#Patching a wound that had been festering

[saltpepperbeard]

I hope you find that. I think I have.

[pedgito]

𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

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summary | You've patched up Joel countless times before, but this is different.

author's note | i'm taking a little break to work through some series and pre-write but i needed to write a little fix it fic for my own well being. ANYWHO, if you're reading this, thank you <3 and thank you to @chaotic-mystery for the beta read, love you bitch

content warning | hurt/comfort, fix-it-fic, jackson!joel, s2ep2 spoilers, established relationship, medic!reader, wound tending, mentions of leg injury and some face injuries, old man joel using a cane, flirting, fluff, kissing, i'm going to go cry again

word count — 3.8k

He’s breathing. Alive.

You’ve patched up Joel countless times - cuts and gashes that were too far out of reach for him to handle on his own, a busted ankle from a construction project gone wrong, the occasional painkiller to help with his aching bones. He was a regular within the clinic, like most of the patrol team. And he was your favorite, which wasn’t a secret.

But, this was different.

Tommy - as hard as he tried, attempted to shelter you with the rest of Jackson’s women and children, but it was useless.

You spent the last hour patching up the towns wounded and helping lay to the rest some of the less fortunate, but brave people who had attempted to defend Jackson from the impending horde.

In the chaos of cleaning up bloodied bandages and used medical supplies, the front door to the clinic sounds, bells ringing out so deafening it makes your heart stop.

And the sound of Tommy’s panicked voice as he called out your name.

When you turn the corner to catch sight of him, it was Tommy and Jesse carrying a limp, sleeping Joel on a makeshift gurney and equally injured Ellie holding tight to her ribs as Dina and Maria supported her weight, your eyes widening in shock.

“Fuck—I—what happened?” you ask, immediately sliding the supplies off of the only semi-available operating table you had in the office - it used to be a veterinary clinic, but the town was making do with what they had.

“You save my goddamn brother,” Tommy demanded, his tone riddled with an emotional pain you couldn’t fathom, taking the order in stride as you nodded and put your own curiosity aside, slowly accessing the weight of the situation and surmising that this had been an ambush, more or less, “alright?”

You access his knee, jeans matted with blood around his festering wound, his leg tourniqueted by a belt that Tommy explains wasn’t there doing, rather the attackers. His pulse is steady as your fingers over his femoral artery once you’ve cut his jeans open further with the scissors.

“El—Ellie,” your voice shakes slightly, looking over your shoulder to catch her grimace as she hunched over further in pain, “she needs—”

“I’ve got her,” Maria assures you and Tommy, who was understandably only focused on Joel.

You don’t waste another second, working around Tommy on instinct while Jesse followed the girls to the back room, a gentle but reassuring hand on your shoulder as he passes by.

Your hands move gently over his wound, mind racing through every step of triage and trauma care as if your nerves hadn’t already been shot an hour ago. You didn’t know how many wounds you’ve treated today, but Joel’s was the worst—and unspeakably, the most important.

The wound is bad. Deep.

Frayed flesh around the spread of the bullet, a shotgun you can assume, already turning an angry red. The steps were simple, fortunately. You’ll have to clean it out, maybe even dig if the bullet fragments were lodged in deep. 

His face is a mosaic of bruises and dried blood, and he hasn’t stirred once.

That—more than the sight of the injury itself—makes something in your chest clench.

Tommy’s gripping the table tight, white knuckling as his jaw clenched in worry.

“Do I want to know?” you ask softly.

Tommy shakes his head slightly, “Ellie ain’t said much—jus’ know whatever the problem was, it isn’t one anymore.”

“He’s gonna need blood,” you explain to him as you work quietly but carefully on the wound, grateful that most of the issue was at the surface and that with enough time to heal and consistent check-ins, Joel would recover.

Undoubtedly with a limp, but you knew Joel—he’d manage.

The quiet is unsettling, though.

He should be fighting this. Groaning. Cursing. Something.

But he’s still.

Too still.

Tommy stays rooted in place like he’s afraid Joel will vanish if he lets go.

Part of you carries that fear, too.

With the attack on Jackson, everything seemed up in the air.

“I need you to keep your hand here,” you say firmly, guiding his hand to the artery in his leg, feeling the steady pulse underneath your fingertips. “Count the beats, focus. If it slows, weakens—don’t wait, tell me.”

Tommy nods, jaw still clenched tight.

He’s got blood dripping from a cut in his brow, covered in dirt and grime, streaks on his face from the tears he was shedding quietly, it was your only attempt to busy his mind.

You work diligently, more focused than you had been all evening.

Forceps clink against the metal tray as you dig out fragments, your breath hitching every time Joel twitches—barely, like his body’s fighting beneath layers of pain and unconsciousness.

You glance toward the IV stand that was taped to hell, barely holding on.

Just like everything else in Jackson at the moment – like Joel.

“I’m gonna flush the wound,” you murmur more to yourself than Tommy, gripping the saline syringe with steady hands. “Then I’ll stitch it. Antibiotics to be safe. He’ll need pain meds and I need to work on the cuts to his face, but I want his body to rest. We have morphine stored away, but I know Joel will probably refuse…”

Tommy doesn’t respond. Just keeps his hand pressed where you told him, eyes locked on Joel’s face like he’s willing him to wake.

“He still needs blood, Tommy,” you remind him, “but I don’t know his blood type.”

“I’m O-negative,” Tommy interjects.

“That works,” you assure him, nodding for him to sit as you grab the supplies to draw Tommy’s blood, unflinching as the needle slips into his vein.

It’s all rather quick, kneeling to hold the bag as it fills while Tommy stares at his brother, looking briefly over your shoulder to catch his breathing, a slow rise and fall.

“He’s gonna be alright,” you assure Tommy, “the worst outcome here is him complaining about having to use a cane, if it comes to that.

Quietly, you tend to the small head wound that Tommy has and he doesn’t even attempt to argue, eyes flickering to your briefly at the gesture, tilting his head up for better access.

You move efficiently, like muscle memory as you tape up his wound before transferring the blood and prepping the line for Joel. 

The line finds Joel’s vein without much resistance, and you secure it with shaking fingers, your breath held as the dark crimson slowly, mercifully begins to flow into his body.

“C’mon, Joel,” you whisper under your breath. “Not you.”

“He was in and out on the way here,” Tommy comments, holding the cotton ball to use the wound as he stands and you quickly return to him to bandage up and pressure the wound, “but now he’s just…still. That ain’t good,”

“It’s the body responding to the pain,” you remind him, “he’s clearly lost a lot of blood, his face is bruised—the important thing is he’s breathing and his pulse is good. Just…let me work on him. Go check on Ellie.”

Tommy hesitates, glancing back at Joel like his feet were already rooted permanently to the floor. Then his eyes shift to yours—tired, firm, unwavering—and he nods, finally stepping away. 

Just far enough to check on Ellie. 

Just long enough to breathe.

The second he’s gone, it’s just you and Joel.

–

The room feels colder without the presence of Tommy’s worry. 

You stitch slowly, methodically, carefully maneuvering around the skin until you are satisfied, constantly eyeing Joel to gauge a reaction, noticing some of his color had returned, hair damp with melted snow.

If he was awake he’d be grumbling and complaining and part of you hates how much you wanted to hear it as you bandage up his knee, assuring that bleeding was under control before you removed the belt on his upper thigh and grabbing a spare blanket to drape over his body as you move down to tend to his face, riddled with cuts and bruises.

You press a hand against his and pull it to his chest, resting gently against the fabric of his shirt. 

His palm is rough, calloused, and warm—thank god, still warm.

You clean the last of the blood from his face, wiping gently along the arc of his brow, around the corner of his eye that was slightly swollen. A bruise is blooming dark down the line of his jaw, but under it—his face is still familiar.

Still him.

After a stretch of time that feels like eternity, Maria and Tommy return to the front room of the clinic, looking fearful as their eyes land on Joel.

“He’s alright,” you assure them both, “he probably needed the rest, too.”

Tommy chuckles weakly at that, “I—we’re…we’re gonna go pick up Benji, but we’ll be back, alright?”

You nod in response, “I’m not leaving until he wakes up Tommy, I promised.”

“I know, kiddo,” Tommy says endearingly, approaching you with arms open slightly, enveloping you into a short hug that were few and far between, “Ellie’s asleep, too. Dina and Jesse are sticking around until she settles.”

The front door clicks shut behind Tommy and Maria, the heavy silence seeping back in soon after.

You don’t move far, bringing a stool to sit beside Joel.

The clinic is dim now, the lights softened by fucky wiring as the evening crept in.

You can hear Jesse’s and Dina’s muffled voice in the back—low and quiet—and the distant creak of the cot Ellie’s curled into. But here, in this room, it’s just you. 

And Joel, and the quiet hum of his breathing.

You reach up to brush a stray bit of hair from his temple, your hand pausing just above his skin.

“You scared the hell out of me,” you whisper. “If you were awake, I’d be screaming at you,”

And you know he’d only smile.

Joel doesn’t respond, but his breathing shifts. 

Not much—just enough to prove he’s still there, riding the edge of sleep and pain.

“You enjoy it, though. You always laugh, I know it’s pointless and that you’re just stubborn as all hell and I’m willing to put up with it,” you push the few strands of hair away from his face and sigh, “guess there’s a reason why you always ask for me.”

A few hours pass, the night creeping in slowly amongst the storm that roared outside.

You glance at his hand after a thorough check-up and redressing his wound for good measure, still resting palm-up where you’d placed it. Hesitant, your fingers slip into his, lacing slowly. 

You wait. No squeeze. 

But, the warmth is enough.

Then, a shift.

A low grunt, almost imperceptible.

Your breath catches. You look up sharply, eyes scanning his face. One eye twitches. His brow furrows just slightly.

“Joel?”

He doesn’t open his eyes, but his mouth moves.

“Ellie?” he asks weakly, squeezing your hand back.

Tears burn your eyes before you can stop them, relief flooding your chest in waves.

You squeeze his hand back again. Tight. “She’s okay—she’s good,” you whisper quickly, wiping your cheek with your sleeve, not that it helps.

Joel breathes out, like the tension’s finally releasing from somewhere deep inside his chest. 

You watch the slow rise and fall of him for a moment, just taking it in. Life.

Then his eyes crack open, albeit one is swollen, but hazy and bloodshot and focused on you.

His brows twitch as he looks at you.

“You cryin’?” he rasps, voice rough but teasing.

Even now, he teases you.

“You worried the hell out of me,” you tell him.

“Did I?” Joel asks genuinely, “M’sorry, darlin’.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

Joel grimaces and makes a soft noise, “S’all touch and go, right now. I’m really tired, that normal?”

“I gave you some painkillers,” you explain, “probably why.”

Joel looks around gingerly, noting the mess with an amused expression.

“Cleaned up real nice for me, didn’t you?”

“Sorry to disappoint,” you mutter dryly, shifting to adjust the blanket over him. “Next time, I’ll set up some mood lighting and put some music on for you.”

Joel groans low in his throat, the corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“Nah. You singin’ for me would be good enough.”

You snort softly, “I don’t sing.”

“Shame,” he murmurs, barely audible, his eyes slipping closed again. “Bet it’d be real pretty, you got a pretty voice, know you’d sing pretty too.”

Your chest squeezes, caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath you can’t quite take.

“You’re losing it, old man.”

Joel smiles weakly.

“Maybe.”

A long pause and he speaks even soften.

“Still think you got a nice voice, though.”

–

You stay beside him. Even after he dozes back off, you don’t move—not far. Never quite letting go of his hand either. Just shift the stool closer and brace your elbow on the edge of the bed, chin tucked in your other hand. 

The storm outside has softened, now more wind than snow, rattling the windows with every gust.

You don’t realize you’ve nodded off until something shifts. A sound—low, grumbly.

“…you snore a little,” Joel rasps.

You straighten quickly and shake your head, blinking through a sleep haze as you answer him defiantly, “I do not, Miller.”

“Oh—you do, sweetheart,” Joel challenges, a subtle smirk playing at his face, staring at you through his swollen eye.

“Good to know you never stop being insufferable,” you tease him.

“Just like seein’ you laugh,” Joel admits before a silence grows, a look of subtle concern crossing his face, “How bad was it? The horde?”

“We’ve dealt with stuff like that before, maybe not at that level but it isn’t something we’re not prepared for. A couple didn’t make it, got bitten defending the watchtower—Jackson can always rebuild, we mourn, move on, you know? With you, s’different,”

Joel, for once, doesn’t know how to respond.

You see it then—that quiet, careful look he sometimes gives you when he thinks you're not watching. Like he’s cataloguing you. Not in some grand, poetic way. More like he’s memorizing how you look when you're safe. When he needs the reminder of it.

You’re too tired to do anything but meet it.

“I ain't goin' anywhere,” he says finally, voice rough but firm, “You can stop lookin’ at me like I’m about to flatline.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Joel smirks faintly. “You’ve been holdin’ my hand for a while,”

“Oh,” it started to feel like an extension of you, his touch, but you slowly attempted to retract.

“Don’t,” Joel tells you, gripping your hand tighter, shifting his head against the makeshift pillow underneath his head that you had made out of his jacket halfway through the night.

“Thanks for not givin’ up on me,” Joel says gently,

You glance over, unsure how to respond at first.

“You really think I would?”

“Dunno,” he says, voice low, “don’t really think I deserve the effort anymore from anyone…”

He trails off, but it hangs between you anyway. 

The way he says it—soft, raw—like the words snuck out before he could stop it.

You lean in slightly, brushing your thumb just once over the back of his hand.

“I’m not anyone, Joel.”

Joel looks at you again, his expression shifting.

His fingers curl around yours again. Warmer this time. Intentional.

“Five years I’ve known you—I’ve patched your ass up more times than I can count. I’ve had dinners with you, beers with you and your brother. This isn’t my attempt at gaining some good karma. I care about you just as much as the rest of this town.”

“You’re too good to me,” Joel says quietly.

–

Jackson rebuilds, but it takes time.

Eventually, you find out that the assailants were after Joel—but Jesse and Ellie had shown up at a crucial point in the ambush that saved Joel and Dina’s life, despite his extensive injuries.

And Joel, stubborn as he was, began to heal.

The first few weeks are slow, mostly bed-ridden - or office-ridden, leg propped up at his desk as he and Tommy planned out the rebuild process and you rounded your daily office visit to him for assurance that he was taking the antibiotics you had given him and checking on his wound.

It takes a few months, but he does get on his feet again.

He’s resilient, you’ll give him that. An injury that would take no less than six to eight months before the healing was done and Joel was already moving, though with some noticeable pain.

You spot him halfway down the main road on the first name where Jackson was finally starting to feel normal again, walking out of the Tipsy Bison with a pronounced limp.

You sigh to yourself, shifting the object under your arm and start down the road.

“Joel Miller.”

He doesn’t stop walking, but he flinches a little. 

He’s been avoiding you for a couple weeks now, knowing how insistent you had been about him using something to support his leg, just to give it a break once in a while.

“I will chase you down.”

He stops.

You close the distance, holding up the object in your hand.

“If you don’t use this, I’m following you everywhere, barring you from walking, and pushing you around in a wheelchair.”

He eyes the cane. Then your face. Then the cane again.

“Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s exactly what you think it is.”

He scowls. “I’m not usin’ a damn cane.”

“You’re still healing,” you tell him, “and if you care about my worries—you’ll use it.”

“That’s low,” Joel counters,

You had spent a week sanding down the cane to a smooth texture, rounding out the handle to something comfortable to grip, even polished it up. It was extravagant or crazy, but it was clearly made with love.

“Did you make it?” Joel asks curiously.

“Doesn’t matter,” You shrug.

Joel smirks at that. 

You had. He knows it.

He takes it wordlessly, wrapping his fingers around the handle and planting it into the ground.

He tests it out wordlessly, leaning his weight into it and only slightly annoyed at how it eases the weight on his injured leg, looking up at you sheepishly.

“So….should I say it now or?”

“Zip it,” Joel retorts with a faint playfulness, “it…helps, s’real nice of you, you know?”

You raise your brow. “You sayin’ I was right? Knowing you needed it?”

“Don’t push it.” Joel warns

“Say it.” you tease with a flirtatious smile that doesn’t go amiss.

Joel sighs, scratching at his jaw. “You were… not completely wrong.”

You beam, and he rolls his eyes, though the edge of his mouth quirks up.

After a beat, he taps the cane gently against the side of your boot.

“Walk with me?” he asks.

He didn’t even need to ask.

–

There wasn’t any indication of where you were walking to, but naturally you drift to your shared street, homes sitting on opposite sides of the street, but near enough that you were only a short walk away.

The cane clicks softly against the dirt road like a steady metronome to the quiet shuffle of your boots. His limp is pronounced, but less severe than it was a few weeks ago.

The streets are quieter these days. Jackson feels like it's exhaling after holding in a long overdue breath.

Joel walks with his shoulder close to yours. Not touching, but close enough that it would only take a shift. He’s never been one for words, not when the moment matters most—but his silence is full of meaning.

Or, maybe he is just savoring the peace.

“You really made this?” he asks again after a few paces, like he needs to be sure.

