. That’s like psychological warfare.

Alexia: You started it. You winked.

You grin, can’t help it. Thumb hovering over the screen.

Then she sends another.

Alexia: You looked good in my shirt, by the way. I like the way it fits you.

You exhale through a smile, cheeks warming even in the dark.

You type slowly.

You: You going to keep asking for mine after every game?

Alexia: Only if you keep giving it to me.

And then one more message follows — this one simpler, quieter.

Alexia: I liked today. Even if it wasn’t a win. I liked being across from you again.

You lie back down. Let the silence settle. You stare at her words. You don't reply right away. Because you're thinking the exact same thing.

⚽️

The bus is rolling slow through the city streets — lights flickering across windows, the low hum of Spanish voices rising in bursts of laughter. Kit bags rustle. Boots thud softly against the floor. Headphones hang loose around necks.

They won the moment — didn’t lose the match, but they saw it happen. And they’re not letting her off easy. Alexia’s sat in her usual spot, third row from the back, by the window. Hoodie up. Arms crossed. Staring out like she’s untouched by the chaos around her.

But her teammates they’ve clocked everything. “Did anyone else see that wink?” Irene says, loud enough for the whole bus. “I nearly asked the ref if it counted as a foul as that was bold.”

The girls burst into laughter. Patri nearly chokes on her water. Alexia doesn’t move. She’s still gazing out the window.

Cata Coll leans over from the seat across the aisle, grinning like she’s been waiting for exactly this moment. “She’s not denying it.”

Alexia finally sighs, turns just enough to glance at her.

“I’m ignoring it.”

“Are you ignoring this too?” Cata says, holding up Alexia’s phone, where she’s clearly got your message open. “Just casually got her DMs open. Apparently your girl’s teammate can see it all too.”

Alexia arches an eyebrow. “What?”

Cata grins wider. “Beth Mead. Said it right there in the lineup — told her she needed to ‘get a room.’ You were staring too hard, apparently.”

The bus howls. Alexia lets her head fall back against the seat with a groan, covering her face for a second with her hand. “I was not staring.”

“Yes you were,” Salma sings from a few seats up.

“You stared,” Mariona confirms, practically bouncing in her seat.

“You telepathically confessed your feelings,” Irene adds. “And then swapped shirts. Again.”

Alexia’s face is pink now. Not quite blushing — but for her, it’s obvious. She lowers her hand slowly. Looks at Cata.

Cata shrugs. “You’re trending.”

Alexia shakes her head. But she’s smiling now — quietly, under it all. Because even with the teasing… Even with the firestorm they’re stirring up…She’s thinking about you. In her shirt. Wearing her name on your back. Smiling at your phone the same way she just did. And somewhere, in that space between the window and the chaos… Alexia wonders if you're thinking about her too

⚽️

You’re out early.

Wembley feels massive beneath your shoes — open and echoing in the way only the biggest stadiums can be. The arch curves high above, slicing the sky. The lights are already warming up. Cameras tracking movement. The first fans are filtering into their seats, waving flags, holding signs.

You’re in your jacket, headphones slung around your neck, doing your usual slow pitch walk — clearing your head, steadying your breath.

Trying not to think about her. But then you feel it. Before you even see her. That shift in the air. You glance up. And there she is. Alexia. Walking casually across the halfway line, her warmup top zipped halfway, sleeves pushed up. She moves like she’s done it a thousand times — comfortable, quiet, composed. But she’s coming straight to you.

You stop walking. Pull your headphones off, let them hang loose around your collar. She reaches you with no preamble. “Big stadium,” she says softly, glancing around, eyes sweeping over the empty seats.

You nod. “Feels like it stretches forever when you’re chasing the ball.”

Alexia smiles faintly, but doesn’t look at you right away. Just takes in the expanse — the history hanging in the air, the roar that’s not there yet, but soon will be.

“I’ve not played here for years,” she says. “Feels different.”

“It is,” you reply. “It swallows you up a little. In a good way.”

Finally, she looks at you. “You love it here?”

You don’t have to think. “I do.”

She nods once, like she already knew that. Her gaze lingers on the pitch. “I watched film from your last game here,” she says. “You played higher. More aggressive. You broke the press with one run.”

You glance at her, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Studying me?”

Alexia shrugs. “Preparing.”

You walk a few steps together in silence, shoes crunching against the turf. She breaks it again, voice softer now.

“I like how you move. You see things before they happen. Wembley suits that.”

You glance sideways. “That a compliment?”

She meets your eyes. “It’s the truth.”

There’s a pause — a long one. Then she adds, “Not going to make it easy for us today are you?.”

You grin, looking down at your boots. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Alexia smirks. “Good. Montse’s already nervous.”

You laugh lightly, the tension in your shoulders easing — just slightly. She doesn’t say anything else. Just gives you a small nod, then turns back toward her half of the pitch.

And as she walks away — sleeves pushed up, hair pulled tight, name already echoing in the stadium speakers — you watch her for a second longer than you should.

Wembley is big. But somehow, with her in it… It feels smaller.

⚽️

The tunnel is loud in that weird, hollow way — boots echoing against concrete, staff voices layered under stadium music thudding from above. The lineups are forming, captains already briefing with officials. The buzz is rising like a wave about to crest.

You’re not in line. You’re a sub tonight. Track jacket zipped, shin pads tucked in place, heart beating somewhere between frustration and focus.

You keep your head down as you walk the length of the tunnel, weaving between your teammates. Focused. Calm. Trying to look like this was always the plan. Then you feel a hand.

Fingers on your arm. Light. Just enough to make you stop. You look back, it’s Alexia.

She's already in position with her team, but she’s turned to face you, brow furrowed just slightly, eyes searching your face.

“You’re not starting?” she asks, voice low, confusion laced into the syllables of her accent.

You blink. You weren’t expecting her to notice. Weren’t expecting her to care. “Not this time,” you say quietly, shrugging.

She nods — slowly, eyes flicking down your body, like she’s double-checking, like maybe she’s trying to figure out why. There’s a pause, something uncertain in the way she presses her lips together.

Behind you, Beth slides in close and nudges your back gently. “Keep walking,” she mutters under her breath with a smirk, you roll your eyes and keep walking, pulse pounding harder now for entirely different reasons. Before following Beth turned to Alexia and adding sweetly, “Don’t miss her too much.”

Alexia’s lips twitch. Just slightly. Behind you, the confusion spreads. Leah turns her head just enough to whisper sideways to Mary Earps and Millie Bright. “What am I missing?”

Millie shrugs. “Dunno.”

Mary just raises her brows, clearly intrigued but out of the loop. They all look after you like you’re a puzzle piece they haven’t been handed yet. Meanwhile, up ahead, you glance back once — quick, quiet — and find her eyes still on you. She doesn’t look away. Not until you move out of sight.

⚽️

You’re sat on the bench, jacket zipped to your chin, legs bouncing lightly as you try — and fail — to still the restlessness coiling inside you. You’ve always hated watching. Always. Especially games like this. Big. Tight. Pulsing with energy. And she’s out there.