You nod shyly, hands shoving into your coat pockets.

He’s quiet for a while, but then, “It’s real thoughtful of you.”

“I was gonna carve your name into it, actually,” you joke, nudging him gently with your elbow, “but Tommy said that was a bad idea.”

Joel chuckles low under his breath. “He’d be right.”

Through your sudden shared laughter, your knuckles brush.

It’s nothing, but it feels like so much.

As you approach your houses, Joel turns to you.

“Do you need anything?” you ask him gently. “I can stop by later if you need some pain meds or anything? Or yell at you for not resting up at home like you should.”

Joel huffs, shaking his head. “Always lookin’ for a reason to yell at me, huh?”

“Only ‘cause you keep givin’ me so many,” you tease.

He looks at you for a long moment, eyes scanning your face in the too quiet dark.

“You stayed the whole night,” he says finally, like he’s been holding it in for a while.

“I told Tommy I wouldn’t leave until you woke up.”

Joel nods once. He shifts his weight on the cane, hesitating just slightly, before adding, “I heard you—talkin’ to me.”

“You did?” you ask, your voice quiet. “Well, that’s…embarrassing.”

Joel’s gaze drops to your hand lingering close to his—he hadn’t even realized he’d reached out until it was too late, his hand dwarfing your own in a gentle hold of your fingertips. 

It’s a small touch, but it grounds him.

You flinch slightly at the touch, feeling the heaviness of the moment

“You can let go,” he says, looking back up at you.

You smile faintly. “I don’t want to.”

Joel hums thoughtfully. “Seems I don’t want to either,”

And in that soft hum between houses, under the stars beginning to peek through the roaming clouds overhead, Joel leans in, his cane shifting a few inches behind you as he leans his weight into it to reach you, his lips pressing against yours in a quiet, tender moment of vulnerability under the dim street lights.

“Never got to thank you properly,” Joel admits.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?” you ask curiously.

“Can be,” Joel responds mischievously, a smirk tugging at his lips as you pull back to look at him.

“I think you can do better,” you challenge him, nose brushing against his own.

“You’re damn right,” he agrees, using his free hand to curve around the back of your neck as he pulls you in, stealing your breath away with the second press of his lips.

When he parts, you can’t help but giggle against him, an indescribable feeling tightening your chest.

“Yeah…that’s—” You breath stutters as you nod, “that’ll do.”

Joel chuckles softly, his thumb grazing your cheek.

“Good, ‘cause I got a lot of thankin’ to make up for.”

[orellazalonia]

Just a Kiss

Summary: In the quiet moments between missions, Bucky Barnes finds clever (and sometimes painful) excuses to spend time with you, the medic who keeps him patched up and grounded. What starts as playful flirting during routine injury treatment quickly evolves into genuine connection. (Flirty!Bucky Barnes x reader)

Word Count: 2.5k+

A/N: Here’s the flirty version for Bucky. I might make a part 2 for this later. Happy reading!!!

Main Masterlist

You’d been working with the Avengers’ medical team for about six months, which meant six months of dealing with superheroes and supersoldiers who thought their healing factors made them invincible and their pain tolerance meant they could skip post-mission checkups. You weren’t sure if you were more annoyed or amused by it most days.

Today, you were definitely annoyed.

“Sit. Down,” You snapped, pointing firmly at the cot in the med bay.

Bucky Barnes raised his hands in surrender, a cocky little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he limped toward the table. A streak of dried blood ran from his temple down to his jaw, and his left sleeve was shredded, revealing deep lacerations along his shoulder.

“I am sitting,” He said smoothly as he eased himself onto the cot, letting out a grunt of pain that he tried to cover up with a smirk. “See? Perfect patient.”

You grabbed your supplies with practiced precision, already predicting the flirt that was about to come next. He never failed to throw one in usually right after a mission, bloodied but smug, acting like patching him up was the highlight of your day.

“I’m not in the mood, Barnes,” You muttered, pulling on gloves.

“‘Barnes’? Oof,” He said, placing a hand on his chest like you’d wounded him. “That hurts more than the knife wound in my side.”

You didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, you cleaned the area around his shoulder with a bit more pressure than necessary, eliciting a hiss from him.

“Easy, doll,” He said through gritted teeth. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to punish me.”

“If I wanted to punish you,” You muttered, “I’d let the wound fester.”

He laughed, actually laughed like this was some kind of game between you two. And maybe it was. Bucky had a way of flirting that always sat right on the edge of sincerity, and it was hard to tell when he was joking and when he meant it. But today, with the sweat on his brow and that tiny wince he tried to hide every time he moved, you weren’t playing.

You applied pressure to one of the deeper cuts and his breath hitched.

“Hurts?”

“Not if you kiss it better,” He said without missing a beat.

You stopped, eyes narrowing at him. “You want me to kiss your bullet wound?”

“Technically it was a knife this time,” He said, flashing that signature smirk. “But hey, I’m not picky. You could start with the temple. Work your way down.”

You leaned in slightly, close enough that he went quiet. You saw his grin faltering for a second as you met his eyes.

“You’re bleeding all over my floor,” You said flatly.

He blinked, then chuckled. “Damn. Almost had you.”

You rolled your eyes and went back to work. “You’re ridiculous.”

“But charming.”

“No.”

“Admit it, doc. You missed me while I was gone.”

“I missed clean cots and peace and quiet,” You shot back.

He sighed dramatically, laying his head back against the pillow with a boyish grin. “Someday you’re gonna crack. You’re gonna smile at one of my lines. And I swear, when that happens, I’m gonna make you really regret playing hard to get.”

You paused, glanced at him sideways, then smirked, just a little. Not enough for him to fully catch it. But his eyes narrowed like he almost did.

“Need stitches,” You said, and reached for the needle.

“Be gentle with me,” He whispered, feigning fear.

You arched a brow, holding up the needle in one gloved hand. “You want gentle? You went to the wrong doctor.”

Bucky winced as you threaded the needle through his skin with precision honed by months of stitching up idiots just like him. Though none of the others flirted their way through the pain like this one did.

He grit his teeth but didn’t cry out. You watched the muscle in his jaw flex, the faint shimmer of sweat clinging to his temple. It wasn’t that he was stoic. It was that he wanted you to notice how much he could take. Every reaction was calculated.

“You can squeeze something if it helps,” You offered, only a little sarcastic.

“Oh?” His lips curved up lazily, eyes still half-lidded. “Offering your hand, sweetheart?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. You pulled the stitch taut.

“Shit-“ He hissed, muscles tensing.

“Still want that kiss?”

“Yeah,” He grunted, head falling back. “But now I think I’ve earned it.”

You snorted. “You think surviving your own recklessness deserves a reward?”

He opened one eye and locked it with yours. “If it gets me a kiss from you? I’d take a bullet to the thigh next time.”

“That can be arranged,” You said dryly, tying off the stitch. “There. You’re done.”

Bucky let out a long breath, closing his eyes again. “You’re good at this.”

“Stitching up charming idiots? Yeah. I’ve had practice.”

“You wound me, doc.”

“I could,” You replied, holding up the needle again. “Want a matching set on the other shoulder?”

He chuckled, finally sitting up with some effort. His bare torso was scabbed and bruised, but still maddeningly sculpted. He winced but didn’t complain, and you handed him a bottle of water without thinking.

He took it, his fingers brushing yours. It was such a light touch, but it felt deliberate. Of course it did. Everything Bucky did was just barely crossing the line.

“Thanks,” He said softly. He held your gaze a beat longer than normal. “You know, if you really wanted me to stop flirting, you’d tell me to.”

You blinked. “I have told you.”

He tilted his head. “Nah. You’ve pretended to tell me. But you haven’t told me to stop.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but nothing came out. He had that smug look again, like he’d caught you in a trap you didn’t know you were walking into.

So you did what you always did with Bucky Barnes. You deflected.

“You need to rest,” You said, stepping back and peeling off your gloves. “You lost more blood than you think. You’ve got a room down the hall. Don’t faint in the hallway again. I’m not dragging you this time.”

“Can I get a personal escort?” He asked, standing slowly, favoring his right side.

You crossed your arms. “What, in case you trip?”

“No,” He said, moving closer now. His voice dropped just enough to feel different. “In case I get lonely.”

You looked up at him. Close. Too close. You could smell leather, sweat, and blood. But under all that, there was something warm. Familiar. Bucky Barnes, for all his teasing, had eyes that sometimes gave too much away.

You said nothing.

He tilted his head, just a little. “Still not gonna kiss it better?”

Your lips curved up—subtle. Quick. Then you reached up with a hand, brushed your fingers carefully against his stitched shoulder. He sucked in a sharp breath, but not from pain.

And then—soft, brief, and maddeningly light—you kissed just beside the fresh stitches. Your lips barely grazed bruised skin. His breath caught.

“There,” you murmured. “That better?”

When you pulled back, his grin was gone. Not replaced by pain—but something heavier. Something far more dangerous.

“…Yeah,” he said quietly. “But now I want a hell of a lot more than that.”

You turned your back before you could say something stupid.

“Go lie down, Barnes.”

He didn’t argue this time. But as he left the room, you could feel his eyes still on you.

Watching. Waiting. Plotting.

And you knew the next mission he came back from? He’d make damn sure he needed stitches again.

-

You were halfway through restocking medical supplies in the quiet lull between missions when you heard the soft, telltale creak of boots on the tile floor behind you. You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Let me guess,” You said without turning. “A paper cut that needs an X-ray? A stubbed toe that requires emergency attention?”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“…I might’ve twisted my wrist.”

You finally turned. Bucky stood in the doorway, holding his left wrist dramatically. He had started a habit of coming in with minor injuries, especially during the slow days. Though, you noticed right away that his wrist wasn’t even red. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, dog tags faintly glinting under his shirt. He looked good. Too good for someone who claimed to be injured.

You raised an eyebrow. “Must’ve twisted it very carefully. No swelling. No bruising. No signs of trauma. Truly, you’re an enigma, Barnes.”

“I like to keep you on your toes, doc,” He said, striding in and hopping up to sit on the exam table like it was a barstool. “Maybe you’re just not looking close enough.”

You stepped between his knees with a practiced sigh, pretending to examine his wrist. You tilted it gently, watching his face.

“Any pain here?”

“Only when you’re not looking at me like that.”

You didn’t blush. You didn’t give him the satisfaction. But you did hold his gaze a beat longer than usual and that was enough to make his flirty grin soften into something quieter.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?” You asked. “That’s what this is.”

“I’m not bored,” He said. “I just… realized it’s been a few days since we talked. Figured if I showed up with a ‘sprain,’ you’d make time.”

You stared at him. “You do know there are easier ways to ask someone to lunch, right?”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “Are you saying you’d say yes if I did?”

“…Maybe,” You said, very carefully, turning back to the cabinet.

“So if I walked in here and just asked you to coffee like a normal person instead of pretending I fell off a stairmaster…”

“I’d probably check if you were having a stroke,” You deadpanned.

He laughed, low and warm. “Okay, that’s fair.”

You looked over your shoulder, catching his expression. He looked… relaxed. Less like a soldier, more like someone trying to learn how to be someone again. That vulnerable thread always tugged something in your chest.

“Lunch,” He said suddenly. “Not as a fake patient. Just… lunch. You, me, somewhere that isn’t filled with needles and bandages.”

You turned slowly. He was watching you, really watching you, and for once, there was no smirk, no wink, no joke at the ready. Just a question in his eyes, and hope buried somewhere underneath.

You walked over, took his ‘injured’ wrist gently in your hand again.

“I’ll allow it,” You said.

“Yeah?”

“But if you fake another injury for attention, I will make you help me disinfect the entire med bay.”

He grinned. “Totally worth it.”

“Lunch break is in twenty minutes,” You added, dropping his wrist and turning back to your supplies.

He slid off the table behind you, lingering just long enough to lean in close and murmur in your ear:

“Guess I better go change into something you’ll wanna stare at.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving you alone with a smirk threatening to curl onto your face.

-

Bucky showed up exactly twenty minutes later, as promised.

Only now, he’d traded his tactical gear for a dark grey Henley that fit just snug enough across his shoulders to look very intentional, sleeves pushed up over his forearms, metal arm gleaming faintly under the lights. He smelled faintly of aftershave, like he’d gone back to his room just to freshen up. His hair was damp at the ends.

You didn’t call him out for it. But he caught the flicker of your smile before you turned to grab your bag.

“Nice shirt,” You said lightly, not looking at him.

“Oh, this old thing?” He asked, stretching his arms in a way that was absolutely for show. “Had to match the occasion.”

“Which is?”

“Our first date.”

You froze mid-step. “I didn’t say yes to a date.”

“No,” He said, catching up beside you. “But you didn’t say no, either. You said lunch. I’m taking liberties.”

You shook your head, fighting the heat rising in your cheeks. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet, here you are. Walking next to me.”

You rolled your eyes but your steps didn’t slow.

The cafe he picked was quiet, tucked in a corner of Brooklyn, just far enough from the compound to feel like a secret. Bucky held the door open for you like he was born in another century which, to be fair, he kind of was and you slipped past him with a mumbled thanks.

He ordered a coffee, black, and a piece of banana bread. You got something warm, something that made him tilt his head and smile like he was memorizing the sound of your voice when you said the name of it.

“You’ve been here before?” You asked as you both sat across from each other.

“Once,” He said. “Alone.”

“Romantic.”

He grinned. “Wasn’t then. Is now.”

You sipped your drink to hide your smile. “You always this smooth, or do you just save it for medical professionals?”

“Only the ones who patch me up and kiss my shoulder,” He said, gaze sharp and warm all at once. “That kind of thing leaves a mark, you know.”

You rolled your eyes. “It was a pity kiss. You were whining.”

“You kissed me, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it since,” He said, low. Serious. “Wasn’t pity.”

That shut you up for a moment. Not because it scared you but because you could tell he meant it. Bucky could flirt all day, crack jokes, charm his way out of most things but when he dropped the act, when he let it slip just enough to show real interest, it was disarming.

You stirred your drink slowly. “You do this a lot?”

“What?”

“Charm people who stitch you up. Take them to lunch. Blur the lines.”

He leaned forward slightly. “No. Just you.”

Your heart gave a little lurch at that. Stupid, really. But there it was.

“And if I told you,” You said softly, “that this doesn’t change anything at work? That I’ll still yell at you the next time you walk in with a cracked rib and a dumb excuse?”

“I’d believe you,” He said. “And I’d still show up.”

“Why?”

He smiled again, smaller this time. A little unsure. A little too honest.

“Because it’s been a long time since I wanted to show up for someone,” He said. “And you’re… easy to want.”

For a long, quiet second, you just looked at him. Let yourself see him. Not just the smug, flirty soldier but the man beneath it. The one who still flinched when doors slammed too hard, who sometimes sat too quietly for too long, who showed up in your clinic with excuses just to stay close.

You reached across the table, nudging your fingers into his without fully holding his hand. Testing. Letting him feel it.

His eyes flicked down to the touch, then up to yours.

And he smiled like someone who’d just won a war he hadn’t known he was fighting.

[dimlylittorch]

this started off as a hurt comfort fic but i changed my mind and it turned into.. manipulation. i am unwell. THIS SHIT IS LIKE 3K+ WORDS BE WARNED.

My Masterlist🌱

Silco x transmasc!reader

small synopsis: he finds the son of an aristocrat in Piltover to be his pawn

He’ll never forget that day. That day on the bridge, when his entire world changed. Ever since then, there’s been a pit inside of his stomach. It churns and twists whenever something that is his is in danger. When something of his is out of his reach.

Grief is a funny thing. It can invoke every kind of human emotion. Anger, sadness.. it tears a person up inside. Leaving scars that will never heal completely. Yes, they fade with time. But sometimes they fester. And wounds get reopened- bringing every single old emotion back in one fell swoop.

Meeting you changed everything he thought he knew. When he thought he’d finally found himself on stable ground, you pulled the world out from under his feet. His heart had grown cold, and he found himself incapable of.. feeling. Feeling anything other than rage, or hate. He had no pity for the weak. Not anymore.

Until he found you.

The day he met you was the day he felt like maybe- just maybe, he could breathe again. A pretty little thing you were. Coming from a good family in Piltover, you were clean and well taken care of, nothing like the people in the Undercity. You were innocent, and completely unaware of the dangers that lied in the Undercity among people like him.

Having packed a small bag, fully intending on exploring some more of the world that your parents kept you so sheltered from, you managed to find yourself near an entrance into the Undercity without even knowing it. Walking through damp alleyways and past the docks, slipping on the occasional patch of worn wood. You had no idea how dangerous it was for you to be out there in the dark.. let alone by yourself.

You found yourself stumbling across run down buildings with holes in the ceiling and ruined infrastructures. One warehouse in particular caught your eye as it seemed relatively stable. You peeked inside through the front entrance before opening the door, it creaking loudly. You take a few steps inside, glancing around at how different it was from the buildings you’d seen your whole life.