Already dictating tempo, pointing, shifting the lines with her fingertips, her voice cutting through the noise. She moves like the match belongs to her — like she’s not playing in it, but shaping it. Every touch is smooth, precise. She’s not flashy — she never is — but she’s everywhere.

You can’t stop watching her.

Your eyes track her automatically. Like gravity. Like instinct. The way she turns with the ball. The way her brow creases when she spots a space no one else has seen yet. The way she lifts her head just after every pass to check if you’re watching.

You think she’s doing it more than usual. And she knows exactly where you’re sitting.

Beth is on the bench next to you, pulling her water bottle from under her seat, catching your line of sight without even trying.

“She’s playing well,” she says casually, voice low.

You don’t reply.

“You’re watching her like she does you.”

You sigh.

Beth grins. “It appears mutual whatever this is, at this point.”

Back on the pitch, Alexia receives the ball near the touchline and twists — sudden and sharp — sending your teammate the wrong way before slotting a pass through two defenders. A near assist. Nearly cruel.

The crowd gasps. She jogs back into shape, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, breathing steady, unfazed.

You swear she glances at the bench again.

You shift forward slightly, elbows on your knees now, jacket suddenly too warm, boots tapping at the grass. You want in. Not because you need to stop her. Not even to score.

But to meet her in the middle of it. To play the game you’ve been playing since that first glance. That first tackle. That first encounter.

Not from the sideline. With her.

Sarina's voice barks your name down the bench. You look up. And everything in you stands. "Y/N, Beth! Go warm up, you're coming on after half time!"

⚽️

You’re along the sideline now, jacket peeled off, as you jog small circles up and down the touchline with Beth.

The crowd’s roaring behind you — full-throated, relentless — but it’s all white noise compared to the pressure unfolding on the pitch.

Because Spain is pressing. And Alexia is at the center of it all. You watch her glide through midfield like she belongs to the turf — weightless, elegant, always in space. Her passes are scalpel-precise. Her vision is five seconds ahead of everyone else.

She gets the ball, checks her shoulder once, twice, and releases it like it’s nothing. Like the shape of the game bends around her.

“Jesus,” Beth mutters beside you, breathing hard. “She’s everywhere.”

You don’t respond. You’re too busy watching her again — how she receives under pressure and turns, drawing two midfielders like it’s a game of tag she’s already won. She barely even looks your way, but somehow that makes it worse. Because you want to be in there. You want to feel her steps against yours again.

“You okay?” Beth asks suddenly, flicking her eyes sideways toward you.

You nod, jaw tight. “Just want to be out there.”

She hums. “Yeah, well. You’re not the only one thinking you should be.”

You glance over, confused. Beth jerks her chin subtly toward the pitch. And sure enough — in one of those rare lulls between plays, when Alexia turns to scan her positioning… Her eyes flick toward the sideline. Toward you. Just for a second. No expression. No smile. No nod. But it’s intentional. You feel it like a wire snapping beneath your ribs. She turns away again before anyone else can see.

Beth grins. “She’s watching you.”

You exhale hard. “Yeah. Probably just wants a reaction, and to be fair she’s got the upper hand right now.”

Beth stretches her quads dramatically. “Not for long.”

And as you roll your neck and shift your weight forward, listening to Sarina barking from the sideline and glancing toward the fourth official... You get the sense that your time’s coming. And when it does? You’re not just stepping into the game. You’re stepping into the fire.

⚽️

You’ve been flying.

Your touch is sharp. Your legs are light. You’re playing like you belong here — not just in this game, but in this moment.

Beth finds you with a threaded pass just as you ghost between two midfielders, the space opening up in front of you. One touch, two. You see the top corner. You see it—

Then it happens. You don’t see her coming.

You’re focused — ball under your feet, cutting in toward the box, one touch ahead of the defender, eyes on the corner of the goal.

Then everything stops.

Olga Carmona slides in hard. Full weight. Too late. Too low. The contact is sharp. Blunt. Wrong.

Your knee twists under you, a white-hot shock up your leg, and you drop before the ball’s even gone. A cry tears from your throat before you can stop it — not frustration.

Pain. Real pain.

You clutch your knee instantly, curling inward, breath punching out of your chest in ragged, panicked gasps.

The whistle blows. Everything stops. Wembley falls silent.

It’s eerie. Like someone hit mute on 90,000 people at once.

The ref’s arm goes up. Spanish players freeze. Your teammates rush toward you — some shouting, others pale. You can hear Beth’s voice, strained and close. “Stay down. Don’t move. Medic! Now!”

You’re trying not to cry. The physios are sprinting on. You’re gripping your knee like if you don’t, it’ll fall apart in your hands. Pain pulses through you in waves. Blinding. Crippling.

A shadow falls across you, You don’t need to look. Alexia. She’s standing a few feet away, arms stiff at her sides, face tight with something that isn’t confusion or shock — it’s fear.

Not for the game. For you.

She takes a step forward, but a physio blocks her path, kneeling by your side.

“Just let us look,” the medic says, gently pulling your hands away.

You can barely focus, barely breathe, but out of the corner of your eye, you see her still standing there — not moving. Watching. Beth kneels at your side now, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead.

“You’re okay,” she says, voice low. “Just let them check. It’s okay.”

You nod — barely. Alexia hasn’t moved. Not until the ref walks over and gestures her back toward her half. She hesitates. Then finally, reluctantly, she turns. But not before her eyes catch yours.

You sit up slowly, hands still gripping tufts of grass, breath shallow, knee throbbing. But it’s holding. And more than anything — it’s not broken.

The physio looks you in the eye. “You want to come off?”

You shake your head instantly. “No. I’m fine.”

“Are you—”

“I’m taking the free kick.”

Beth is already helping you to your feet, her arm steady around your back. The crowd is rising with you — slowly, all at once, voices lifting, 90,000 people on their feet because they saw the pain and now they see the refusal.

You limp a step. Then another. Then jog back toward the ball.

The referee checks on you once more — you wave her off. Your focus is already zeroed in. The ball is placed. The wall is set. Cata’s lining up, barking instructions.

You stand over it. Maybe 23 yards out. A few steps left of centre. A little too far to shoot, a little too close to ignore.

The angle's awkward. Unless you're you. They’ve called you the female Beckham since your spectacular viral free kick in the Euros in 2022.

But this is your moment. Another Wembley moment.

You take four steps back. One to the left. Plant your right foot. Deep breath. Wembley holds it with you.

Then you strike. It bends. Wide. Too wide. For a second it looks gone. Then it curls. Back. Arcing around the wall. Gliding over two defenders’ heads. Swinging like it’s got a magnet in the top corner.

Cata dives. Too late. The net ripples.

GOAL.

1–0.

Wembley erupts.

You stand frozen for half a second, eyes wide, chest heaving, and then your teammates swarm you — Beth first, grabbing you from behind, lifting you off the ground even as you stumble with the landing.