“Wow” you whisper to yourself when you look up, a clear view of the moon through one of the holes in the ceiling. Of course, you had no idea Silco was using this place for his own purposes. And you had no idea he was near. Walking through the main area of the building, a small smile creeps along your lips. “Hello!” You call out, hearing a faint echo back, much to your amusement. Silco stood in a dark doorway with his eyes on you, his eye brow quirked with interest. When was the last time he’d heard someone truly laugh?

As you make your way up the large staircase, Silco moves to quietly follow you, curious of your movements. He’d never seen you before.. and you certainly didn’t look like you were from the Undercity. Tripping over debris every now and then, Silco can see the lightness in your movements. You weren’t wary or cautious. Simply exploring like a child would. Once you reach the next floor you see the remnants of old furniture, crouching down and looking at what he would consider trash. He watches with curiosity as you pick up a small item you see on the floor, smiling to yourself as you slip it into your pocket.

Making your way through the run down building, you find a rickety staircase that leads onto the roof. Stepping onto it hesitantly, Silco stays back and watches as you flinch when it creaks and shakes under your weight. Standing still for a moment, you take a breath before heading up the stairs and reaching the roof. Silco hums with amusement as he watches your actions, deciding he might as well follow. He found you intriguing after all. As you settle onto the roof, setting your bag down he slowly follows. But when he hears a sharp creak in the metal, a gasp slips past his lips as he reaches for the roof, the rusted metal staircase starting to collapse.

He saw his life before his eyes- as much as he hated to admit it. The thought of dying to a staircase was embarrassing for a man like him. As he clawed at the wood of the roof, he suddenly felt two hands on one of his arms, and he looked up to see you. The soft face looking back at him, faced riddled with worry.

“Shit- hold on” you say quickly as you tug on him as hard as you can, moving onto your stomach so you can hook your arms under his shoulders, getting a better grip. With a gasp from your lips, he holds onto you out of instinct as he kicks his foot up, using it to push the both of you onto the roof.

When he manages to get onto the roof completely, you roll onto your back, pulling him with you. The both of you breathing heavily, he finds himself in your arms, still holding him. “You okay?” You say softly against his ear before you gently remove your arms from his upper body, leaving him to sit straddled over your hips.

He puts a hand next to your head, using it to sit himself up with a shaky breath as he looks down at you, faces only inches apart. “Fine.” He mutters before he sits himself up further, resting against your hips and thighs. You sit yourself up slightly, hands resting by his knees as you gaze up at him.

“You sure?” You ask softly as your eyes trail over his face, not once flinching from his scars. He looks back at you with a hesitant glance, not used to anyone caring about his wellbeing.

He huffs and moves off of your lap, sitting next to you with a sigh. “I’ve faced worse” he murmurs as he slicks his hair back with his hand.

Sitting up fully, you gently scoot over to be closer to him. You glance over his form, taking in his presence. Fairly tall and slender, but still.. solid. “I’m glad you’re okay.” You say faintly, much to his surprise. He looks over at you, harsh eyes trailing over your form.

“You’re an odd little thing.” He mutters as he looks you over. “And just what were you coming up here for? The scenic view?” He scoffs.

“I’ve just.. never been up here before” you say softly.

“And you got curious?” He muses as he runs his fingers through his hair before standing up and adjusting his not ruffled clothing.

“Mhm” you hum as you stand up with him. Before you can say anything else, a rotted piece of wood breaks under your feet, making you trip forward, grabbing onto him for balance. The force knocks him backwards, making him land on his arse with a huff, you landing on your stomach in his hold. “Christ-“ you gasp when you hit his form and the wood. Gathering yourself for a moment, you look up and meet his sharp gaze. “We have to stop falling into each other like this” you huff with a faint laugh as you sit up slightly, but still leaning over him as you catch your breath.

He sighs when he looks down at you, seeing just how.. soft you truly are. Gentle eyes and a kind smile.. nothing like what he was used to. As you look up at him, your smile widens slightly.

“Hm.. do you have heterochromia? Where your eyes are two different colors?” You question innocently as you sit back and look at him. “They’re really pretty”

He freezes when he hears your words. Pretty. Pretty? Has he ever been called pretty? No. That’s something he would remember. If half of his face wasn’t so scarred it would probably be apparent that he was blushing slightly. Glancing over your facial features, he can’t help but find you amusing. You clearly didn’t know who he was.

“Something like that.” He replies quietly before looking downcast. If only he didn’t have a massive story behind his face. Maybe things would be easier.

Reaching into your bag, you pull out a small brown paper bag and offer it to him. “Are you from the Undercity?” You ask softly. “I don’t think I’ve seen you in Piltover before..”

His eyebrows raise when you offer him the small paper bag, but he begrudgingly takes it, opening it and finding.. cookies. Homemade cookies. He pauses as he thinks about what he’s doing. Sitting on a roof with some topsider idiot trying to make conversation. He should be working towards his dream of Zaun right now. But.. a part of him wanted to stay put. He hated to admit it. But he’s missed being treated like a normal person. And not like a crime lord. Grabbing a cookie with a sigh, he sets the bag down and looks over at you. “Yes, I am. It’s clear you’re from topside..” he mutters as he takes a bite of the cookie.

A small smile quirks at the corner of your lips when you see him take the cookie and take a bite. “My mom made those” you say softly. “Do you like them?”

He huffs a little when he hears you mention your mother. God, how old were you? You seemed in your twenties, maybe.. but there was an innocence about you. The world hadn’t ruined you. Not yet. “It’s.. fine.” He says quietly as he eats the rest of the cookie. He had to stay stoic like always- but in reality he couldn’t remember the last time he had something sweet. It was.. nice. Almost too nice. Sweet enough to give him a toothache. “My compliments to your mother.” He adds faintly.

Your smile widens a bit and you chuckle. “I’ll tell her you said that.” You look at the bag for a moment before gently pushing it towards him. “If you have any friends you want to share with- you can have them. I can always get more.”

God, how innocent could you get? Friends? Him having friends? He almost laughed at the thought. “You truly have no idea who I am?” He questions as he looks up, his gaze meeting your own.

When his eyes meet your own, your heart stutters a little. His gaze was sharp and piercing, nothing like you were used to. In Piltover it was all ‘make sure you maintain polite eye contact- staring is rude,’ but he clearly didn’t follow any stupid rules like you had to. “I’m sorry” you murmur, looking downcast before you look back up at him and offer him your hand. “I suppose I should’ve asked sooner. I’ve been terribly rude.” You could practically feel your mothers words flowing through you- ever forced polite response you ever had to give, rushing back on autopilot. “I’m Y/N, of house L/N.”

His eyebrow quirks when he sees how.. formal you are. He stares at your hand for a moment before sighing and shaking your hand. “Silco.” He says simply before retracting his hand. “And just what does your family do? You seem awfully.. well trained.”

You could help but snort at his words. Well trained? That was a new one. But in reality, it made sense. To society you were nothing more than a dog that knows how to behave. “We’re in the mining industry.” You say with a small smile. “My father manufactures a lot of the machinery that the miners use.”

He hums when he hears your words. Mining? He knew quite a lot about that. Having worked in the mines in his youth.. it’s not something he would go back to willingly. “I take it you don’t work in the mines.” He muses.

“Afraid not.” You hum. “I was attending University.. but I needed a break.”

He scoffs at that, rolling his eyes before he moves to stand up. “There is no time for breaks if you truly wish to accomplish something.” He chastises. “Surely your father has taught you that.”

“I’ve learned not to push myself.” You murmur as you lay back on the roof, gazing up at the sky.

“We aren’t alive just to lie around and relax.” He scoffs as he moves to crouch next to you, his knee by your head as he looks down at you. “You think I got to where I am by taking breaks? By not pushing myself?”

A few moments of silence pass before you sit up, tilting your head up so that your eyes meet his. “And yet.. I don’t even know who you are.”

Before you know it, you feel his hand on your chin, squeezing your cheeks slightly as he lifts your face closer to his. “I’ll have you know, boy.” He whispers dangerously. “I control the Undercity. And everyone in it. So choose your next words wisely.” He seethes as he glares down at you.

A few more beats of quiet- the only noise the occasional creaking of the roof. He watches as your eyes soften, face becoming more relaxed in his hold. Anyone else would’ve been terrified.. but here you were. Gazing up at him.

“Would you like to come home for dinner tomorrow night?”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Pardon?” He questions as he lets go of your face, but not pulling away.

You reach up to rub your chin a little, looking up at him. “Well.. you’re in charge of the Undercity.” You say softly. “And tomorrow we’re hosting a dinner party with other important people.” You murmur. “Would you want to come?”

He stares down at you for a few moments, the cogs turning in his brain. What was this boy’s agenda? He didn’t even know him. But.. the thought appealed to him. Slightly. Being invited to a dinner party in Piltover that is filled with rich bureaucrats, your parents certainly not approving of your choice for a plus one.

“What.. a kind offer.” He says with a small smirk as he stands up, offering his hand to you. Befriending a young aristocrat of Piltover. That could be very helpful with his plans. A little pawn all to himself. “I think it would be rude of me to reject it.”

Reaching up to take his hand, he helps you up as you look at him with a smile on your lips. “I promise it’ll be worth it.” You say sweetly.

He chuckles, slipping his hands into his pockets and looking off into the distance over Piltover. “Oh, I’m sure it will be.”

Your parents were certainly happy when you told them you’d be bringing a plus one. While you were sociable, you haven’t exactly been considered for any marriage unions yet with other young aristocrats- much to your parents dismay. You weren’t exactly the typical marriage candidate anyways. You didn’t have much of an interest in business or politics. You’d much rather do things you enjoy.

While you may seem innocent, you weren’t truly that ditsy. You knew your parents wouldn’t like the person you brought to dinner, but a part of you wanted the discourse. To show your parents you could be doing much worse than you are. But you have been well behaved your whole life, and you’re not doing drugs in a ditch somewhere in the Undercity.

Your mind had a knack for making things seem.. less complicated than they were. Call it a coping mechanism. You didn’t see a scenario where your parents would be incredibly upset that you brought home a man like him. Surely they would be welcoming to someone who has power. That’s what your brain told you, at least. You were sweet and innocent to everyone around you because your brain dumbed things down for you on the daily. Without that? You’d be a walking ball of anxiety. It’s better this way, being the silly little child of an aristocrat who could see the good in everyone.

You had agreed to meet Silco at the main bridge between Piltover and Zaun. When he walks through the evening fog, you smile at him. He was wearing a red button down with nice pants, probably some of the best clothes he had- while you were wearing a white button down with black pants. “You clean up nice.” You chuckle as he walks up to you.

“I try” he muses with a smirk as the two of you set off to your parent’s estate.

As the two of you walked, you can’t help but feel your chest tighten. Were you really about to bring a probably dangerous stranger into your parents home?

“What are you playing at, hm?” Silco hums, making you turn your head to look up at him. When he sees the look on your face, he chuckles. “I know this isn’t just a sweet little invitation. You have a motive.”

A sigh slips past your lips as you both mosey through the foggy streets of Piltover. “I needed a plus one.” You murmur.

“I don’t think I’m the kind of man you bring home to meet your parents.” He muses as he looks down at you.

You huff, rubbing the back of your neck. “Fine- fine.” You sigh. “My parents.. need me to get engaged. And I’m not very fond of the idea. So, I thought if I brought home..” you trail off quietly.

“An Undercity rat like me?” He huffs with a chuckle. “They’d realize they’d rather you single than with me? So if we broke up they’d be grateful?”

A groan slips past your lips as you reach up to rub your face. “Something like that.” You sigh. “Do you mind?”

He laughs faintly at your question. “Do I mind pretending to be the fiancé of a pretty little aristocrat?” He muses. “Not at all. Besides.. I’d rather be here than smoking a cigar in my office like every other night.”

The introduction to your parents was.. interesting.

“Mother, Father!” You say sweetly when you see your parents in the large foyer. They smile sweetly and walk up to you, both of their smiles faltering when they see Silco. “I wanted you to meet someone” you practically beam up at them.

Silco glances down and sees the look on your face, a smirk forming on his lips. You were quite the actor.. it was convincing. He looks at your parents and smirks a little wider at how they try to hold their smiles steady. He knew that look- the disapproving gaze as they examine his facial scars, and his inadequate outfit. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He says lightly as he looks between the two of them.

“This is Mr. Silco- my fiancé!” You grin.

Seeing your parents worlds shatter before their eyes was quite funny. Even Silco had to admit that.

“Your- your fiancé?” Your mother asks quickly, trying to keep up her sweet act and temperament.

“Surprising, I know.” Silco chuckles. “I will admit, we did rush into it a little. But we both know we could die tomorrow. Why not celebrate our love today?” He smiles at your parents.

Christ, you thought to yourself. He was quite the actor. Even you would’ve believed that.

“Silco, you said?” Your father asks as he reaches out his hand to Silco. “It’s.. a pleasure.” He murmurs hesitantly.

“Let’s introduce you to some of the business partners” you say sweetly to Silco as you pull on his arm, dragging him with you throughout the large ball room area.

The night went on, introducing Silco to whoever you could, the cringe on your parents faces truly satisfying. Maybe two hours later Silco has made a name for himself, managing to keep up with conversation better than anyone expected. He may be from the Undercity, but he was quick of tongue. Eventually you manage to pull him along with you into an empty library with only a fire burning for light. As you close the door, you sigh contentedly.

“You’re better at this than I expected” you chuckle as you lean against the door.

“In my youth I certainly did talk my way through a few.. obstacles” he smirks as he sips on the glass of champagne he had in his hand. “I never did ask..” he murmurs as he walks to look around the room, glancing at the books on the shelves. “You don’t want to marry?”

A sigh slips past your lips as you walk into the room, sitting on a chair next to the fire. “I’m not the marriage type.” You mutter.

“That much is clear.” He smirks as he sets his glass down, walking over and resting his hands on the arms of your chair, leaning down so his face wasn’t far from your own. “You aren’t quite like the rest of them, hm? No crave for greed.. no desires that need to be sated. Am I right?”

Your eyes meet his for a moment before you lean back in the chair, your eyes shifting to the fire. “Right.” You murmur.

He gently cups your chin, pulling your gaze back to his own. “Such a little thing, you are.” He murmurs as his eyes trace over you. “I see why your parents keep you on a short leash.” He smirks.

“Yeah, well” you sigh. “They want to hand the leash off to someone else. Preferably a young aristocrat.”

“What if I said I could make all of your problems.. go away?” Silco’s voice questions quietly as he pulls your chin closer to his own.

“What do you mean?” You whisper faintly as you gaze up at him.

“What if I took a hold of your leash? Instead of some stupid boy who won’t know what to do with you..” he muses.

You scoff at his words, pushing him off of you and standing up. “I’m not going to be pawned off like an object” you say firmly as you turn your back to him.

He sighs, walking up behind you and speaking near the shell of your ear. “Little one.. you’ll be pawned off either way. Would you rather go to someone who will allow you freedom? Or a stranger?” He questions faintly.

A shaky breath slips past your lips as you process his words. “This is crazy.” You say faintly as you run your fingers through your hair.

“There, there” he coos in your ear. “Think of it this way.. you met a nice man, and invited him to a party. He helped you by pretending to be your fiancé.. and now you return the favor.” He says as he turns you around so you’re facing him again. “It’s truly not that complicated.”

“Favor?” You question. “What could I possibly do for you?”

“I already control Zaun.” He explains as he cups your chin. “It is in my best interest that I have ties to Piltover as well. Ties.. that cannot be broken. Such as a marriage.”

OKAY GUYSSS this is officially the longest thing I’ve written!! Merry late Christmas🥱

[oogaboogasphincter]

Dumb & Prophetic

inspired by Dumb & Poetic by Sabrina Carpenter

summary: Your relationship with Joel has changed since your arrival to Jackson. His avoidance spells an unmendable ending for the two of you.

warnings: angst, reader has the ability to have kids, established relationship, domestic arguing, yelling, break-up | 1400+ words

a/n: submitted without comment 😁

After trudging through the emaciated shell of post-apocalyptic America, toting a vulnerable you and an ambivalent Ellie by his side, Joel was finally trying to help himself in Jackson. But he was trying to patch up his gaping wounds with sparkly band-aids and no antibiotics, letting the virus fester in his soul without leaking it to the outside world. He had found a place in the woodwork of Jackson and made a caricature of it. 

You’re so dumb and poetic // It’s just what I fall for, I like the aesthetic

Joel was concernedly nonchalant about the enemies he had made along the way to this safe haven, whose advertisement he suckled from without reading the fine print. You knew there was bound to be someone out there of the many, many, many he had put in an early grave — he had to — who possessed a vengeance like him. 

But he was decidedly ignorant, would always tell you that you were paranoid, that you had yet to shake off the ingrained fight or flight response that came with surviving a world like this one for so long. The walls of Jackson were the perimeter of his responsibility, often reduced to just the warped inner workings of his mind. It’s like his instincts that had once been sharp enough to protect you to the ends of the Earth with ruthless lethality have died. Instead, he pours all his energy into “healing” himself. 