The bench clears. Coaches shouting. Crowd losing it.

From the penalty spot, Alexia stands still. Watching. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t shout. Just breathes.

Her eyes never leave you. As the crowd chants your name, as your teammates pull you toward the sideline, as England finally leads… You meet her gaze. And her smile is small. But it’s real. She’s not surprised.

She knew.

The pace slows. Just for a breath.

The ball’s been cleared long, chased into a corner, Spain momentarily regrouping, England pulling shape. Everyone’s catching their breath — you included.

You’re jogging back into position, legs heavy, the sting in your knee still alive but manageable. You bend slightly, tug your sock back into place over your shin pad, heart still pounding, your breath fogging in the chill air.

She appears beside you. Close. Quiet. You don’t look at her. But you hear it. “You good?” she mumbles — just loud enough for your ears only.

Not dramatic. Not showy. Not even particularly soft. Just real. You nod. “Yeah,” you say, breathlessly. “I’m alright.”

She doesn’t say anything else. Just walks beside you for a few strides, both of you tracking the play, scanning the field like nothing passed between you. And then her hand brushes lightly against your back. A single pat. Firm. Reassuring. Acknowledging. Accepting your answer.

Then she keeps moving. No glance. No smile. Just a touch. But it lingers.

Like her hand is still there long after it's gone. And for all the intensity, for all the weight of the game, for the score, the pressure, the world watching. It’s that moment you’ll remember the most.

⚽️

The whistle blows.

The noise is instant — a wave crashing over the pitch as Wembley erupts behind you. 1–0. You held it. That free kick wrote the script, and you saw it through to the final line.

Teammates close in from all sides, arms around shoulders, heads bumping yours, laughter, relief, euphoria. The roar from the crowd is still going — high, rising, full of pride.

But your eyes are already on the other half of the pitch. Spain regrouping. Hands on hips. Heads bowed. Respectful. Composed.

You peel away from your huddle, weaving through the blur of bodies. You tap shoulders. Shake hands. Pat backs. Every “good game” automatic but genuine.

And then you see Alexia.

She’s moving toward you too, head held high, still all grace even in defeat. Her shirt clings to her back, sweat-dampened and brilliant under the lights. Her expression unreadable — until she locks eyes with you.

You smirk before she can say anything. “You’re not having my shirt again.”

Her brow arches — the smallest flicker of amusement in her eyes — but she says nothing. Just reaches her hand out. You clasp it. Firm. Familiar. Yours.

Your fingers wrap around hers — and they don’t let go right away. Neither of you rush it. The moment hangs. Not long enough to be obvious. Just long enough for her to know you let it.

Your thumb brushes against her knuckles. She smiles. Only just.

Then she releases. Keeps moving. So do you. You pat her back. Once. Firm. As you both pass each other like you didn’t just speak a language no one else in the stadium understands.

No shirts traded. No words left hanging. Just the echo of her skin on yours.

⚽️

Your room is dark except for the soft glow of your phone screen. You’re lying flat on the bed, one arm behind your head, the other scrolling through post-match clips and photos — and trying not to watch that free kick for the seventh time.

Your body aches. A good kind of ache. But your mind it’s still with her.

The pat on your back. The lingering handclasp. That barely-there smile. You’re about to close your phone when it buzzes. AlexiaPutellas11 has sent you a message

Alexia: You’re probably still replaying that free kick.

You smirk.

You: What, jealous?

Alexia: A little. But mostly just annoyed I couldn’t stop it.

You: You weren’t even in the wall. Weak defending, honestly.

A pause. Then another message comes through — slower, different. Weighted.

Alexia: That’s it for us, for a while. No more me v you. Not until the Euros this summer.

You stare at the screen. There’s no emoji. No flirtation. Just truth. She’s not just talking about fixtures.

You: Feels weird. Like we just found a rhythm.

Alexia: We did.

Another pause.

Alexia: And now we wait.

You lie there, letting those words settle into your chest. She’s not pushing. Not asking for more. Just naming it. The gap. The pause between this and whatever comes next.

You: Guess you’ll just have to miss me.

You’re halfway through typing something back — probably a joke, something to lighten the tension — when another message pops through.

Alexia: I don’t have to miss you. I could come see you. In Germany. If you want.

You freeze. Staring at the screen. At those words. Not flirtation. Not suggestion. A gesture. An offer.

Germany — where you play your club football. Your other life. The one she’s never been a part of. Not until now.

You read it again. She wants to come to you. And suddenly, your room feels warmer. You sit up, heart hammering in a way that has nothing to do with match fitness.

You type slowly, thumb hovering just a second too long.

You: You serious?

Alexia: You think I’d joke about flying to a different country just to see you?

Then — another one.

Alexia: I’d like to. If you’d have me.

That last sentence lands deep. Not just in your chest — lower. Quieter. Truer. You let yourself smile as you bit your lip. Then answer. One you wouldn't normally be so brave to send

You: I’d have you.

#alexia x reader #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas fanfic #woso fanfics #alexia putellas #woso #barca femeni #barcelona femeni #alexia putellas imagine #woso imagine #alexia putellas x y/n #alexia putellas one shot #fcb femeni

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mysticalcrowntyrant · 4 months ago

Note

Yan bully had me in a chokehold. Could we possibly see their relationship progression? Pretty please?

Yandere Bully x Reader (Part Two)

An: This has actually been sitting in my drafts for a couple days. :D I hope you like it!!!

Part one

The empty locker room smells like sweat and old linoleum. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, flickering slightly, as if trying to escape the weight of the silence. The air is thick and sticky outside, but the room is cool. Dean slouches against the metal lockers, the sharp scent of blood mixing with the stale air.

His face is already bruising. The knuckles of his right hand are split, blood oozing from the cuts, dripping onto the floor. His shirt is torn, sleeves shredded, and there’s a small tear on his jeans where something sharp must’ve caught him. He’s not entirely steady on his feet, but you can tell by the way he keeps glancing at the door that he's still ready for whatever comes next.

You don’t say anything for a long moment, not because you don’t want to—there’s just no point. There’s nothing to be said. You’ve seen this before. He’s been like this for as long as you’ve known him, and yet, this time, it feels different. He’s more… nervous than usual.

"You’re gonna bleed out if you don’t let me do something about that," you mutter, stepping forward cautiously.

Dean doesn't respond, but you know he hears you. He always does. His eyes follow you as you pull out the first-aid kit from the corner. The one that’s been sitting there untouched for years. It's dusty, old. A few of the bandages are frayed, but it’ll do. Everything with Dean is always a little bit broken, a little bit secondhand.

You kneel down in front of him, pulling his hand closer so you can clean the cuts. He winces, but he doesn’t pull away. He never pulls away, not from you. It’s as if the pain doesn’t matter when you’re close enough to touch. When you wrap the bandage around his knuckles, your fingers brush the rough edges of his skin. His grip tightens around your wrist, and you don’t flinch, not even when he digs his fingers in a little too hard.

"Stupid fight," you murmur under your breath, more to yourself than to him.

He grunts in response. "Didn’t start it," he says quietly, the sound of his voice gravelly, rough. "But I sure as hell finished it."

You glance up at him then, and for a second, the world outside seems to fall away. Dean’s face is almost childlike in that moment—eyes dark and wild, lips pressed in a thin line, but something in him is different. There's a vulnerability underneath it all that he never shows anyone else. You can see it in the way his chest rises and falls too fast, the way his shoulders stiffen every time someone walks past the door.

You focus on the task at hand, wrapping more gauze around the worst of the wounds. His skin is warm under your touch, like the heat from his body is soaking through you. You don’t think about it. You can’t. The weight of his presence is already too much. And yet, there's something you can't quite shake. The way he looks at you, the way he always has.

When the cuts are bandaged, you look up again, meeting his gaze. For a long time, there’s only silence between the two of you. The buzz of the lights. The rhythmic sound of your breathing. You don’t know how to speak past the suffocating tension in the room, how to bridge the gap between what you both want and what you both need.

"Why do you do this?" you finally ask.

Dean doesn’t immediately answer. His gaze shifts to the locker across from him.

"I don’t know," he says quietly. "I just... don’t like the thought of anyone else touching you."

You feel something in your chest tighten at his words, a mixture of butterflies and dread. Because you know Dean—his actions are never just about protecting. He doesn’t protect anyone. He controls. He manipulates. He consumes. And yet, there’s something in his gaze now, something raw that makes your breath hitch.

You finish bandaging him up, standing slowly, stepping back. Your eyes lock for a long, unbearable moment.

"Next time," he says, voice low, "I’ll finish it faster."

You nod, but you don’t say anything. You don’t know what to say. Maybe there’s nothing left to say.

He’s already made his point.

Masterlist

#oc x reader #x reader #male yandere #yandere oc #yandere #yandere x you #yandere x reader #male yandere x reader #yandere fanfiction #yandere imagines #yandere oc x reader #oc x you #x you #male oc x reader #obsessive love #yandere male #yandere x darling

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vunblr · 4 months ago

Text

Tangled (#5)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: 7.k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

It hurt.

The bite throbbed deep in her arm as a dull ache radiated up to her shoulder, and she was so cold. Once she started shivering, her body didn’t stop. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, heavy and chilled, sapping the little warmth she had left.

“I need...” Her teeth chattered as she spoke, breath puffing in short bursts. “I need to dry myself and change, alright? If not, I’m going to get sick.”

She wasn’t sure if he would understand, or if his mind was still fogged with the taste of her blood, but after a long pause, he gave a slow, reluctant nod and uncurled his fingers from her arm.

“Good,” she whispered, as much to herself as to him, before she pushed herself up and stumbled a little. Her fingers fumbled at her soaked shirt, peeling it off her skin with effort, since the fabric suctioned to her body.

Once she got it off, she quickly wrapped the towel around herself, but the shivering still wouldn’t stop. Her bra was next, the damp fabric was icy against her chest as she struggled to undo it with trembling hands.

She was dimly aware of his gaze following her every move. He didn’t look away.

But right now, she didn’t care. She was too cold, too lightheaded to bother with modesty.

Besides, her mind reasoned through the fog, his kind probably didn’t think much about nudity. Surely used to it, like creatures in the wild, like sirens and mermaids always told in stories, glittering tails, and bare skin, some accessories perhaps.

She told herself that again as she let the fabric drop and quickly scrubbed her skin with the edge of the towel, trying to rub some warmth back into her body.

But he kept watching.

There was a flicker of something in the way his eyes tracked her movements, a slow, deliberate study. His head tilted slightly as if seeing something he didn’t quite understand.

Because he didn’t.

He stared longer than he meant to, drinking the sight of her body as if it were something forbidden. Something meant only for his eyes, though he couldn’t name why that thought nested heavy and possessive in his chest.

Nudity for his kind -as she had guessed-, wasn’t special. Wasn’t private. It was natural.

But in her… she was always covered. Always wrapped in fabrics and strange layers, and her softness was hidden from view. Seeing her now, vulnerable, nipples pert with the cold and her skin marked with his bite, it was different.

His tentacles shifted slightly against the stone, a faint echo of his thoughts, but he kept them to himself, restrained. He could still smell her. Her blood, yes, but also her, the scent that had first drawn him close. Now mingled with salt, with the faintest trace of fear and the iron tang of what she had given him. It curled inside him, deep and primal, stirring something that had little to do with hunger and everything to do with something else entirely.

She took a shaky breath, glancing sideways at him.

“Are you... feeling better?” she asked softly, voice hoarse from cold and strain.

His eyes locked on hers for a long moment, and then, finally, he gave a slow nod. She exhaled shakily and turned her attention to the first aid kit, moving clumsily but determined. "Alright," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him, "Let's fix this so I can dress and not drop dead of hypothermia." She grabbed the bottle of alcohol and, without giving herself time to think, poured it over the bite.

"Fuck!"

The sharp curse burst from her lips, echoing in the cave, and for a moment he startled, drawing his brows together in surprise. His head tilted slightly, watching her as she hissed between her teeth, muttering another string of crude words under her breath.

He hadn't expected such fire from her.

Still, he kept silent, observing as she wrapped the wound in gauze with trembling hands, muttering about how she "should’ve known better" and "what the hell was she thinking."

Once done, she finally slipped on a sweater, and her shivering eased just a little as the dry fabric clung to her chilled skin. "Alright," she breathed again. "A little better." But as she reached for her leggings, realizing they were plastered to her skin like a second, icy layer, she cursed again under her breath.

She tried to peel them off with some effort, pulling at the waistband and wriggling her hips to shimmy out of them, but they wouldn’t cooperate. The damp fabric clung stubbornly to her, twisting and resisting every tug.

And all the while, he kept watching.

His gaze had grown sharper, more focused. He was watching her legs with undeniable interest, tilting his head slightly as his eyes followed the movements. She noticed, of course. It was impossible not to, though she pretended to focus on the impossible task of freeing herself from the wet clothes. Still, her cheeks heated slightly.

He had seen legs before, of course. Summer was full of women running along the shore, with their bare limbs glinting under the sun. And when he shifted -when he took on the human shape he loathed- he had a pair of his own. But this was her.

And her legs...

They fascinated him. The smoothness of her skin, the way they parted as she moved. He shouldn’t stare. His kind didn’t stare. But he couldn’t quite stop himself.

By the time she managed to peel the leggings down to her knees and tug them off entirely, she was panting, sitting half-wrapped in the towel, glaring at the offending garment like it was to blame for all her troubles.

"Goddamn leggings," she muttered darkly, tossing them aside.

Only then, noticing the weight of his gaze, did she glance back at him.

“What?” she asked, more breathless than she meant to be.

He blinked, and his tentacles gave a faint shift, but he said nothing.

There was no need to.

The way he was watching her said plenty.