Gold star for highbrow manipulation // And “love everyone” is your favorite quotation

You were forced to witness the facade of his friendliness to his brother, like some kind of collateral. Then, Joel would come home to you and haunt your evenings with complaints about Tommy. The masks of those sweet smiles and lighthearted jokes of earlier would melt off and you were left to face the carnage of the embroiled rage and jealousy that Joel felt for his brother. “How could he ever bring a kid into a world like this?” “How can he say Jackson is so wonderful when there are fist fights and threats of raiders or Infected every day?” In some instances, you agreed with Joel’s ravings. And yet, he was never man enough to hint any of this to his brother’s face. You were expected to keep your mouth shut and pretend like everything was warm and cordial in the family.

Try to come off like you’re soft and well-spoken // Jack off to lyrics by Leonard Cohen 

In your own relationship, you had asked Joel to be more open — and opted to nudge him with subtlety when the words shone like headlights on his heart of a deer. All he gave you was regurgitated lines from his newfound coping mechanism: therapy. You had no idea why he went; that just wasn’t him, not the him that you knew and loved fiercely. Joel always took it upon himself to fix everything, took on every burden under the sun just so it wouldn’t pester the ones he loved. He was always self-sacrificial but he had reached a new level and, in doing so, he had become annoying. 

Don’t think you understand // Just ‘cause you talk like one doesn’t make you a man

After saying it nicely a million times over, you were tired of his negativity that trampled both your efforts to hoist his spirit. Finally, one day your resolve snapped, “I don’t want to hear it anymore, Joel! If you learned how to analyze your relationship with Tommy so well, why don’t you actually try and make it better? Better yet, try dumping all the shit you tell me about Tommy onto him! See if you can respect each other’s boundaries then.” 

Joel just stood there, hands in his pockets and staring through the floor. You took a step closer to him, softening your voice and the blow for his stupid, sad eyes. Well, just a little bit — “Why do you even take advice from some woman who can’t even fix her own problems? That you have to bribe to talk to?”

Joel inhales sharply, surfacing from his hellish reverie and looking you square in the eye. His gleam with guilt and ire, “Everyone has a price.” 

Your brows furrow so hard at his condescension that they hurt. “Yeah, exactly. And mine is—“

You cut yourself off, getting tearful as your emotions choke you up. You cross your arms and turn away, walking away, before you whirl back on your heel to make a leveling plea, “Do you really feel that alone? That you can’t talk to your family or Ellie? That you can’t talk to me?” 

Joel visibly gets angry at your indication that Ellie wasn’t family, even though she wasn’t acting like a very grateful member recently. Joel never could stomach your critique that Ellie wasn’t deserving of Joel’s tireless efforts to reconnect with her, not even after her futile display of repayment for what he did. She always groveled that he took her life’s purpose away from her; but without Joel, Ellie wouldn’t have had a shot either way. 

Joel takes a step toward you, shoulders square and gaze dark, and you don’t flinch. You’d seen him pull the same act on raiders he was trying to intimidate on the road in preparation to ignore whatever script they had rehearsed, to instead use that time to plot how he was going to use their stolen souls toward your salvation. You were utterly shattered that you were now on the receiving end of that treatment instead of being tucked protectively behind his hulking frame. Though tears spill over your eyes and run down your cheeks, a smile of cruel disbelief twitches on your mouth as a severe whisper ghosts past your lips, “I’m not scared of you.”

With his ego blown, he sits back on his haunches a bit. He gruffs, “I’m sorry if you only loved me when I was tortured. If you can’t love me as a healed man, then you don’t love me.”

You scoff, “Are you fucking crazy?” His creased brow of idiotic confusion makes you yell, “You’re not healed! If anything, you were more level-headed when we were out in the thick of all that man-eat-man shit!” 

He shakes his head, looking to the side and huffing an irritated chuckle out of the corner of his mouth. He shifts his weight to his hip and shoves his hands in his pockets again, not giving you the respect of eye contact. Instead, you’re forced to look at the profile you have countlessly tried to imagine how it would morph with your own if, in a perfect world or perhaps a past life, you and Joel had kids.

You’re runnin’ so fast from the hearts that you’re breakin’ // Save all your breath for your floor mediation 

You inhale deeply with rage and plea, “I love you, Joel. There’s nothing I want more than to see you relaxed and happy.” He starts to interject, putting his hand up in the air as if to stop you. You cut him off before he can, “But this isn’t it. This isn’t you. You know it. I know it. You can’t fucking tell me you’re happy here, happy with your life.”

You’re so empathetic, you’d make a great wife // And I promise the mushrooms aren’t changing your life 

Joel sighs, tired and hollow, “It’s the best I can do with what’s left of it.” 

You cross your arms as you get tearful and hesitate your speech to find your voice in the rubble of the demeaning comment, “If I’m something you’re settling for, then I don’t want to be with you.”

Joel looks up at you, his expression snapping into fright.

You say, “You’re right. I don’t love you.”

He runs after you as you flee to the door, tugging on your sleeve in speechless begging to get you to stay. You face him and caution, “I’m scared for you. You’ve turned into something pathetic that I don’t even recognize. I’m worried how you’re gonna treat Ellie and Tommy and everyone else that loves you.” You wrench the door open around his frame and push your way out, groveling, “And this good guy persona? No one fucking buys it. And I fucking hate it.”

Well, you crashed the car and abandoned the wreckage // Fuck with my head like it’s some kind of fetish

You walk out, pausing and turning to say a final, devastated few words to Joel as he hunches in the doorway like he’s been shot. “You were a good man before. I’m sorry that I clearly didn’t make you feel that way.” You swallow thickly as a foreboding tendril shivers up the back of your neck, “I hope you stop being nice to the wrong people.”

Joel swallows too.

Don’t think you understand // Just 'cause you leave like one doesn’t make you a man

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[phyrestartr]

Their Burning Bodies Keep Us Warm (2/2) | Sukuna x M!Reader

W/C: 3.4k #NSFW, p0rn with plot, top!Sukuna, bottom!Reader, ABO dynamics, cannibalism, mentions of sex trafficking, mentions of cults, questionable relationship, suggested Stockholm syndrome, post-apocalypse, enemies to friends to lovers, angst, drama, gore, typical zombie shite, not rlly edited kekw SORRY tags: @better-imagination-9 @flowersatwork @tr4nniez @kamote-kuneho @prettorett @kindadolly @inflatabledinosaurs19 @memedealer-exe

“How's it look?” Sukuna groaned after you peeled back the bandages and gauze.

You stayed quiet while you thought, but ultimately had to ask, “How's it feel?” 

Sukuna scoffed. “Aches like fuck.”

“You should take Tylenol or something.”

“Hah. Like I'd give up drinking.” 

You sighed and washed his back with the usual tincture of salt and water, earning yourself a sharp, whiny snarl. Carefully, as though to apologize, you dabbed away scabbed blood and whatever else clung to the DIY sutures. 

“Then it'll keep hurting.” The dark, black bruises around the wound promised it. “But…it doesn't look infected.” You pressed against the reddened, irritated skin with a light touch, and breathed a sigh of relief; there didn't seem to be any suspicious discharge or signs of serious infection. Hopefully it'd stay that way. 

“Silver fucking lining, I guess.” The alpha hung his head and let you go about cleaning it thoroughly to prep for re-wrapping it. “You're not too squeamish around this shit, hey?”

“I guess,” you said lamely. You glanced at the back of his head in thought before focusing on your task again. “The whole world is shitty. So. Guess I got used to it.”

“You sure you don't have a history?” He asked, glancing back at you. 

You shrugged. “I was a crook, but I only stole. Never really fought, never murdered either. But I saw shit, sure. Patched some people up before, too. Nothing like this, though.” 

Sukuna nodded and looked ahead again, resting his chin on the back of the chair. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?” You wondered.

"Explains why you're not boring me," he said, nonchalant. 

You paused to cast the back of his head another wary, confused glance. It was a strange comment. You weren't sure what the implications meant for those who came before you.

"What would happen if I bored you?" You asked.

"I'd get rid of you," he answered, too truthful. "Kill you. Eat you. Kick you out. Somethin' like that." 

Sukuna looked at you again, an amused glimmer of insanity igniting in his eyes. You did your best to look away, to not engage with the hellspawn repossessing his near-tolerable person. 

"Oi, oi, quit looking so pathetic," he taunted, voice singing with playful sadism. "There's no room for that if you wanna survive out here, brat. Besides, our deal is pretty good, isn't it?" 

You pursed your lips, trying to ignore the fact that he just declared that he'd eat you if he got bored of you. How were you supposed to relax? 

Yet you tried anyway. "Yeah. Right." 

"Don't believe me?" He questioned. 

"I do. Just--you just told me you woulda ate me if I was boring." You tried not to sound too flabbergasted and awestruck, but the warbly disbelief came through anyway. 

And Sukuna laughed. Not in that heinous, chilling way, but low and warm. It almost made you think he could be somewhat fond of you. 

"Well, you're still breathing, aren't ya?" He asked.

You shrugged before starting to re-bandage his back. "Well. Yeah. I guess." 

"You sound anymore fuckin' unsure and I'll take your damn head off, omega." Sukuna sighed, still sounding content. "Dunno what shit you've been through, but you survived it. You're strong. Remember that." 

For the first time in your life, you felt butterflies in your stomach. 

--

You're strong. Remember that. 

Those words festered in your mind, bringing a much-needed sense of calm to your exhausted body and soul. You didn't realize how little you recognized your own strength, your own vicious mettle that kept you going through the haze of pain and discontent embedded in your life. You almost pitied yourself for your weak mind; when had you fallen so low? Why didn't you realize you were trapped in Tartarus? Did the nightmares and bitter flavours numb it all out?

You rubbed your face. "Think about the now," you mumbled as you poked at the fire with an especially long stick you'd taken a liking to. "No point thinking about the past." 

"Better not be mumblin' seance-y, satanic cult shit into the fire," Sukuna called from the kitchen. "I'll be pissed." 

Your face flushed with more than the fire's heat. "No! I'm just--I'm talking to myself." 

"In a creepy way?" 

"No!" 

"Coulda fooled me." 

You turned to the kitchen with a sour look, but quickly averted your gaze again; normally, you'd help him prepare and ration food, but when he took to chopping up chunks of person, you couldn't stomach it. 

Sukuna must've seen you look away, judging by his sudden, cheeky cackling. "What, still squeamish, omega? You don't got a problem when you're eatin' 'em."

You grimaced. "Yeah, I don't like thinking about it. Feels...wrong."

"Pussy."

"Hey."

"It's easy meat," Sukuna continued. "Better than eating grass 'n leaves 'n shit. Besides, makes you tougher."

You huffed. "Tougher. Right." 

Your partner in crime snorted. "You know how vaccines work, omega?" 

"Duh." You stabbed at the fire a few more times, stopping only when Calcifer spit a mouthful of sparks at you. "Introduce a weak strain of a virus into the body so it can make antibodies and fight against it." 

Sukuna hummed in agreement. "So what do you think happens when we eat our doomsday virus, huh?" 

You blinked owlishly at the flames. "Is...that can't be true," you asked, itching at your arm. "No way we’re becoming--"

"Immune." 

Sukuna walked to your side and knelt beside you, showing off the small collection of scarred bitemarks dotting his arm.

Your touch ghosted against the marks in wonder. Maybe he was lying. Maybe these bites came from something else. Something more demented than even the undead. 

"But how could the virus survive? When it's, uh, cooked, I mean," you asked as you held his forearm with both hands and examined further. 

"Guess medium-rare doesn't take care of everything." He shrugged and watched you press against the raised skin incessantly. "But hey, maybe I'm just a freak of nature. Better than normal fucks. Godly."

You looked at him with yet another grimace, and he grinned. 

"You've been eating people for too long," you decided. “It's made you delusional.”

"Probably." He moved to get up when you let go of him, but paused with a second thought.

Sukuna reached for you, brushing some of your hair from your neck. Your heart did more stupid backflips feeling that quiet touch drag along the sloping curve of your neck, down to the source of your alluring redolence. 

His thumb rubbed slow circles against your skin, waking forgotten sparks of bergamot and birch, melding them with his musk of leather and pine. You thought they fit together nicely, in an odd way. Or maybe you were caught up in hopeful delusions his marking always brought you. 

He stood, then, content with his work. "Was in prison when shit hit the fan. Had to get creative." 

You rubbed your neck when he walked away. "I can imagine. Must've gotten pretty overrun." 

"The cells were pretty safe. Most of the prisoners died starving after the outbreak," he said. "Sorry sons of bitches. Couldn't even lob a dead cellmate's head off to save themselves when those idiots turned." 

"That what you did?" You scooted up onto the couch and watched Sukuna putter around the kitchen. You pretended he was cutting up some wild animal instead of human. 

"I killed my cellmate before that," Sukuna said. "Got sent to solitary for it." 

You pursed your lips. "What'd he do?"

“He bored me.”

–

Being in his arms felt safe. You rested easy, no longer fearing his appetite nor his wrath in the brief moments of consciousness before darkness overtook you. He held you before, too, pulled you to his chest to stay warm whenever the night grew too cold and the fire dwindled; now, however,  it was different.

Now, you woke up facing him. You woke with newfound adoration for the gnarled bump fucking up the bridge of his nose (something that told of far too many fights) and you realized you quite liked the sound of his soft, rumbling snores. Even the way his body burned too hot eased your nerves when it once suffocated you with sweltering anguish.

You were careful not to say you felt anything for him, however; he was the beast who'd stolen you away from your short-lived freedom, and kept you here for his own selfish pleasure. A warning danced in the forefront of your mind, shaking its head every time you looked your captor's way. You knew better. You knew better. 

But he wasn't so bad. Though that was what Belle said about her Beast, wasn't it? Before they fell in love. Before their happily ever after.

You shifted just the slightest bit closer to him, letting your nose barely nudge against his before freezing, waiting to see if he'd stir and wake from the mild disturbance. He'd slept through worse, you imagined. Most were light sleepers throughout the apocalypse, but he–

His eyes opened. The pounding of your heart must have been the cause. 

Sukuna didn't have words, and neither did you; being here, being so close to him, face to face and finally taking in what he looked like, about to find out what he tasted like, said everything in a language he understood.

Because he closed the gap first. After a sharp glance down to your lips then back to your eyes, he nudged your nose aside and pressed his lips against yours. And you pushed into him, tugged yourself closer with your hands in his shirt and then in his hair while his own smoothed over your side to grab and grope at your ass and whatever softness from the old world still clung to your figure. 

Your hands pulled at his shirt, and he got the message. He rolled on top of you and sat up on his knees, straddling your waist as he pulled off his shirt to let you see glimmers of scars arching against defined slopes of muscle, disappearing beneath cloth bandages. Your breath hitched; he was gorgeous in ways you couldn't describe. 

He adjusted, settling between your legs before leaning down and kissing you again while those curious hands of yours felt for the secrets etched into his skin like hieroglyphics left only for the blind. Those marks told stories from start to finish. They hinted at his life up until this point. You wondered if any of them reminisced of smiles and laughter. 

Sukuna's hands coasted up your shirt to explore you, too. His thumbs pressed between every rib, followed the arch of the cage protecting your heart, before he pinched and teased at the sensitive buds of your chest. You didn't think you'd like it, but the way he tortured you with talented fingers was too good–good enough to drag out the first of many quiet, breathy sounds from you. 

Sukuna pulled your shirt off and tossed it aside. His broad palms smoothed across your skin before he dipped down, and tasted you, running the flat of his tongue against your neck, then back down to the bullied bundle of nerves he'd worked into a frenzy. He bit and nipped, swirled his tongue around the pert nub, and sucked hard enough to bruise and split your delicate skin.

You bit down on the inside of your cheek, stifling the rattling hum reverberating in your chest; you'd never felt so good before. You'd never had someone focus on you like this before. Maybe it was a selfish thing on the alpha's part, or maybe he wanted you to indulge in primal pleasures, too. That errant hand of his groping at your hardened cock suggested as much. 

Your fingers carded through his hair as he left brutal hickeys on your chest and bit at your nipples like he was threatening to take them clean off (thankfully, he seemed to quite like them and left them intact for future use), and then he traveled south, yanking your shorts off and spreading you wide before him. 

Your heart throbbed in your head. It pounded harder still as he stroked you firmly and fully, squeezing at all the right spots while his other hand felt up the softness of your thighs, the slick pooling between your cheeks, the tightening of your sacks. He was so like a cartographer, trying to chart every inch of your body, trying to remember which spots made you jolt and jump. 

And you couldn't help but squawk as he lifted your hips, hauling your legs over his shoulders with little effort, before spreading you wide and licking against your leaking hole. 

Your hands clutched at the sheets desperately. The pants stuttering out of you upscaled when his tongue, the devilish thing, circled around your tight entrance a handful of times before sinking in with the help of his thumbs pulling you open. 

This time, it was Sukuna who moaned, low and dripping with bliss. You couldn't know how it was for him. You didn't know how tasting your slick, drowning in your bergamont-pine perfume in its purest form drove him mad with hunger and want–with need, maybe. Your scent was divine. Your taste was even better. 

So, he took his time. He indulged in lapping at you, coaxing more and more slick to pool from your insides and drip down his chin in sticky, syrupy dollops while you writhed and bucked against his grasp, seeking more but getting too much. Sukuna almost felt for you. Almost. If you didn't want him to eat you alive, you shouldn't have tasted so sweet. 