And despite everything -the blood loss, the cold- her heart gave a traitorous little flutter. "Well, for as much of a curious creature as you are," she said, exhaling sharply, "I have to change my underwear, so turn around."

His head tilted slightly, watching her with sharp eyes.

She sighed and gestured firmly at her soaked panties, sensing her cheeks going warm again. "I'm not taking these off in front of you."

That made something flicker in his gaze, a subtle shift of understanding. Of course, his kind had their own way of keeping things private -concealed, protected within their bodies- but for a heartbeat, maybe he had been curious if she would treat it as casually as she had her top.

Her brow furrowed, noticing that flicker. "Oh, come on, you know what I mean. You have the same idea of modesty, don’t tell me you don’t."

His lips pressed together in a thin line. A little twitch of a tentacle gave him away. He had been curious at first, but now he looked like a kid caught with his hand in the jar.

"For God’s sake," she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temple before fixing him with a sharp look. "You're not going to see my- that. So either turn around or close your eyes. I don’t care which. Just... respect, okay?"

He huffed through his nose, a sound that might have been a sigh. Then, rolling his eyes in a way that feigned complete nonchalance -though she wasn’t fooled for a second- he turned his back to her. His shoulders shifted with the effort, and his tentacles dragged slightly behind him in a slow, reluctant sweep.

"Yeah, thought so," she muttered to herself, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of her lips despite everything.

He was quiet, not peeking, though she noticed the way some of his limbs twitched, betraying that sharp attention he couldn’t quite suppress.

She worked quickly, fumbling with cold fingers to get her soaked underwear off and dry herself as best she could with what little she had left. The wetness was clinging to her skin, and she gritted her teeth as she pulled on something dry, shivering all the while.

Finally done, she hugged herself and sat down on the driest patch of rock she could find. "Alright," she called, her voice quieter, more tired. "You can turn around now."

He turned smoothly, fixing her with an expression that was just shy of smug, though she could see the glint of amusement in his eyes.

She looked properly at him, taking in the mess of torn flesh and deep purples that still marred his skin, but at least now he didn’t look dead. Not like before. His eyes followed her closely, sharp as ever despite the sluggish way his tentacles curled against the rock.

"I’m going home," she muttered, shivering as she hugged herself tighter. "I need... a hot shower and... and lie down."

He blinked at her, and the weight of her words sank in his brain as he noticed again how exhausted she looked, the way her lips trembled from cold. Right. Humans only threw themselves into the sea in summer, and even then, briefly. She was in no state to be standing, much less after what she gave him.

His gaze dropped to her arm, where his teeth had torn her skin, marking her. He swallowed hard, and the shame knotted heavy in his chest. Maybe he had taken more than he should, no, definitely more. His jaw clenched, and without a word, he reached out a hand toward her, palm up, curling slightly his fingers as if unsure if she’d accept the gesture.

"Thank you," he said, in a low and rough voice.

She looked at his hand for a moment, then reached out and took it, he noticed her grip weak, but warm despite the cold seeping into her bones. "I’m glad you’re fine," she murmured, and she meant it.

He gave a small nod, though something flickered in his eyes, something unreadable. He didn’t let go immediately, and his fingers stayed around hers as if trying to say something he couldn’t put into words.

She squeezed lightly before pulling back, swaying a little on her feet. A million questions were buzzing in her head -what had happened, who had hurt him, what kind of enemies could do that to something like him- but this wasn’t the time. She was half convinced she’d pass out right there if she pushed herself to stay longer.

He knew it too. Watching her stand there, weak and trembling, made something tighten painfully inside him. She had offered herself to him when his own kind had only wanted to see him dead. And now she could barely stand because of that. Because of him.

"I’ll be back," she said softly.

His eyes met hers, dark and deep. "Rest," he murmured, in a low rumble.

----

The first two days after she left him in that cave, Bucky barely stirred. He slept, as his body devoted all energy to repairing itself, mending his muscles, scarring the jagged wounds, and regrowing the piece of tentacle. The frozen fish she had brought wasn’t the same as the living, thrashing prey he normally hunted, but sustained him.

By the third day, he could move -slowly, carefully- and though his limbs ached, the worst of his condition was behind him. His skin had sealed itself shut, though angry scars marred now his sides and his arms. He traced them absently. He didn’t mind them. Scars spoke of survival. Of strength. A warning to anyone foolish enough to try again.

Still, she did not come.

Five sunrises and sunsets passed without a trace of her, neither at his cave nor her usual spot near the shore. His eyes scanned the waves every time he surfaced, but her figure never appeared.

The longer he waited, the more restless he became.

The last thought pierced deep in his chest like a shard of ice. His claws dug into the stone as he remembered her weak, trembling form.

Was she angry?

Had she regretted offering herself to heal him?

Afraid of what she had done? -what he had done-

Or worse, had he taken too much from her? And now…

By the sixth day, the question haunted enough at him to make him decide. He had to see for himself. When the moon climbed high in the sky and bathed the waves in silver, he slid into the water and swam, silent and swift, cutting through the dark sea like a blade.

Reaching the cliffs where her lair stood far above, Bucky hesitated for a breath, then he braced himself.

His skin tingled first, like thousands of tiny needles pricking over every inch of his body. His spine arched in a weird angle as the transformation followed its course. He clenched his teeth, and a low snarl ripped out of his throat as his muscles pulled and twisted, and his bones reshaped and grew.

His lower half, powerful and fluid as the sea itself, writhed violently, tentacles snapping and curling in agony as they shrank, fused, and tore themselves into a new form. Flesh molded into legs, the sensation was like molten heat in his veins, like razors under his skin. His lungs strained as they adjusted, and a sharp burn flared in his chest.

By the time he stood in the shallow water near the rocks, the moonlight illuminated his pale, wet human form. His legs trembled under him, not used to hold his weight, and he cursed low under his breath, leaning against the cliff wall for support.

It had been too long since he walked on two feet. He hated it.

The jagged rocks bit into his bare soles as he stepped forward, slow and awkward, but he didn’t stop.

He took the narrow, winding road she always used, the one he had watched her walk countless times from the water, seeing her figure become small against the towering cliffs. Now, every step was a struggle. His legs, still weak and unsteady, burned as he forced himself up the steep path.

When he finally reached the top, his breath was ragged, and his chest heaved with the effort. Her den -house, he reminded himself- was farther inland than he had realized, nestled between wind-battered trees and rock.

His naked skin prickled under the cold night air, and for the first time in years, he truly felt what it was to be cold. The chill seeped into the bones of this fragile form and he cursed as he instinctively wrapped his arms around himself, tightening his jaw as he pushed forward.

When he finally stood before her door, he stared at it for a long moment, suddenly unsure. His hand, pale and scarred, reached for the handle, but when he fumbled to turn it, it didn't give in. Locked.

He growled low with frustration. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled and pushed at it again, as though it would suddenly yield to his desperation. But it didn’t. With a hissed curse, he stepped back and looked around, circling the building with a hunter’s eye. Every window was shut tight, covered with wood panels. No way in. No gaps.

The wind whipped around him, and his teeth clenched against the biting air as he made his way back to the door. He stood there, staring, then lifted his fist and banged against it. Once. Twice. Harder the third time.

Nothing.

His brow furrowed, and his heart pounded harder now, but not from the climb. He leaned in, pressing his palm flat against the wood, and then knocked again, slower. Please.

Still nothing.

“Hey,” he called out, voice rough and lower than he expected. He swallowed and tried again, stronger.

“Hey!”

Still no answer.

He hesitated, then called her name, soft at first, as if unsure it would be right to say it here. He knocked one more time, then leaned his forehead against the door, closing his eyes.

Maybe she was afraid. Of course she should be, he thought bitterly, as he leaned heavier against the door. Who in their right mind would open to a stranger pounding at their home in the dead of night? And yet, a part of him still hoped.

Then the faint shuffle of movement inside. His head jerked up. A sliver of light glowed under the door. Something stirred.

A sharp click of a lock being drawn back made his muscles tense, but he stayed rooted. The little spy door creaked open just enough for a pair of familiar eyes to peek out, wide and cautious.

They stared at each other. For a heartbeat, neither moved, only silence between them as if both were unsure this was even real.

She blinked fast, as if trying to clear her vision as if he might vanish if she looked too long. But he didn’t. He just stood there, pale and silent and very real.

With a rasp of metal, she unfastened the remaining locks and opened the door with a creak that seemed too loud in the quiet night.

Her nightgown hung loosely from her shoulders, soft and rumpled from sleep, socks drooping around her ankles in old slippers. Her hair was a mess, but her eyes, wide with surprise, roamed over him slowly, taking in every detail she could.

The salt clung to his skin, and streaks of sand still stuck to his legs, calves to thighs, like he had dragged himself straight from the shore without even bothering to shake it off. He looked like something that should be part of the sea but now stood shivering on her doorstep, with dark and tired eyes.

She didn’t even hesitate, just stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "Come in," she said softly, like her throat was too sore to be louder.

He moved past her, and the warmth of the house wrapped around him. She quickly shut the door behind them, wincing as a cough broke from her chest, deep and rattling.

He turned immediately, so close now, like he couldn’t bear to put distance between them. His body, tall and broad even in its human shape, nearly caged her against the door as he stared down at her, searching her face.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, in a hoarse voice, forcing her gaze to stay on his face and not slide down to- well, other human attributes he clearly hadn’t thought to cover before coming.

"You didn’t come," he murmured, in a low tone, almost childlike in its simplicity. His eyes were heavy with something like worry, something that twisted in her chest. "Me- I thought I hurt you bad," he added, almost apologetic, as if unsure if the words were even right.

Oh.

Her heart ached, just a little. He had come all this way, dragging himself in a form that clearly still pained him, because he thought he was the reason she was gone.

She coughed again, sharp and cutting, leaning back against the door to steady herself. "I'm just sick," she said, trying to make her voice sound stronger than it felt. "I have-" she hesitated, knowing asthma meant nothing to him. "My lungs aren’t in good shape. And that dive... it didn’t do me any favors."

His eyes stayed locked on her, wide, dark, and so worried. All that cold sharpness she was used to seeing in him, was gone. He looked... lost.

"Normal people would just get a cold," she mumbled, trying to lighten it, but she could see that wasn’t helping. "I just feel worse, but I’ll be fine." Something in him seemed to crumble a little at her words, and she felt bad for it. "Let me..." she rasped, pushing herself upright. "Let me get you a blanket, alright? You’re freezing."

He opened his mouth like he wanted to protest, to say no, to be proud or stubborn, but his body betrayed him with a violent shudder as if all his strength was finally giving out now that he was inside, now that he was with her. With a small exhale that sounded almost like surrender, he stepped aside, giving her space.

She shuffled carefully toward the couch, holding onto the backrest for support, and grabbed one of the afghans draped over it, thick, soft, and worn from use. With a tired gesture, she motioned him over with her hand, a silent come here that he obeyed without question.

As he moved, still shivering slightly, she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and, with a gentle but firm push on his chest, made him sit. He blinked up at her, surprised by how easily she handled him. She knelt in front of him, tucking the edges of the blanket closer around his body to keep him warm, and brushing her fingers against his chilled skin.

Only when he settled back against the cushions, adjusting to the warmth entering his body, did he notice the small, uneven squares stitched together in the fabric. His fingers ran lightly over the seams, following the path of color changes and shapes.

"You made?" he asked quietly, eyes wide with a kind of awe that made her blink in surprise.

"Yeah," she exhaled, sitting on the carpet, wrapping her arms loosely around herself as another wave of chills ran through her frame. "What I do on the shore... usually they're pieces of things. I finish them here, later. For me, or to sell."

His gaze lingered on the patchwork, gently rubbing a corner between his thumb and forefinger, as though the stitches themselves were something rare. "Pretty," he said after a pause, a faint, soft smile curving his lips, almost shy as if he wasn’t used to giving praise.

She smiled faintly, watching him, but his mind was already wandering. To sell, she had said. So she was a maker, a weaver of things. That much he had known, from all those hours watching her at the shore, seeing her hands moving fast with hooks and yarn. But now he understood that it was how she earned her living too.

His eyes drifted away from the blanket, scanning the room as if seeing it properly for the first time. Little pieces of her were everywhere; the curtains had a lace edging, delicate and clearly handmade. There were small woven mats on the floor, some with shells and stones embroidered in. Trinkets and small crocheted baskets on shelves, filled with things he didn't understand.

Her lair, he thought, amused for a moment at the word. A soft, safe place she had built for herself. And now he was sitting right in the middle of it, wrapped in her warmth. He wondered, idly, if she had more of these blankets in her nest. If she slept under them, bundled in soft, colorful things.

She stood up, grabbed another blanket, and wrapped herself in it, sinking onto the couch beside him with a sigh.

"You surprised me," she murmured after a moment, glancing sideways at him. "There were stories... but I didn’t know you could shift."

He just nodded, not offering more. His eyes flicked toward her, watching her face as she spoke, but his mouth stayed in a tight line.

"So you came because I didn’t show up," she continued softly, turning to face him more fully, "and thought something bad happened?"

He shifted uncomfortably, slightly hunching his shoulders, and gave a short, curt nod.

A small smile tugged at her lips, gentle and warm. "That was very nice of you. Thank you."

Nice.

The word caught him off guard. He had been called many things over the years, but nice had never been one of them. He didn’t quite know what to do with that word. His jaw worked, sharp teeth clicking softly in his mouth, an old habit when he didn’t know how to respond.

She noticed, but didn’t push. Instead, she shifted the conversation with a little grin. "Tell you what," she said, nudging his arm lightly. "If we don’t fix your situation, you’re going to be sick too. Why don't you get a bath, and I’ll find you some clothes to wear?"