Eventually, his cock demanded attention, too, and he finally let your hips down to look over your fucked-out expression and heaving chest. And when you stared back at him, eyes heavy and needy, you caught the alien glow of crimson burning in the swathe of shadows dodging the moonlight. It sent an electric thrill dancing up your spine; the monster you once feared was back, and now bewitched by your body's spell. 

Sukuna's pants came off in a slow rush. He tossed them aside and half-heartedly wiped his mouth before looming over you once again, and catching your lips with his. His tongue pushed into your mouth, ripping the tiniest of ah-s from you, and he forced you to taste what was left of your essence against his tongue. Then, like the kiss was just a mere distraction, his head popped into your empty, lonely body, and stretched you with a singe of pain. 

Your fingers dug into his scalp and his back as he forced himself into you inch by inch, pulling out just to push back inside deeper with the aid of your body's viscous desire to find a euphoria of his design. The hasty beginnings of a knot at his base stretched you wider, filled you fuller as he snapped in once more and bottomed out with a growling moan vibrating against your chest.

And, god, it felt good. You were stuffed beyond your limits, struggling to adapt and welcome him inside despite hugging and squeezing him with praise and devotion. It seemed he'd never bothered jamming his entirety into you. He'd been giving you that one, little mercy your entire tenure. 

But now, you were willing to take it, and he was going to give it to you, like it or not. 

His face buried into your neck when he moved. His hips pulled back just a bit before he sunk back inside of you, like he was trying to see just how far he could reach into your struggling, smaller body–and then, he was done testing your shared limits, and he devoured you. 

You clung to his shoulders, clawed at his back, pulled at his hair while he fucked into you. The bed creaked and dragged against the floor with every near-hostile ram into your heat, but you could hardly hear it over the feral, primal noises slipping through his clenched teeth. Your omega fell mute with pleasure and relief, apparently finding peace at being railed into like you were in heat and your mate was in rut. You weren't. He wasn't. You could only imagine what that would be like. 

Profanities hissed from him, as did demented, mumbled praise that you'd keep close to your heart come morning. His knot inflated bigger and bigger, bullying your ass open wider with each violent slam into your core. Normal alphas wouldn't have forced it into you mid-fuck, but he wasn't normal. He wanted to feel your tightness bite down around that sensitive, swollen plug. He needed to hear your sharp mewls and grunts the pain and pleasure forced out of you with every disgusting, wet pop of his cock ripping out of you. He had to keep pushing his limit, pushing your limit, until you got too fucking tight and too fucking hot that you'd force him to stay put and pump his cum into you by the gallon. 

He had to. 

So, when your breath fanned against his hear, when you whispered the most pathetic, “Cum in me,” he went mad. 

He leaned back and folded you in half, ignoring your uncomfortable grimaces before he held you in that mating press and let loose, eyes screwed shut and brow furrowed in concentration while his fangs dug into his lip as he snarled and grunted. 

Blood rushed to his cock with an electric current, pushing his hips to snap against yours harder and faster as his knot inflated fully and struggled to leave the warmth of your tight, clingy hole. But it wasn't enough, it wasn't enough–

Until he looked down at you, and bore witness to your muscles fluttering, your back arching, your mouth hung open with a soundless cry as you came undone, soaked with sweat and slick. 

Sukuna’s hips jolted and stuttered, and he fought to force that thickness into you for the last time before he spilled inside, adding his own kindling to the fire eating you alive. 

You gasped again, hand fisting tighter around your cock as you worked yourself through the unbearable ecstasy crashing down on you in torrential waves. You were a boat in the middle of an ocean, somehow staying afloat despite being in the middle of a world-ending storm–perhaps by the mercy of a beast lingering in the depths.

The aftershocks took too long to die down; Sukuna's shallow thrusts into you didn't help, nor did your own languid stroking, but you didn't want it to help. You wanted to see how much more cum you could force out of the man every time you clenched around him. You wanted to see how much longer the perverse pleasure would plague you if you tortured him just a little more. By the continuous emptying of the man's balls into your inflating core, you'd say you were doing a pretty good job. 

You silently both doubted that stupid knot of his would go down with how worked up he got–normally, it'd take about 5 minutes, but there'd been data recorded suggesting it could take up to an hour if the alpha was determined to have his omega as his permanently. And judging by your solitary existence by his side, it seemed like the latter was possible. 

So, he took great care in maneuvering you both onto your sides to rest more comfortably while you waited and dozed. The time passed with kisses and touches, and the constant drone of purring filling in the gaps where your bodies failed to touch. 

In that moment and onward, you didn't much care that you were his victim. His butterfly caught in a trap, kept docile by the sweet taste of honey.

–

“Looks like the worst is over,” You mumbled, looking over the to-be scar on his back. “You sure you want me to take out the stitches?” 

Sukuna scoffed and looked over his shoulder. “You want those things to fuse into my fucking skin, omega? Take ‘em out.” 

You furrowed your brows, but complied nonetheless. “Doubt they’d fuse to your skin,” You mumbled. 

Sukuna growled at you, and you grunted back, not impressed, no longer intimidated. Things had changed ever since that night. For the better, somehow. You found yourself less intimidated, less afraid, and he seemed to welcome it with open arms and a wolfish grin. You weren’t entirely sure, but you almost felt like it was the definition of mates. 

A banging from the basement made you jump and huff, earning an amused snicker from your partner. 

“Almost stabbed you with the scissors.”

“Don’t fucking stab me with scissors.”

“Not on purpose,” You sighed. “Should we knock them out again?” You wondered as you carefully cut every stitch and gently pulled them free. 

A deathly rasp had you both snapping to attention. A handful of figures lumbered outside the house, shambling and bumping into this and that as they searched for whatever stimulus had caught their attention. You found yourself annoyed, knowing the cattle locked up down below were probably the lure. 

“Well, if they’re gonna be attracting the fucking zombies like that, yeah.” Sukuna yawned and rolled his shoulders once you finished up with a reassuring pat to his back. “Might as well make ‘em fun-sized ‘n store ‘em in the freezer right away while we’re at it. They’ll get too scrawny otherwise.” 

You hummed as you cleaned up. “Isn’t leaner meat better?” 

“Yeah, but the fat’s useful,” Sukuna said with a smirk. He tugged his shirt on and stood, looping his strong arms around your middle while you puttered about and ensured the medical tools and counter stayed clean. “Use it for fires. Keep us warm ‘n shit. ‘Sides, might get shittier meat, but more of it.” 

You smiled a little (not at the idea of using human fat as an incendiary component, but at the little, domestic touch, of course), and nodded to yourself. “Well, I’m not gonna argue. You’ve done this longer than me. It’s not like we can go scavenging with the streets like this either.” 

Another handful of ghouls stumbled by the back door. Everything was barricaded, every window was blacked out, every possible way of entry was evaluated and reinforced, but the presence and proximity of the new rush of undead still unnerved you; you recognized most of them, too, which was an unwelcome touch. Something had gone awry at the mill, the two of you reasoned. Somehow, someone got bit, and the infection spread to the rest of the compound–the rest of the soldiers, at least. 

Most of the undeads wandering about once held positions of power. They once boasted before the cells of omegas, brandishing their medals and ribbons and everything else in a pathetic attempt to earn favour and initiate courtship. Now, it seemed those outside of the cages had seen the cruel, flesh-eating face of karma. You could only hope the lack of familiar, friendly faces meant your kind stayed locked away and safe while the compound exploded. They were strong; they'd make it.

Of course, there were whimpering survivors from your terrorizers’ side, namely the two men downstairs that Sukuna welcomed in with promises of safety and kinship ringing sweet on his tongue. It must've tasted quite bitter when they realized the trap was sprung with no honey to be found. 

Sukuna yawned and let go of you to tug his shirt back on. “Streets'll clear. Just a matter of waiting. Taking care of those two pigs downstairs'll keep shit quiet.” He picked up a hatchet and you shuddered. “We’ll take it from there.” 

You watched him wander to the door leading down to the basement–and then a thought got caught in your mind and sunk its teeth in with desperate need. 

“We should check the compound,” you said. Sukuna paused, and you swallowed down your brimming insecurity. “They have–I know they had medical supplies. And food. We should see what’s left.” 

Sukuna’s shoulders relaxed the slightest bit before he laughed. “‘N here I thought you were gonna beg for me to search for survivors.” 

“What? No, are you kidding me? I just want more medical stuff in case you get yourself hurt again,” you huffed, crossing your arms. 

Your partner threw a doting gaze over his shoulder at you before smirking. “Sounds like a plan.”

[poiibbtt]

Bound by Names

Pairing: Haku x Reader (You)

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Subtle Romance

Word Count: ~2,500 words

Synopsis: After Chihiro is freed, you find yourself drifting away from Haku, believing that with his newfound freedom, he no longer needs you. Struggling with loneliness and exhaustion, you distance yourself, despite the bond you once shared. One night, after a rough encounter in the bathhouse, Haku finds you injured and broken, leading to a quiet, heartfelt conversation that forces both of you to confront the feelings left unsaid.

The river was always quiet at night. You had known this place for as long as you could remember, the soft hum of water flowing endlessly, a comforting rhythm beneath the chaos of the spirit world. You and Haku had grown up together, both bound by the strange rules of this place, but you always had each other.

Though Haku had grown distant over the years, especially after he began working under Yubaba, you could still remember those early days, when he would sneak away from the bathhouse just to sit by the river with you. Back then, it was easier. Life was simpler. But things had changed.

You watch him now, hovering by Chihiro’s side. She’s different—human, lost, and frightened. Haku has taken it upon himself to protect her, just as he always protected you, and you can’t fault him for that. But as you stand in the shadows, watching from afar, there’s a heaviness in your chest. It’s not jealousy. It’s the realization that you’ve started to miss him—miss the way things used to be.

You shake your head, trying to dismiss the thought. It’s not fair to compare. Chihiro needs Haku. And besides, he’s always been this way. He has a way of making people feel safe, of being their anchor when the world becomes too much. You know that better than anyone. After all, you’ve been the one to patch him up when his dragon form was injured, when he returned from Yubaba’s dangerous tasks, battered but unbroken.

But lately, you’ve been feeling more alone, and that’s what hurts the most.

The first time you realized something had shifted between you and Haku was after Chihiro called him by his true name.

You were there, hidden in the shadows, when Chihiro gave Haku the gift of remembering who he truly was. You saw the moment it happened—how his eyes widened in shock, how his entire being seemed to glow with the realization of his true identity.

Kohaku River.

The name echoed in your mind, and you felt your stomach drop. It wasn’t just a name—it was his freedom. You knew it before anyone else did. Haku could leave now. He could leave Yubaba’s clutches, leave this world, leave you. And once Chihiro was free, he would have no reason to stay.

The thought festered in your heart, though you never voiced it. Instead, you did what you always did. You stayed in the background, watching as Haku continued to help Chihiro, wondering if he realized what this meant for the both of you.

As the days passed, you found yourself avoiding him. It wasn’t intentional at first. You told yourself you were busy, that the bathhouse and the spirits demanded your attention. But deep down, you knew the truth. You were pulling away because you didn’t want to face what was coming.

If you distanced yourself now, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much when he eventually left.

Tonight had been particularly rough. One of the spirits you were tasked with serving was more aggressive than usual, and in the chaos, you found yourself slammed into a pillar, the sharp edge cutting deep into your side. You winced, feeling the warm trickle of blood beneath your clothes, but there was no time to stop. Not when the bathhouse was in full swing. Not when Haku was nowhere to be seen.

You managed to slip away to the riverbank once the night grew quieter, clutching your side as the pain throbbed. The wound wasn’t life-threatening, but the dull ache mixed with the exhaustion and the loneliness in your heart was becoming too much to bear.

Sitting by the river, you stared into the water, trying to steady your breathing. The night was quiet, but the emptiness inside you was louder than ever.

You had hoped to disappear quietly into the night, but fate had other plans.

Haku appeared beside you, his presence as quiet and calm as always. “I’ve been looking for you,” he said softly, kneeling beside you.

You didn’t look at him, keeping your eyes on the river. “You shouldn’t have,” you replied, voice tight.

Haku’s gaze sharpened, noticing the way you clutched your side. His expression darkened as he knelt closer, pulling your hand away gently. “You’re hurt.”

You tried to pull away, but the pain made it hard. “It’s nothing,” you muttered, turning your face away from him. “You should leave.”

“Let me help you,” he said, his voice low, filled with concern as he carefully peeled back the fabric to inspect the wound. Despite your resistance, he started to patch you up with practiced hands, hands you’d once seen mending his own injuries. But now, they were focused on you.

“No.” You shook your head, your voice breaking, filled with a mix of frustration and sorrow. “Haku, you need to leave. You’re free now. You don’t need to stay here anymore.”

He continued tending to your wound, ignoring your words for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady but filled with something deeper. “Is that what you want? For me to leave?”

Tears welled in your eyes as you struggled to speak. “You deserve to go,” you whispered. “You deserve to be free, to live without worrying about anyone else… without worrying about me.”

Haku’s hands stilled, and for a long moment, the only sound between you was the river’s soft flow. “You really believe I’d leave you behind?” he asked, his voice quiet, almost hurt.

You swallowed hard, not trusting your voice, but nodded slightly. “You should.”

Haku didn’t let go. Instead, he finished tending to your wound before sitting back on his heels, his gaze locked on yours. “There’s something you don’t understand,” he said quietly.

You frowned, the ache in your chest growing as you tried to meet his eyes. “What?”

“Chihiro helped me remember my name, yes,” he began, “but that’s not all I remembered.”

You blinked, confusion spreading across your face. “What do you mean?”

“I remembered more than just my own name,” Haku continued, his voice soft but firm. “I remembered your name too.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding in confusion. “My… name?”

Haku nodded, his gaze unwavering. “When Chihiro helped me, something else came back. Something I had forgotten until now. I didn’t just regain my freedom. I remembered that I’m bound to you too.”

Your mind was spinning. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I took your name too,” he said softly. “I’ve always been tied to you. That hasn’t changed, and it never will.”

Tears blurred your vision as you processed his words, the overwhelming realization sinking in. “You… took my name?”

“Yes,” Haku said gently, his hand resting over yours, his touch warm and reassuring. “I’m not leaving you. I never planned to.”

For the first time, you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The loneliness that had been suffocating you began to ease, if only a little. Haku wasn’t leaving—not without you.

“I thought…” You couldn’t finish the sentence, the words catching in your throat.

“I know,” Haku whispered, his hand squeezing yours gently. “But you don’t have to push me away. We’re in this together.”

The weight of everything that had happened—the distance, the fear of losing him, the pain of seeing him with Chihiro—began to lift, just a little. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt less alone.

[lovers-tucked-into-a-quiet-cafe]

Chapter 1 [IKYLHT]

~3.5k Words | Series Masterlist | Prev: 141 & Rabbit Headcanons | Next Chapter

-

Ghost’s initial impression of you was not necessarily a fond one.

Admittedly, he was pushing down a scoff long before the humvee even entered the far side of the compound.

So when Shepherd’s slow drawl crackled over the comms, he resigned himself to letting his frustration fester deep under his skin.

“Marines are loading in now. You and the Sergeants are leading the way on this.”

“The Sergeants?”

“Sergeant ‘Soap’ MacTavish, Gunnery Sergeant ‘Rabbit”

He held back a groan.

Not these two.

Now Ghost hadn’t minded Soap’s presence in Verdansk, he could hardly remember Johnny if he’s being completely honest. It was years ago, and if you’d told him he worked with over 50 soldiers in that month alone he wouldn't bat an eye. 

It was your callsign that had pushed forward the memories of the man- hours of incessant rambling to Price about the mission you’d just come back from, updates about an ankle injury, and just about anything else he could think of. Ghost was almost surprised the Captain contently sat through it all, but he always had been a patient man.

Narrowly avoiding the elbows of your comrades shuffling off the humvee, you spot your superior from your seat next to Johnny, averting your gaze to grab his outstretched hand and drop the small distance to the ground, patting his shoulder with a smile as he turns to the lieutenant. 

“Let’s get ourselves a win, yeah, L.t.? Save ya’ a seat, sir.”

Watching the man’s dark eyes brush past Johnny’s shoulder and onto your frame, you give a nod and shout, “Lieutenant, sir!”, before following Soap’s quick steps as he loads onto the heli.

Following you and Johnny’s retreating forms, he sighs out through his nose and feels his eyebrows furrow. You fist-bump each soldier you pass, all smiles and laughs as you say something that gets the soldiers talking.

Fucking hell.

“Ghost- you copy?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Any issues?”

“Negative, sir. Out here.”

Buckling yourself in, you watch him walk up the ramp and settle into the seat across from Johnny.

“Nice to meet you, Lieutenant. I serve as this unit’s operations chief, please let me know if there’s anything I can assist you with. I go by Rabbit, sir.”

Ghost swears he feels his blood pressure rising, but stomps it down best he can and huffs a breath under his mask. 

He knows it’s irrational- there really is no reason for the irritation your introduction brings him, especially when your job is centered on keeping the unit well-tempered, but he’s tired. Tired of unpacking his duffle only to be called back to base mere hours after returning to the subsidized accommodation he calls home.

He really is a sweet man. Despite his cold exterior and intimidating reputation, he was hardly ever mean with his words. Curt, maybe. Brief, blunt, clipped- all fine words to describe the man but never mean. Enough missions with him- hearing the petnames roll off his tongue when dealing with hostages, feeling the gentleness of his hands as he patches bullet wounds, seeing the way he gladly takes the bedroll by the open window to ensure his comrades aren’t harrassed by the winter breeze- one may come to believe he was actually the kindest soldier among the squadron. 

So he keeps his tone level.

“Anything else?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Anything else you go by, soldier?”

“You can call me Gun if you’d like, sir. Not sure if anyone here would know you’re referring to me, though.”

He nods once, leaning back and turning his head to look towards another soldier.

“Beside me is Sergeant John MacTavish. We call him Soap, sir. You two worked alongside Captain Price in Verdansk.”

He’s quiet, nodding once to Johnny before turning again. 

Crossing your arms with a smile, you nudge Soap and give a small nod in the direction of the lieutenant.

“What’d you do to piss him off?” You murmur with a poorly concealed smile.

“No idea. We hardly spoke. Was too busy tellin’ Price all about your little oven incident on base.” Soap teases with a nudge of his shoulder against yours.

You roll your eyes and nudge him back before resting your head on the now departing heli and closing your eyes. “Oh, so you were chatting everyone’s ear off like always? That explains it.”

Letting out a low chuckle, he knocks his boot into yours twice before copying your stature, arms crossed and head leaning back.

Unlike the duo, Ghost doesn’t find sleep easily. 

If you ask, he’d say it was for the betterment of the mission. No team can afford a groggy, sleep-ridden lieutenant, especially not before a kill-or-capture. 

In actuality, he’d always been a light sleeper, ever since he was a boy. The military hardens you, gives you the ability to sleep in cold, damp environments that make you question if you’ll wake up having grown moss. But Ghost had never gotten over his need for a solid ground to sleep on, no matter how hard he tried.

He finds himself thinking of those futile attempts once more as he sits across from the two of you, shoulders squished as you lean on each other for support in the shaking heli.

He feels a sense of deja vu, though you’re both a tad more battered than the first time this scene played out. Securing the crash site was bloody, but he recalls Johnny’s soft smile when you knocked your boot against his and asked how his bleeding head felt.

“It’s just a graze, Bun. How’s the ankle?”

“Still clicking. Don’t think it’ll ever go back to normal.”

“A shame, really. Guess fate is forcing you to stick with me. Just for the foot rubs, o’course.”

“Of course, no other reason.”

He knocks his boot against yours, twice, and ruffles your hair before he leans back into the wall of the small exfil aircraft and closes his eyes.

“Hey! You know I’m low on gel, ruin my hair again and I’ll have you written up for insubordination.”

“Cry me a river, Bugs.”

“‘Oh, good one, Johnny. Hurt my heart with that one, truly.” You tease, giggling as he tosses his MTP cap onto your head and pushes the brim well below your eyes. 

“Sleep, Bunny.”

You look much better now, Ghost thinks. You’ve had a night to recoup- shower and rewrap the ankle he’s since learned you don’t go a day without tending to. The same could be said for Soap, bloody hair having been washed and cropped down an inch. He distinctly remembers hearing you snip at Johnny’s hair from the men's showers, pleading for him to grow it out at one even length and forcing the shortening regardless of Soap’s whines. 

He had stopped dead in his tracks the first time he heard your voice ring out, fully convinced he was mere steps away from walking into the women’s showers and living the rest of his military career with the word ‘nonce’ attached to his image.

His internal panic was silenced when he heard an unfamiliar voice ring out.

“Just tell ‘em your hand slipped, Rabbit. We’ll vouch for ‘ya!”

“Daniel, I swear to god, I’ll shiv ya’ in yer sleep.” He hears Soap’s loud, muffled voice.

“Johnny, you move again and you’re gonna have a stripe of beard missing.”

“I’d listen to her, Soap. Oliver’s already slipped her 20 quid to give you a chinstrap.”

“You’re full of shit, Daniel!”

He did his best to ignore the two men’s loud argument as he opened the door to the showers, just barely getting a glimpse of Soap’s side profile where he sits in a small towel and faces the wide mirror, blocked by your figure as you prop one knee on the bench and trim away at his beard. His arm is lazily wrapped around your waist, keeping your balance and occasionally fiddling with a fraying belt loop.

“Hey, L.t. Hittin’ the showers?”

Ghost lets out an affirmative grunt as you turn to face him with a grin he knows by now is mildly troubling.

“Good evening, Lieutenant. Need a trim? I’ve used my model, Mr. MacTavish here, as an example of how a good, clean cut can shape up any fixer-upper. By law I must state, I am eligible to receive a small commission based on the sale of any products sold here today. So, whatchya’ thinking, sir?”

You gesture towards the half empty USO Care Package that holds generic two-in-one toiletries with a giggle that’s spurred on by Daniel and Oliver’s loud chuckles. He takes note of your freshly washed hair and knows the good mood stems from the fresh cooked dinner and warm shower you’d clearly had the opportunity of enjoying. He’d scarfed down the dinner same as you, though in his private quarters, and now wonders how you’d freshened up so fast. 

He doesn’t recall Gunnery Sergeants being permitted upgraded living arrangements during deployments. Even he had to fight for authorization for an ensuite bathroom, and the showers were completely unusable. But the women’s barracks were on the other side of the compound, the showers close-by having been closed for refurbishment. You couldn’t possibly have been so fast as to have walked over there, showered, blow-dried your hair, changed into your civilian clothes, and walked back- all in a matter of minutes. Daniel and Oliver were just wrapping up their showers, and seeing by the small bottle of conditioner clutched in Soap’s hand, he isn’t far behind. Did that mean-

“Can I take your silence as a yes, Lieutenant?” You grin, wiggling the razor in your grasp.

Ghost steps around you and barks out a ‘Negative, Gun,” before walking to a shower in the far corner and pulling the curtain closed. Stripping down and turning the water on, he listens for the sounds of footsteps before even thinking of removing the balaclava. He doesn’t hear any, but rather your low voice speaking to Soap as the sounds of running water stop.

“Alright, I’m done. Go finish up.”

He scrubs the dirt and grime away as he listens to the other two men say their goodbyes as they leave, and only once he hears you chat to Soap from the bench as he conditions his hair does Ghost remove the balaclava and scrub at the greasepaint around his eyes.

He thinks back to later that night, hours after you and Soap had left the shower room he may or may not have locked by way of pressing an oddly misplaced chair firm under the handle of the door.

“Johnny, that slice is way too big. You’re gonna get a stomachache again. And this time I’m not- Lieutenant! Hello again! Take a seat, sir.”

At his lack of movement, your smile widens and you gesture toward the shared dining table.

“Please, go ahead.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s a little tradition Soap and I have. Buttermilk pie after every successful mission. I make it myself, secret recipe. Please, join us. The rest of the unit’s already had their slices.”

“We lost sight of Hassan and four of our men, Gun. You consider that a success?”

He isn’t unkind with his words, just factual.

“Johnny, am I standing here talking to our lieutenant?”

“Indeed, Bonnie.”

“And Lieutenant, would you say you feel alive?”

“Hardly.”

“I’ll take it.” You mumble, shrugging. “Sounds like a success to me. I’ll grab you a slice, sir.”

He wasn’t able to get a word out before you were shoving the flimsy plate into his chest, small dabs of whipped cream hitting his black hoodie. He moved a hand to push the plate away, but somehow you were faster in turning that hand and precariously balancing the wobbling desert plate in the center of his gloved palm.

“Please, Lieutenant. It boosts team morale. You’re here to do your job. I get that. Let me do mine.”

You’re physically able to see the breath he lets out, gently curling his fist around the desert and blinking owlishly. 

“Here’s yer fork, L.t.”

Mouth stretched into a wide grin, Soap throws an arm over your shoulder and directs you down the hall and into the empty common area, grabbing the remote and switching the channel over to some old Scottish comedy movie you detest but could recite by heart. 

Looking down at the now-flaking whipped cream stain, Ghost breathes out a soft growl and flips open the cabinets, grabbing a roll of cling wrap and sufficiently covering the slice of pie. 

Opening the fridge, he goes to place the dessert on the top shelf before stopping to read the comically large, sparkly pink piece of poster paper taped to the bottom two bins.

Property of Sgt. Soap and GnSgt. Rabbit. Failure to comply with direct no-contact orders will result in disciplinary infractions. Don’t think we won’t notice. We see all. 

Shaking his head with a small chuckle and roll of his dark eyes, Ghost turns back to the small camera he spotted lazily hidden behind the coffee machine and holds up the pie, before turning back and sliding open the first bin.

There isn’t much- some salsa, two ripe avocados, and a few Trader Joe’s microwave meals Ghost imagines cost a fortune to import. 

Opening the second drawer, the bin catches on the lip of the fridge and Ghost has to shimmy it back and forth before it gives way.

Just barely keeping himself from letting out a full-bellied laugh, he’s able to catch a stray candy bar that falls from the overflowing stash of refrigerated sweets. 

It’s a milk chocolate cadbury bar, and he only slightly over-exaggerates his movements in brushing his hand over the top of the pile before discreetly palming the chocolate bar up his sleeve.

“Don’t think we won’t notice. Hmph. Don’t know how you could, fuckin’ mountain of sweets.” 

Rifling through the pile, he passes a collection of English candies amongst some Scottish sweets he doesn’t recognize. He notes the small collection of American candies at the bottom of the bin, some he could’ve sworn was banned in the UK around the same time he was still working as an apprentice butcher at the grocery store. Something about red dye or sprinkles or choking hazards, he can’t care enough to remember. 

Regardless, he does his best to smush down the pile without crushing anything, once again wrestling the bin closed.

“Fucking hell, half these don’t even need to be refrigerated.”

He scoffs a low laugh as he places the pie in the first bin, barely half full. Securing the sign once again, he rises to his full height and closes the fridge. Making eye contact with the freezer, he shakes his head and walks off with a murmur.

“Don’t even wanna know.”

“-Sir?”

Your voice has his eyes snapping to yours before doing a quick one-over of the helicarrier.

When did the sun rise?

“You okay, sir? Called you a couple times.”

He doesn’t recall hearing you, doesn’t quite recall falling asleep either, but he can’t think of any other way he’d get distracted so easily.

He looks back over to you as you stretch out your arms, giving a nod.

“Freaked me out a little. You, uh… you didn’t blink. For like five minutes. Thought you were having a ‘Nam flashback or something.”

His lack of response and owlish stare has you laughing sheepishly, instead choosing to pat Soap’s thigh, nudging your shoulder against his and stirring him awake.

“Johnny. C’mon, wakey wakey. We’re starting descent.” 

Soap mumbles something incoherent but doesn’t open his eyes. You wrap your arm around his shoulders and shake him with a laugh.

“No no no, John, don’t fall back asleep. You’ve got ten minutes to liven up.”

Turning to Ghost, you nod with a small smile.

“Lieutenant. I saved an extra for you, sir.”

You reach into the small cooler beneath your seat and pull out a milk chocolate cadbury bar.

“Since you like them so much.” You add with a wink, closing the cooler and strapping a medieval looking chain lock that definitely surpassed overkill. The tips of Ghost���s ears turn red, and though you couldn’t possibly see that through the balaclava, he swears the mirth in your eyes proves otherwise. 

“Grab me anythin’, Bun?”

Rummaging around before handing Soap an Irn-Bru, you look out the small, round window and sigh happily.

Lifting the cooler lid, Ghost nods to a small portion of the sweets at the bottom of the container.

“Weren’t those discontinued?” he asks, glancing over at you as you ignore him in favor of unbuckling yourself and walking towards the cockpit, an excited hop to your step.

“She has ‘er ways, L.t. ‘S Probably best not to question it.” Soap chuckles with a smile and a shake of his head, popping open the can and suppressing his smile in between sips of the sweet drink. 

“What’s got her so giddy, then?”

“Closest she’s been to home in a while. Plus, she used to visit Mexico a lot when she was a kid, stationed on-and-off for a few years, too. Don’t mention it, though.” He says, nodding his head in your direction where you exit the cramped cockpit.

“Pilot says we’re three minutes out. I’d eat that chocolate while you’ve got the chance, Lieutenant.”

You turn, taking Johnny with you, and go back towards the cockpit where a few spare medkits lay in boxes. He watches you noncommittally skim your hands over a few of them, and he realizes you’d given him the opportunity to eat in privacy.

He’s tempted to just sit and time how long you’d stay with your back turned. Watch and see if you’d risk falling on your ass as the heli roughly lands if it means he could have an additional few seconds of peace.

But if there’s one guilty pleasure Ghost will always allow himself to indulge in, it’s chocolate. He’s always had a sweet tooth, something about the rich, milky cocoa dessert brings him back to a memory he can’t quite recall but knows feels right. 

He doesn’t lift the balaclava, though he probably could’ve with the amount of time you two spent with your backs turned. It’s barely noticeable, but as he slips the small squares of chocolate under his mask and to his lips, he spots the start of a thin, smooth scar trailing a few inches under your right ear to the start of your spine. The scar gets thicker as it trails down, evidence of a deeper wound, and he wonders if you feel just as vulnerable turning your back to him as he does slithering his only free hand under the mask and past the pale scars that decorate his soft lips.

Folding the wrapper and stuffing it into one of the free pockets of his tac vest, he loudly clears his throat and unbuckles himself.

Turning back and smiling, you walk back to the pilot and clap his shoulder with a ‘thanks, James’ before settling back in your seat next to Soap and allowing the landing to jerk you half out of your seat. 

He looks towards the pilot, squinting his eyes but only able to see his outline with the harsh sun glaring through the windshield.

He’s not able to get his sights on the man before the ramp is lowering and he’s following Soap in meeting the Colonel.

“Alejandro”

“Sergeant MacTavish”

“Call me Soap”

“Lieutenant. Laswell says they call you Ghost.”

“Actually, I believe he prefers to be-”

“That’ll do.”

Nodding as he fights back an amused grin, Alejandro looks past the two men.

“Gunnery Sergeant Rabbit. What’s in the cooler?”

Whipping his head to turn to you, he almost lets out a sigh. Really, he should’ve expected it by now, but wishful thinking had him hoping you’d leave the cooler of sweet snacks for the pilots to enjoy. 

“Doubloons.” You smile, setting the cooler at your feet and shaking Alejandro’s hand. “Colonel Vargas. Nice to meet you, sir.”

“Welcome to the ‘City of Souls’.”

Picking up the cooler, Soap looks out at the rising sun before turning back to Alejandro.

“I’ve never been to Mexico.” 

“This isn’t Mexico. This is Las Almas.”

Giving his strong arms an appreciative squeeze, you position yourself between him and Ghost, listening attentively to the Colonel’s words. 

“Shephard’s contractors are inbound to reinforce. They’re bringing hardware, they’ll need room. My base is your base.”

“Good. Now, where’s Hassan?”

“Cartel safe-house, ten clicks from here.”

Opening the door and throwing the cooler behind his seat, Johnny reaches a hand out and leads you to the center seat, grabbing the buckle and strapping you in.

“No fun.” You pout and whisper quietly, breaking into a smile as he shoves himself into the cramped seat and knocks his boot into yours with a pat to your thigh.

“This is my second in command, Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra.”

“Tengo miedo de los fantasmas”

Fighting back a smile, you turn to Ghost.

“Mhm, Fantasma. Sounds sexy. I think that’s what I’ll call you.”

Ghost’s glare settles deep into your soul, but it got a chuckle from the rest of the car- and it’s not like that glare didn’t pleasantly spike your heart rate- so you brush it off with a smile.

“You know Spanish?” Alejandro turns back, but Soap is quick to speak.

“No.” He bumps his boot into yours.

Alejandro lets out a chuckle as he turns back towards the road.

“You will.”

-

<3

[cobaltperun]

Woe out the Storm (12) - Thunder Rolls

Wednesday Addams x female Reader

Summary: It took some time, but eventually you came to realize only Wednesday Addams could look at the raging storm of chaos and destruction and make a home out of it. Only she could listen to the cacophony of the roaring thunder and hear a melody.

Story warnings: Wednesday Addams, violence, slow burn

Story Masterlist / First part / Previous part / Next part

Word count: 6k

-As the storm blows on, out of control, deep in her heart the thunder rolls-

She was making a mistake, she was digging her own hole and instead of stopping and climbing out of it she just kept digging deeper and if she continued she wouldn’t be able to get out. Being buried alive didn’t seem like a bad way to go, but this was not the dirt she wanted to be buried beneath.

Tyler asked her out when she was at Weathervane, according to him she owed him for what happened to him, for nearly getting him killed. And she agreed, she did owe him, but this wasn’t her preferred way of paying him back. This was just going to make things worse, give him the wrong idea that his feelings, whatever and however unreasonable they were, weren’t one-sided. But she couldn’t back away now. Not even when Thing berated her for accepting to meet up with Tyler.