He furrowed his brow, clearly confused. "Bath? I came... wet."

"Oh no, darling," she said, her smile widening just a bit, teasing but kind. "I mean a hot bath. Or a shower. To clean, and warm up your body. No offense, but you’re leaving sand everywhere."

His frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Shower?"

She raised a brow, tilting her head. So he could shape-shift but clearly hadn’t spent enough time as a human to pick up on basic things -or, he did it a long time ago when certain things didn’t exist yet-. "A water spray to wash your body," she explained patiently. "It’s nice, you’ll see. Like rain, but hot."

"Don’t like rain," he grumbled, and his expression soured at the thought.

She let out a low laugh, shaking her head. "You’ll like this!" Pushing herself up with effort, she extended a hand toward him, waiting. "Come on. I’ll show you how it works."

He stared at her hand for a long moment before reaching out with a quiet huff of breath through his nose.

She led him gently by the hand, still wrapped in the blanket, toward the bathroom. "Alright," she said, flicking on the light with a soft click that made him blink. "This the bathroom."

He looked around curiously, eyeing the strange room with its bright tiles and mirror.

“And this is the shower.” She opened the curtain and turned the handles, causing the water to rush out from above. He startled at the sound alone, tensing his body, and the second the water burst to life and sprayed downward, he jumped back with a sharp hiss, all wide eye and defensive.

"Hey, hey! it's okay." she soothed quickly, holding her hands up. "It's just water. See?" She reached in and let her fingers run under the stream. "It comes out warm. Or, well, you can make it warm."

He didn't move closer, but he didn't back away either. His eyes narrowed, still suspicious, and then he sniffed the air cautiously.

"Look," she added gently, reaching for the handles, "This controls how hot or cold it is. This one," she twisted slightly the one at the left “gives you hot water, and this one is the cold water."

Tentatively, he reached out, grazing the stream with his long fingers. His eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed thoughtfully. "Hot," he muttered, a little pleased as if this was something he could appreciate.

"Exactly." She picked up the soap and handed it to him. "This is to clean yourself. You rub it on your skin while the water runs, then rinse it off."

He turned the soap in his hand like it was a strange rock, sniffed it, and made a face. "Smells weird."

"Yeah, but it works. Trust me."

She turned to the shelf and picked up a bottle. "And this is shampoo. You use it for your hair. You rub it in and rinse it out. And this-" she lifted a second bottle "is the conditioner. For after the shampoo. Makes your hair soft."

He looked at her, then at the bottles, and back to her again, clearly overwhelmed. "Too much," he grunted, frowning.

"You'll figure it out," she said, softer this time, trying to sound reassuring. "Just... do your best."

His fingers tightened slightly around the soap before he looked at her again.

"You stay?"

Her lips parted, caught off guard. "Well… it's usually a private thing," she explained, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the space was.

He tilted his head slightly as if considering that. Then, his gaze flicked toward the shampoo bottle. "Help," he said simply, though the way his eyes glinted suggested he knew he was pushing his luck.

She exhaled, shaking her head. "Ok, I’ll stay here sitting on the toilet, if you need company," she relented. "But I am not washing your hair there, it's not proper."

Like a creature like him would give a damn about propriety.

"If you can’t figure it out, I can help you later in the kitchen sink. But-"

Before she could finish, he shrugged off the blanket and stepped into the shower, completely unbothered.

Her brain took half a second too long to catch up, and in that half-second, her gaze dropped and…

Oh my god

Heat rushed to her face as she promptly yanked the curtain closed between them.

There was a sharp hiss of irritation and she saw his hand tugging the curtain.

"No! Don’t pull that or you’ll splash water everywhere!" she called, catching the fabric before it slid open. "Just… do what I said, alright? I'm going to get you some clothes, and I’ll be back in a second."

There was a pause, then a small grunt in response.

She remembered a box of old clothes -possibly Arthur’s or the last tenant- in the upper section of the bedroom’s closet. It had been tucked away but now seemed like the perfect moment to rummage through it.

Kneeling, she flipped the lid open and sifted through the contents. Most of it was outdated or too stiff from being folded away so long, but eventually, she pulled out a red henley and a pair of black sweatpants. They smelled a little musty, the way fabric does when left untouched for too long, but she grabbed a bottle of fabric refresher, giving them a quick spritz to make them more tolerable.

She didn’t bother looking for underwear. Somehow, she had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t want to wear any.

With the clothes in hand, she returned to the bathroom, settling back onto the closed toilet seat. “Alright,” she called over the sound of the water. “I’m right here. When you’re done, just shut off the handles and wait for me to hand you a towel.”

A grunt of acknowledgment.

She sat there, listening to the water run, idly picking at the fabric of her sleeve. After a while, his voice broke the quiet.

"Done."

She had a split second to react before she heard the curtain shift.

Thinking fast, she grabbed the towel, snapped it open, and held it up just as the curtain was yanked aside. The thick fabric stretched between her hands, covering him from the ribs down, effectively shielding his modesty.

He blinked at her, slightly surprised.

"Here," she said, firmly but without meeting his gaze. "Wrap this around yourself, then go to the bedroom. You'll find clothes there."

She turned on her heel before he could say anything else, slipping out of the bathroom and pulling the door shut behind her.

Let him figure it out from there.

----

He did as she instructed, stepping into the dimly lit room where the clothes lay atop a large, soft surface. It was covered in layered fabrics -those stitched squares she seemed to favor- and… in something else.

Her scent. It was stronger here than anywhere else.

Her nest.

The thought sent a subtle ripple of interest through his body, especially as he realized no other scent clung to it. No lingering trace of another human, no competing claim. Just hers.

But the clothes… those were different.

As he picked up the garments, an unfamiliar perfume clung to the fabric. Faint but there, something aged and stale, like it had been tucked away for too long. Beneath that, a lingering scent of an adult male, distant but undeniable.

Something in him bristled at the intrusion. His teeth clicked together in irritation, but he forced himself to put the clothes on. The scent was old and faded, and if he wore them long enough, his own smell would replace it, overwriting whatever trace of the other male that could linger on it.

He fumbled briefly with the fabric, getting a feel for it, but he wasn’t stupid, he figured out how to wear them well enough. The material was strange against his skin, it felt confining in ways he wasn’t used to, but it would do.

Once dressed, he went to the other room, finding her seated, coughing into her sleeve.

When she looked at him, two things stood out immediately.

One: Arthur’s clothes were definitely too small for him, stretching across his broad frame, and clinging in places she absolutely shouldn’t be staring at.

And two: his wet hair was a dripping mess, with strands clinging to his face, and the ends soaking into the too-tight henley, leaving a growing trail of water on the floor.

She huffed and grabbed a clean kitchen towel, stepping closer to drape it over his shoulders. He stilled at the touch but let her.

“That’s to keep you from getting everything wet,” she muttered, smoothing it down. “Did you even wash your hair?”

He looked at her, then simply said, “No.”