He even mockingly called it a date. Even dared to compare it with her asking Xavier to the dance. As if she wanted to be in either of those situations.

“Watch the diary while I’m gone,” she instructed, no longer having the patience to argue, otherwise Thing might get brave enough to mention you again.

‘There could be a big storm tonight!’ Thing told her in Morse code since she already had her back turned to him, and Wednesday stopped. Rain was one thing, but a lightning storm, there was no way of knowing if you could stay in control after all these nights in the rain. Sure, you stayed in control two nights ago, when you first left, but would you stay in control this time as well?

She bit her lower lip in frustration, almost hard enough to draw blood, she made her decision.

~X~

It was an easy decision, much easier than she thought it would be as she looked at the cloudy skies. She thought pushing you away was a way to keep you safe, but waking up in your bed for the second time made her understand the situation she was in wasn’t as simple as not spending time with you. And staying away from you only reminded her of you more. If Thing wasn’t talking about you, then something else would remind her that you weren’t there. Something as simple as Fester pulling his usual prank and zapping Tyler reminded her of you, even if you never did that to anyone in front of her.

How ridiculous. It should have been the other way around. Seeing your lightning should have reminded her of her uncle, but it was too different for her to form that connection in her mind. And now his electricity reminded her of you, regardless of how different the two powers were.

So, it really wasn’t something she had to choose, it was as natural as lightning during a storm for her to decide what to do regarding her circumstances.

She still owed it to Tyler to at the very least show up and not waste his time by making him wait at the crypt.

“Wednesday!” he looked way too eager, too happy to see her, love struck, not in the way her parents were, but in that teenage way that spoiled like milk.

She glanced at his chest, at the spot where the monster, the Hyde, wounded him, it wasn’t too deep and Wednesday easily patched him up. Tyler got lucky, and as far as Wednesday was concerned, she nearly got him disemboweled. She wondered if she at least prevented the vision from the Rave’N, the one with the Hyde attacking you. If that vision was to be believed you weren’t a match for the Hyde in your human form. That was what the rational part of her brain was telling her, but she couldn’t deny the heavy feeling in her heart.

Because, as much as she refused to admit it, a part of Wednesday wanted to see it, she wanted to see the circumstances that would make you drop your restraints and shift. She wondered what kind of beast you were. Maybe you were a wolf, like Diego, or another canine, maybe you were something less dangerous, a normally peaceful beast, perhaps you were an albatross, who, like in Baudelaire’s poem, flies into the storms. She thought of many options, and while she didn’t know which one was correct, she wanted to see it. She wanted to see for herself the power of a lightning beast.

She remembered the vision she had when she touched Rowan, the brief flash of smoke covered beast standing above her, but it was brief and there was no guarantee that it was you. Why would it be you? Trapping her? Threatening her? Perhaps trying to kill, or at least hurt her? That wasn’t you, unless you truly had no control over that form.

“Wednesday?” Tyler snapped her out of her thoughts.

“I’m not here for the date with you,” she cut to the point before he could continue or get the wrong idea because she came.

He raised his brows up in surprise. “I’m sorry?” he asked, confused by her reaction.

“I don’t have feelings for you, Tyler,” she said it directly, leaving no space for interpretation or misunderstanding. “I’m here to tell you that.”

He looked like someone kicked him, dejected and disappointed. “It’s Y/N, isn’t it? You like her,” he took a guess.

Wednesday, despite wanting to maintain her composure couldn’t help but look away. Did she? She’s been so focused on pushing you away, on rejecting any feeling she had for you that she didn’t stop to think what kind of feeling she was rejecting exactly.

The truth was that she did, actually, like you. She wasn’t sure if that meant that she wanted to be more than friends, or that someone could call the two of you friends in the first place, especially given the past week or so. But she did like you, her feelings for you were strong, overwhelmingly so, from her desire to keep you alive, to how much she missed you now that you were gone.

Tyler was harmless, a normie barista that might accept her rejection better and quicker if she was completely honest, so, Wednesday nodded. Confirming that she did, indeed, like you.

“I should have noticed it sooner, even after she left you alone,” he muttered, the frown on his face, the defensive posture, frustrated look etched on his face, it all made it clear he wasn’t taking this well.

Yet Wednesday couldn’t help but wonder how he knew you left her, or rather your shared room. Not that it mattered at the moment. She’d figure it out after she gets you to come back to your room with her. “We’re done here,” she stated and quickly walked away, not wanting to waste another moment.

Maybe if she paid more attention to her surrounding, maybe if she wasn't so caught up in her emotions, maybe then she would have seen a water tank hidden behind the crypt.

~X~

The weather forecast said there shouldn’t be a tonight and you couldn’t help but thank your luck. Well, you guessed it was the rainy season, but three nights in a row might be too much. Still, you were getting exhausted, by staying in control, by not shifting, by everything really. Part of the issue was also the isolation. Aside from Enid and Thing no one else came to see you, no one else was crazy enough to go see a raiju during rain. And even Enid picked a time when it wasn’t raining. So, there you were, isolated, exhausted, and unsure of how much longer you could stay in control, so yeah, you were thankful you could rest tonight.

The doors behind you opened, no knocking, no sound, nothing, they just opened.

“Enid, I told you I’m not-“ you turned around, expecting to see Enid. Instead you saw Wednesday and the words just refused to come out of your mouth.

She looked around, taking in her surroundings. “I didn’t think there’d be this many things,” she said, still not looking at you.

“Wednesday,” if she wasn’t entirely ready for the conversation you weren’t ready at all. You didn’t expect her to actually come, nor did you expect your heart to start beating this quickly at the mere sight of her.

After what felt like eternity of her slightly opening her mouth and then changing her mind, without once looking at you, and being strangely fascinated by all the other things in your shed, she finally turned to face you. Surprisingly, she blinked a few times, her body stiff and hands balled into fists. “Come back to our room,” she finally said, her voice quieter than what you were used to, her tone lacked that I-don’t-care, confident sound to it.

You told Thing you wanted an apology, yet it felt like this was as close as you’d get. You pulled out the chair next to you and motioned toward it. “Sit with me?” it was a request at best, gentle, accepting of any decision Wednesday could make.

She just nodded and approached the chair you pulled out for her while you turned in your seat so you could face her properly. So, while you sat there, a bit nervous, but with a significantly more relaxed posture and leaning slightly forward, Wednesday sat as still and stiff as she could, her hands resting on her lap, her back straight and looking ahead. She wasn’t looking at you, and somehow you figured that would make the conversation easier for her.

“Why did you go to the Gates’ mansion without me?” you asked softly.

“I didn’t need you,” she replied, that even tone you got so used to was back and it relaxed you even more.

“Tyler did, Enid could have needed me as well,” you tried your best not to confront her, not to point out that she put them in danger while consciously choosing to keep you away from it. Even if being tied up and submerged wasn’t the best for you, it was still safer than going to the mansion. But accusing Wednesday of basically caring about you would only make her even less comfortable, and she’d likely get up and leave.

“I didn’t,” she didn’t even hesitate. Didn’t even consider how it sounded, even if the blinking gave her away.

“Look at me,” you pulled your chair a bit closer to her. “Wednesday, look at me,” she didn’t move, but she did look to the side. “What happened to us? Since the Parents’ weekend, and even since the dance and Eugene being attacked you’ve,” and then it hit you. The vision at the Rave’N. “What did you see when we touched at Rave’N?”

Wednesday’s eyes widened slightly, as if she got caught. “You were attacked,” that made sense, everything made sense now.

You leaned back, sighing as you looked at the wooden roof above you two. “And you’re trying to prevent it,” you got up and offered her your hand. “Let’s go back,” you wished she just said it in the first place, but at least you knew now. Still, seeing as she just looked at your hand you figured you were pushing too far and pulled your hand back, sheepishly rubbing the back of your head and grinning at her. “Sorry, that’s a bit too much,” you turned around, missing how her hand twitched just before you pulled your hand back.

“Let’s go,” she said, getting up and walking out of your shed at a brisk pace. “There might be a storm, tonight, we need to hurry.”

You tilted your head to the side, not really sure where she got that information from. Since when did she even have a way to check the weather forecast?

Thing.

Little handy liar.

~X~

The walk back to your room was silent, but there was nothing uncomfortable about it, in fact, you could say you were enjoying the silent walk with Wednesday. Maybe you missed her a lot more than you were willing to admit. You snuck a glance at her, she looked to be in deep thought, but she seemed more comfortable, in her own way.

She suddenly looked at you, catching you in the act and you felt your face heating up a bit at that, and not due to lightning. “Sorry,” you muttered, looking away and tucked your hands into your pockets.

“For what?” Wednesday’s question didn’t make it any easier. Especially since she refused to look away now.

You just chuckled uncomfortably. “Doesn’t matter. Anyway, uh, I’m sorry for snapping at you, I should have handled it better,” your reaction wasn’t unreasonable, but you should have cooled down a bit before confronting her. And you should have waited until she came back to your room, instead of confronting her somewhere where anyone could see and hear the two of you.

Wednesday nodded. “I’m,” she paused and looked away, though a few seconds later she forced herself to look at you. “Sorry. For what I did,” for knocking you out, leaving you in a bathtub filled with water tied up and unable to get free without hurting Thing.

Yeah, you’d think twice before going into the bathroom if Wednesday called you. “Just don’t do it again,” you gently nudged her shoulder with a teasing smirk as the two of you approached your room. You quickened your pace and opened the doors, stepping aside and jokingly bowing slightly to let her in. “After you, miss Addams,” you couldn’t help but smile when her eye twitched at the gesture. She still went inside, only to stop right away.

“Wednesday?” you came inside, confused as to why she stopped. The moment you looked around you understood. The room was completely thrashed, the papers covered the floor, Wednesday’s manuscript… just scattered all over the floor, her furniture turned over, drawers left open, and the same mess was in your part of the room as well.

Where was Thing?

“The diary…” Wednesday went further inside, still taking the whole mess in. “Thing?” she called out. The sound of something dripping caught your attention and you and Wednesday looked back to see Thing, pinned to the pillar with a knife going right through him.

“Thing!” Wednesday rushed to him and you quickly went to get a towel. “Y/N can you use your lightning?!” the panic in her voice shouldn’t have startled you like it did, but I was the first time you heard that much distress in Wednesday’s voice.

She was breathing heavily as you ran up to her. “I can’t, I don’t have that kind of control!” you pressed the towel onto the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. How were you even supposed to help a hand?!

“Fester is here, he can help!” Wednesday looked at the doors and nearly began running, but you grabbed her by her waist and lifted her up. She had the solution, and that was enough to get you moving. “Y/N!” she yelled your name as you ran toward the balcony.

“This is faster, just keep a firm hold on him!” you jumped over the fence and pulled out one of your knives, you threw it toward the ground. When you were about two thirds of the way down you let go of Wednesday, shifted into lightning to get ahead of her and zapped toward the ground. You barely touched the ground and immediately jumped up, boosting your jump with lightning to catch Wednesday and safely land. “Where are we going?” you demanded, already running across the pentagon.

Wednesday didn’t struggle, despite the panic she felt she still realized you were boosting your speed with lightning, making this the fastest way to get Thing the help he needed. “Eugene,” but she still struggled to give you the information you needed. “Bees,” but you understood.

“Just focus on Thing, I understand,” you assured her, not even realizing how close you were as you held her, almost in a bridal style, how Wednesday was hiding her face in the crook of your neck, how Thing was wrapped in a towel, held close to her chest as she held onto your back. You didn’t realize any of it as you rushed to the bee house where Fester, whoever that was, was. If he could help Thing it didn’t matter.

You ran faster, reaching hives in record time. “We’re here! Go! Go!” you needed to catch your breath for a moment, and Wednesday could handle the few feet between her and the doors, and she did. She jumped out of your arms and burst through the doors.

“Fester! Fester, help! Help! Help! Help! Thing’s not moving! He was stabbed!” she yelled, making the bald man dressed in black get up.

“Get him on the table!” Fester told her as you stepped inside.

You cleared the table and Wednesday set Thing down as the man rubbed his hands together and electricity emerged from the tips of his fingers.

In any other circumstance you would have been surprised, but now you just leaned onto the table, anxiously looking at Thing’s unmoving body. Wednesday crouched down on the opposite side of you, and she held onto the table, likely feeling no different than she felt when she lost her scorpion, if not even worse and more helpless than back then.

Fester tried to use his fingers as defibrillators, but Thing didn’t react. “Oh, come on, Thing,” he tried again and you dared to look at Wednesday.

Looking at her was a mistake, she was on the verge of tears, swallowing the lump in her throat as she tried to stay in control over her emotions.

You looked at Thing, but when the third attempt didn’t work you couldn’t keep watching, and instead tightly shut your eyes to keep your own tears from falling. You balled your fists, sparks digging into the wood.

“He’s gone, Wednesday,” Fester remorsefully said, pulling his hands back. He gave up.

Wednesday’s sorrow turned to anger as she grabbed the towel and pulled it closer to her. “No, he’s not! Thing if you can hear me, if you die, I will kill you,” she threatened, her voice trembling with barely contained emotions. “Go again,” she said as she pushed the towel back. When Fester only looked at her she slammed her hand onto the table. “Now! Again, please!”

Fester tried again, with no success and then he tried again, maintaining the charge for much longer and then, when he stopped, Thing twitched.

Wednesday gasped and both she and Fester looked relieved. You leaned away from the table, stepping back and letting out a sigh of relief as a tear slid down your cheek.

“For a minute, we thought you picked your last lock, buddy,” Fester exclaimed.

“Who did this to you?” Wednesday demanded and Thing’s answer made her furious. “Knife from behind the back. Cowards! I promise that whoever did this to you will suffer, and it will be slow, long, and excruciatingly painful,” she promised and there was no doubt in your mind that she would keep that promise.

Thing raised his little finger and Wednesday reached out, linking their little fingers together, it was a deal. With that, he lay down, alive, but still weak and Wednesday wiped her tears away. “I’ll stitch him back up,” she said as she got up.

“You’re Elijah’s kid, right?” Fester was grinning like he was really excited about that, and only then did you realize that he was Wednesday’s uncle, the man your dad mentioned once. In your defense, it was a stressful situation, and you only heard his name once prior to tonight.

“Yeah, Y/N, nice to meet you,” you offered him your hand and he eagerly accepted it, zapping you in the process.

You just smirked and zapped him back, red and blue sparks buzzing around your hands.

“Hey, Wednesday, I like this kid! She’ll fit just right in the family!” he grinned as Wednesday began stitching Thing up.

Your eyes widened and Wednesday stilled. “What?” both of you asked at the same time.

“No need to hide, Gomez and Morticia already told me everything,” he began patting you on the shoulder, a bit too forcefully, but you were too surprised to care about that. “Wednesday is my favorite, but good luck kid, you’ll need it!”

“Uh, thanks?” you really had no idea how else you could react. You were starting to think people just assumed something was going on between you and Wednesday. Enid, Thing, your mom, Wednesday’s parents from the looks of it, her uncle, hell, probably your dad as well, Tyler was jealous, Xavier as well, probably, why did everyone think Wednesday liked you back. Sure, you had feelings for her, but Wednesday?

Ridiculous.

Right?

Speaking of ridiculous, you just remembered something Fester should probably know. “Police came by my shed earlier, someone found a bike you apparently stole, and they wondered if I knew anything about you,” you said, raising an eyebrow slightly.

“Maybe next time steal something less conspicuous,” Wednesday suggested, confirming to you that her uncle did, in fact, steal it.

“Where’s fun in that?” Yet, Fester didn’t really seem like he’d change his approach any time soon. “Oh, fine. I’ll keep an eye on the patient and skedaddle in the morning,” he gave in and you couldn’t help but smile a bit as the two exchanged their goodbyes.

~X~

Wednesday briefed you in on what was going on, on Faulkner’s diary, the monster being called a Hyde, your guess that there could be more than one killer being confirmed due to Hyde having a master. All of that you could handle, in fact, you were glad her investigation was going well.

You and Wednesday split up, much to your reluctance, when you came back to school, she went to Weems with Thornhill, and you went back to your room to start clearing up the mess the intruder made.

Anger threatened to consume you as you cleaned Thing’s blood. If only you were there, if you came back, none of this would have happened. He wouldn’t have nearly died, the diary wouldn’t have been lost. But, no, you had to be stubborn and it nearly got Thing killed. All you could hope for now was that Wednesday would let you join in on making whoever stabbed Thing suffer. Even if, if Wednesday was correct, the Hyde was Xavier and his master was the psychiatrist Wednesday was ordered to see. So, even if you weren’t sure how you felt about someone you’ve known for several years being responsible for this you decided to trust Wednesday’s instincts.

When Wednesday came back she went to the bathroom to get ready to sleep. She tried to help you, but you sent her away and she was too exhausted to resist. She nearly lost Thing, you weren’t going to let her clean this whole mess.

With that thought in mind you began picking up the papers that were scattered around the floor. This was senseless. The intruder was looking for the diary, a fairly large book from what Wednesday said. There was no need to try to ruin an entire manuscript. You were thankful she numbered the pages, so it wasn’t too difficult to put it back together, and everything else was light work once the manuscript was handled. You were done a few minutes before Wednesday came out, looking emotionally exhausted now that everything had settled down.