A pause. Then, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “You do.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Technically, she had told him she’d help if he couldn’t figure it out. And since he was now standing in her kitchen, dripping on her floor, looking at her expectantly… she only had herself to blame.

“Alright, big guy…” She exhaled, gesturing toward the kitchen. “C’mon.”

He followed her as she led him to the sink, watching as she adjusted the faucet.

“It’s really long,” she remarked, barely brushing her fingers on his hair. “Doesn’t it get in the way? Feel heavy?”

He hadn’t thought much about it. It had been a long time since he last cut it, always with sharp shells, never bothering to care about evenness. It had simply been a necessity. But now, out of the water, yes, he could feel its weight. “Heavy.” He conceded.

She nodded. “I could trim it for you after we wash it if you want.”

His muscles tensed, just for a second. The thought of her holding something sharp near his neck sent a flicker of warning down his spine. He had lived a long time surrounded by danger, and he knew better than to let someone close with a blade.

But she had saved him. Given him her essence, cared for him when she had no reason to. If she wanted him dead, she could just have left him rot in that cave.

So, after a moment, he nodded.

She smiled, just a little, rolling up her sleeves. “Alright. Close your eyes,” she instructed as she guided him into place. “It might sting.”

He obeyed, and the next thing he felt was the warm rush of water over his scalp, and her fingers threading softly through his hair, untangling the knots with careful, patient movements.

----

She patted his shoulder when she finished rinsing the last of the suds from his hair. "Alright. Go sit," she instructed, nodding toward one of the chairs.

He did as she said, shaking off excess water before lowering himself onto the seat, with the damp strands clinging to his skin. He watched as she moved around the small space, opening a drawer, then a cabinet, before disappearing for a moment.

A cough echoed from the other room.

His jaw clenched. Right. She had gotten sick for helping him, and here he was, sitting there comfortably, being served like she was some kind of thrall.

When she returned, with brush and comb in one hand, and scissors in the other, he frowned and lifted one of his hands. "Rest."

She blinked at him. "What?"

He gestured vaguely. "You are sick. Rest."

A small, amused breath left her lips, though she tried to smother it. "I feel better," she reassured. "And cutting a little hair isn't going to kill me."

He didn't look convinced, and his sharp gaze flickered between her and the items in her hands.

She sighed, shifting her grip on the scissors. "How about this? Once I'm done, we can sit on the couch. And talk. Properly."

His brow furrowed. It felt like a bribe, one he wasn’t sure why she was offering. But she had already moved in front of him, kneeling slightly to meet his gaze. She held up the scissors, clicking them open and shut. "These are scissors. They cut through things, cloth, paper, hair. See?" She snapped them once more before setting them aside.

Then, she ran her fingers through his damp strands, gently working through some stubborn tangles. He stiffened slightly at the contact but didn’t pull away. She picked up the brush next, starting at the ends and working her way up in slow, careful strokes. "The brush gets rid of knots," she explained. "Makes it easier to manage the hair."

His lids drooped slightly as she continued, finding the rhythmic pull of the bristles oddly soothing.

Once she had smoothed out most of it, she switched to the comb, working through smaller sections. "This one makes sure everything's neat before I cut," she said absently, more focused on her task than his reaction.

He hummed low in his throat. This was... new. Different from his usual crude attempts at grooming.

She set the scissors down for a moment and ran her fingers through his now untangled hair. "How much do you want to cut?"

He considered, then lifted a hand to his shoulder.

"That’s a nice length," she commented.

Something warm bloomed in his chest at her approval, but he made an uninterested shrug.

She started cutting then, slow and methodically, with the snip of the scissors as the only sound in the room.

With each careful comb-through, and each precise trim, he felt a strange sense of weightlessness. His eyes grew heavier, as the gentle pull of her hands and the repetitive motions slowly lulled him. Before he realized it, his head had dipped slightly forward, and the sleep finally took over him.

She hesitated when she noticed, stilling the scissors in her hand. For a long moment, she just watched him.

The slight furrow of his brow had smoothed out. The corners of his eyes held the faintest wrinkles, softened by the rest, rather than tension. And the freckles, the small constellation near his ear.

Her gaze drifted lower, to the shape of his lips.

Handsome. So, so handsome.

She exhaled slowly, shaking herself out of it. Carefully, she made the last few cuts, finishing her work with a light touch to sweep away stray strands. Then, just as gently, she placed her hand on his arm.

He stirred at the contact, blinking groggily. His body felt oddly down by something unfamiliar, comfort. The notion hit him promptly. He had fallen asleep.

His breath hitched as he straightened, rolling his neck to ease the dull ache from the angle he had held his head. He had never allowed himself to such a vulnerable position before others, not on land, not in the depths of the sea. Yet, with her hands in his hair, smoothing, cutting, working with deliberate care, he had let his guard slip.

"All done," she murmured. pulling him from his thoughts. "If you want to see how it turned out, go check the mirror."

He sat there for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushed himself to his feet and padded toward the bathroom.

She watched him go, still brushing a few stray strands of his hair off her hands.

He hesitated just inside the doorway, eyeing the mirror with suspicion. It was strange, this human thing, a glass that reflected, capturing an image too perfectly. Some whispered that mirrors could steal a soul, trapping it within their depths.

The thought nagged his mind, but, she had one in her home, in a place she used daily. If it were so dangerous, why would she keep it so casually? And when he’d caught a glimpse earlier, nothing strange had happened. No shift in the air, no pull on his spirit.

Still, something in him resisted.

From behind, he could feel her waiting, watching, likely assuming he hadn’t understood her instruction. She had no idea of the war waging inside his head.

He exhaled sharply, steeling his resolve, then gave her a short nod before stepping inside.

He stared.

The face in the mirror wasn’t the shifting, distorted thing he had seen in water, nor the dull, vague glint of himself reflected in metal. This was clear. He could study himself the way he studied others.

His gaze traced his own features, the sharp cut of his jaw, the lines of his mouth. He bared his teeth slightly, then ran his tongue over one incisor.

His dark hair -shorter now- felt lighter when he moved his head. He cast it to the side, tilting his neck, watching the way the tendons shifted beneath his skin. He traced them with his middle finger. Would she find this appealing? Did it look… manly? He frowned, lips pressing together.

The mere thought irritated him. He shouldn’t care.

But he did.

Because that afternoon on the beach, before everything spiraled, before he had almost drowned in pain, she had let him sense her. Sensed him. And then, she even saved him with her own life force, offering herself freely. That had done something to him, crept under his skin like the tide creeping over the sand: slow, relentless, and impossible to ignore.

And now? Now, he found himself standing before this strange human glass, inspecting himself through her eyes, wondering if she would approve.

He tilted his head the other way, observing the length of his now-trimmed hair, and again, the sharp angles of his face, considering this unsettling, foreign feeling, this desire to be seen. To be… liked?

Then, her voice called out from the other room.

“Everything fine there?”

He blinked, startled, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. One last glance at his reflection, then he turned away, stepping back into the warm light of her home.

Next Chapter

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