“You’re done,” she noticed and gave you a small, thankful, nod when she noticed her manuscript.

“Yeah,” you approached her, stopping near her but not daring to try and comfort her. “Will you be okay?”

Wednesday just nodded and went to her table, she took the knife you returned to her and went back to you. “You claimed it as your own,” she explained as she offered it to you.

Your eyes widened slightly, but you took the knife, your fingers brushing against her hand in the process. “Thanks,” you lingered, but so did she, and when it got too awkward you stepped back. “I’ll… get ready for bed, you don’t have to wait for me,” you weren’t even sure why you had to say that.

Still, you went to the bathroom, with your pajamas in hand. A slightly longer than necessary shower with distilled water, and your usual routine later you came out of the bathroom to the sight you never thought you’d see and somehow, despite the wild beating of your heart and the heat that engulfed your face you briefly wondered if Wednesday did actually like you back.

Thing telling you that Wednesday missed you echoed in your mind as you watched her.

Because while she did go to bed, she went to your bed. And then you realized she was using your blanket. That wasn’t white, black, or gray… The fact that she wasn’t using her own blanket to avoid allergic reaction was enough to snap you out of whatever you were feeling, and you went over to her bed, grabbing the black blanket and taking it with you.

“Wednesday,” you called, waking the girl up. She wasn’t even sleeping in her usual position; she was curled up underneath your blanket.

She opened her eyes and looked at you, clearly not pleased that she was woken up.

“At least use your blanket,” you teased, boldly pulling your blanket off her, and tossing her blanket over her body. It was as if she just now realized she was in your bed and she blushed a bit. You had to admit, Wednesday in your bed, blushing, would probably live rent free in your head for a very long time.

“Not one word,” Wednesday warned you as you sat down at the bottom of the bed.

“You’re in my bed and you expect me to stay silent?” you began laughing at the thought of that. Sure, you were aware that she was more than a little embarrassed, but there was no way you could just ignore this.

“Mention this to anyone and you’ll never get to sleep again,” she threatened as she got up and began walking. The frown on her face as she passed by you was enough for you to reach out and grab her hand.

You figured this wasn’t the first night she slept in your bed, if you had to guess you’d say it was probably the third night, and she just, already, developed a bit of a habit. “It was a long couple of days,” you said, tugging lightly at her hand, just strong enough for her to notice. “Stay, the bed is big enough for both of us,” and it was, you could easily sleep in it and not touch once.

You could see the reluctance on her face, but just as you were about to let go she took a step back, getting closer to you. You could feel the tension in her hand, the way her fingers wrapped around your hand, clutching so tightly you wondered if she was trying to break them or if she really was that nervous.

“Mother told me,” she began and you could see exactly how difficult this was for her. “Once every generation, for over four centuries, an Addams bonds with a raiju,” she stood right in front of you, her eyes finding your own in the dimly lit room.

You waited, just gently rubbing circles into the back of her hand. It would either help her, or annoy her, either way she’d stop being as nervous as she was.

“Raiju usually die for their Addams,” she seemed to be done, you could see she was expecting some kind of reaction from you, it was in her eyes, in her slightly parted lips, in the breath she was holding.

So, you gave it to her, you pulled her closer, close enough for your knees to touch. She wanted to push you away, but you wanted to get closer, you wanted to close as much distance as she would allow. “And you saw the Hyde attacking me, and you got worried,” you sighed, there it was, the final piece of the puzzle. Wednesday got completely overwhelmed, by her visions, by what Morticia told her, by what happened to Eugene, it was too much for her, and now with what happened to Thing. It was too much for her. She was feeling too much and too fast, one thing after another, she couldn’t catch a break and process what she was feeling. As much as you wanted to pull her even closer, to hug her, you recognized that she might not be able to handle it. That this was as far as she could be pushed right now. That it would be nothing short of a miracle if she decided to sleep next to you.

“Yes,” she confirmed, weakening her grip on your fingers to firm, but much less painful.

“Wednesday, I,” you paused, carefully choosing your words. There was a chance this could only make things worse, but you supposed you were never that good with finding more appropriate words. “Don’t give a fuck about that Addams-raiju bond. I was drawn to you, and some generations long bond has nothing to do with it,” you figured that was enough, because if it wasn’t, you feared Wednesday would be overwhelmed by the rest of it.

She looked down, biting her lower lip so hard you were worried she might draw blood. You reached up, lightly touching her cheek, just enough for her to stop biting her lip, just enough to let her lean into your touch if she wanted to. She didn’t, but she didn’t pull away either, and you kept your hand there just for a bit longer before letting it drop down. “You can be my Addams, but I won’t die, so, trust me,” you said softly, grinning when she glared at you. Clearly, she didn’t like being called ‘your Addams’, but, at least this was how you expected her to be.

There was nothing left to say as you let go of her hand, you just got under the blanket, leaving enough space for Wednesday and looked at her one last time before closing your eyes. And she followed, she lay down next to you and you couldn’t help but smile a bit at that. “Good night, Wednesday.”

“Good night,” she replied

~X~

Despite how easy it was to sleep in your bed the past two nights Wednesday couldn’t fall asleep tonight. The heat radiating from you kept her right there, just on the edge of falling asleep, and her blanket gave her that additional comfort she was missing, but she just couldn’t do it. She couldn’t remember if she ever tossed and turned as much as she did tonight, not sure if she wanted to be as far from you as the bed would allow her, or if she wanted to close the distance.

You came back and you… helped her save Thing. Would she have made it in time if you weren’t there? She turned around to face you, you looked peaceful as you slept on your side, as if falling asleep like this didn’t bother you one bit. She looked at your hand, resting on the pillow in front of your face.

Wednesday didn’t fear death, her heart didn’t start beating faster even when you jumped from the balcony, even if falling from that height would have meant certain death. She didn’t fear death, and she trusted you, she believed you had a way to safely land, and you did. No, her heart didn’t beat any faster as she was falling. It did beat faster now that the adrenaline was gone, and she remembered being in your arms. It was logical. You were significantly faster, and Thing wasn’t moving. Now that panic and fear were gone and Thing was going to be fine she felt the phantom sensation of your touch and she didn’t despise it.

Her fingers trembled a bit as she reached forward and just took hold of your wrist, just inched a bit closer to you while pulling your arm toward her at the same time. This was fine. This was just enough. She was okay with this much touch. Her eyes fluttered closed and she fell asleep.

~X~

The Hyde attacked Kinbott mere minutes after Wednesday accused her of being Laurel Gates and as you rushed to the hospital to meet up with Wednesday and Weems you couldn’t help but think about her theory.

It was solid. Xavier was artistic, he had his issues, his darker side, he had his obsession with Wednesday which would explain why he didn’t kill her, and why he saved her from Rowan’s gargoyle. And he drew the Hyde dozens of times, down to the location of the lair and the Gates mansion. Kinbott could use hypno-therapy to unlock him. He could have made it in time to attack Wednesday, Enid and Tyler in the Gates mansion. Wednesday was being watched, so he’d know if Thing was the only one in the room.

Everything pointed at him. But it was too easy.

Either Kinbott wasn’t Laurel, which would mean locking Xavier up wouldn’t help much in the long run, or they were missing something.

By the time you arrived at the hospital Wednesday was already going down the stairs, the determined fury shining in her eyes.

“Wednesday! Did Kinbott make it?” you asked as you ran up to her, but she didn’t stop, she just kept going. Likely back to Nevermore to confront Xavier, or to the police station, or wherever that wasn’t exactly here.

“No,” she replied, hints of her anger clear in her voice.

“What if we’re wrong?” last night, as well as this morning, you agreed with her theory, but now that you knew Kinbott was dead, you were almost certain you and Wednesday were missing something.

“We’re not. Xavier is the Hyde,” she, at least, stopped to look at you.

“It’s too easy. What kind of fool would be this sloppy? Drawing the Hyde doesn’t match other behavior,” you tried to get her to think things through one more time.

“Such as?”

“Clearing out the mansion, burning the lair, surgically removing the body parts, killing the mayor? It’s much more careful than drawing the Hyde and basically leaving the evidence for anyone to see. Wednesday please, Xavier is an easy choice, at least think about it one more time,” you listed, but you knew there was a question you couldn’t answer.

~X~

And Wednesday knew what that question was. “Who else could it be?” because that was the thing, no one else was her suspect, no one else could be behind this, no one else made sense. And yes, it was easy, too easy for her liking, but all signs pointed at Xavier.

“I don’t know,” you sighed, your shoulders slumped in defeat as you realized the same thing Wednesday realized a while ago. There just wasn’t another suspect.

And then it just happened, just as she was about to go to the police and turn Xavier in her hand brushed against the back of your hand and she lost consciousness.

You were panting, kneeling on the ground as blood stained the grass beneath you, the Hyde was standing over someone as you pushed your body up and Wednesday felt the rage within you. It was almost overwhelming, dangerous, if allowed and able to, you’d kill the Hyde. “Tyler!” the rage in your voice as you yelled that name, as the Hyde turned to look at you, it shook Wednesday to her core.

She was wrong, as she opened her eyes and once again found herself in your arms, she looked at you. “It’s Tyler. It’s not Xavier, it’s Tyler,” the normie barista she believed to be harmless was the Hyde. The Hyde was the same person she told she liked you. Tyler knew her weakness, and she was the one who handed it to him.

A/N: Hashtag Wednesday being soft for exactly one person? Meh, still more reasonable than her love interests in season 1.

[ass-fuehrerin]

[Purgatory]

I swear I’ll lose it if the last round of games in s3 ends up being of the same ones In-ho had to suffer through during the 2015 ‘race.’

Being his own self-initiated trigger.

And if these final, all-too-familiar, painfully familiar games will send him tumbling back into the abyss of flashbacks, spiraling into an emotional freefall with no sense where he’ll land… yeah, that’s an eruption long overdue.

[Damn, that’s the meltdown I’m dying to see.]

To feel the weight of his decisions so vividly he had suppressed for so long, while scratching at all those festering emotional scars... This wouldn’t be merely a trigger. It would be a reckoning of the soul, because of how trapped he feels in the situation. He’s been complicit in it, yet at the same time, somewhat desperate of seeking Gestalt closure — resolution to the internal conflict of the man he once was and the monster he’s become.

His actions across both seasons reveal the clear split in him — the cold, calculated machine veiled by fleeting glimpses of something softer, more tormented. And if those revived 2015-style games pull him into that dark past, there’s a chance he’ll crumble, questioning every move he’s made — including his own complicity in Gi-hun’s fight to destroy the very trigger [the Games] In-ho has been endlessly reliving, masochistically, over and over again.

He might not participate in this final round of games after s2, but what if he still took part in the very last game? The one he once survived as an ultimate winner, the one that altered him, damaged him brutally, mercilessly? Imagine his mask [both quite literally and metaphorically] slipping during this very game?

A brief yet intense breakdown right in front of others? In front of Gi-hun?

And oh my God, if Gi-hun gets a chance to catch this slip of In-ho’s mask and — amidst this madness — manages to scrape together his own severely wounded empathy [mercy, forgiveness, understanding] — a flicker of his former softer himself still alive, still on the surface — enough to feel that shift in Hwang, to see the no less wounded figure beneath layers of scars, so eerily similar to his own...

It would spark such a passionate, explosive dynamic. A face-to-face clash that could alter the course of not only their fates, but the fate of the remaining players as well.

No longer will it be about winning or orchestrating these games — it’ll be about grappling with guilt, with compassion, and whether these two men, both broken at different times by the same thing, are enemies or reflections of each other.

So, their relationship would transform into open debates, a moral and emotional tug-of-war.

[I mean, it’s already been partially portrayed in this new way in s2, but still as an undercurrent with some major variables hidden and unknown.]

No more masks. No more lies. Just naked, battered souls, scrambling to patch/re-patch each other up, in whatever frantic, desperate way they can right here right now — if that’s even possible anymore in such an extremely short time and under these circumstances.

As a culmination — each of them undergoes purification through the flames of hell that burn within the other.

Both clearly realize in the moment of cleansing that not everything goes as they anticipate, indeed.

In-ho, through his emotional collapse and reckoning, may experience a catharsis that transcends personal healing. This purification through suffering could lead to a profound realization: the Games aren’t just a perverse reflection of society's brokenness, but a direct reinforcement of it — something he himself has contributed to.

His redemption would focus on action and self-forgiveness — an awakening from the haze, followed by active opposition. He would choose to destroy the Games, not lives, and to take physical action instead of silently “contemplating”, approving the problems and horrors around him

Gi-hun, experiencing the same moment of catharsis, as both a survivor and a man torn by his own moral compass, might realize that surviving at the cost of others — sacrificing what remains of his humanity in the name of winning — doesn’t actually mean winning. Instead, it’s yet another reinforcement of the twisted, inhuman architecture of the Games and social problems they perpetuate. By accepting his mistake and realizing that physical survival or prevailing in these Games (by killing their architects) at all costs isn’t true victory, he could become a force to dismantle the structure that has held them all captive.

His greatest act of redemption, then, is more about forgiving others and their flaws and a form of emotional action and contemplation — returning to unlimited, unconditional empathy, and moving alongside others rather than at their expense or leading over them.

Their internal struggles could first give rise to a new type of "game" — not one of physical violence, but of emotional and moral reckoning. The concept of purification could transform the Games into something even more introspective, where the contestants face their deepest fears, regrets, and potential for redemption, rather than focusing on physical survival. This would first destroy the Games as we know them, replacing them with a more profound and internal journey.

In the ashes of the old Games, perhaps new one emerge — not to test strength, but to test the soul. The ultimate survival isn’t about killing, but about healing. The final test is to face your sins, your scars — and your humanity.

But then the second stage must follow — the external projection of internal struggle. The Games themselves are a metaphor for destructive, self-perpetuating cycles. By introducing the idea of emotional and spiritual purification, the narrative could explore the possibility that breaking the cycle could eventually if not destroy the system, but at least seriously undermine it. In a world defined by brutal, cyclical “games,” a break in the chain of events — driven by the characters' ability to find empathy and redemption — could become the ultimate act of destruction.

These Games are not a test of survival, but a test of the human soul. And perhaps the greatest test of all is breaking free from the cycle — rejecting the rules, and dismantling what’s left of the world that created them.

If In-ho and Gi-hun, through their struggle with guilt, empathy, and redemption, succeed in reaching mutual catharsis and a point of mutual understanding, this emotional breakthrough could symbolically and [why not?] physically undermine the Games by rendering them obsolete, or by exposing them as a flawed, ultimately hollow system that cannot stand in the face of human compassion.

[That’s all great but…]

The point here is not to suggest that they will, in an instant, resolve their inner and mutual conflicts, or suddenly find themselves aligned in a unified front, or even that they will survive at all. That simply doesn't happen like this.

However, the mere fact of this slight shift in both Gi-hun and In-ho — this fleeting bright moment of cleansing, clarity, and insight — which goes against the very foundations of the game, against the predetermined belief that nothing can be changed or that everything must be changed at any cost, stands as a true victory over the imposed system, Game and its rules.

A victory for and of both of them.

༄

P.S.: Jokes aside, that shit above is pure fantasy; irl, s3 will be all about 457-power couple earning Believix, iLovix and Harmonix step by step [instead of Gaslightinx, Breakinx and Killinx].

[Winx, if your hand is warm in mine It'll give us greater power. With a feeling, we'll be sure-Squid winners]

[mageknife]

🎲 let's go gambling 🫡

from here; send 🎲 to generate a kiss

32. a kiss while someone watches - laevis tabris/zevran arainai

Laevis sat on a log by the fire, sharpening his arrows, pointedly avoiding the looks Wynne shot at him as she chopped sausage for their breakfast. He prided himself on his skill at weaseling his way out of cooking duty, and though he respected her, he also respected his companions’ stomachs too much to subject them to whatever would happen were he left in charge of feeding them. His attempts to explain how awful he was at cooking were always met with eye rolls and muttering about excuses and laziness, and while he wasn’t necessarily not being lazy and making excuses, he also knew his limitations in the culinary realm and knew that those limitations were “slicing bread and eating it.”

Relief washed over him when he saw Zevran finally emerge from their tent. (It was technically Laevis’s, but Zevran hadn’t bothered pitching his own since the second week he’d traveled with them, as the two wound up spending nearly every night together anyway.) He set his arrows aside—they hadn’t truthfully needed to be sharpened at all, but, well. Excuses.

“Morning, birdie. C’mere,” he called, gesturing for Zevran to join him on the log that wasn’t quite big enough for two.

Zevran’s eyes lit up immediately, and Laevis tried to ignore the knot that formed in his chest when the assassin’s leisurely stride quickened as he made his way over. “Good morning. Shall I sing my birdsong for you, my little wolf?”

Laevis scooted over so he was halfway off the log to make space for Zevran next to him. “That depends. Is it a good song?”

“Not really, no,” Zevran said, sitting on Laevis’s lap anyway and nearly sending them both tumbling into the dirt. “But I have been working very hard on it, and I would be quite a sad birdie if you did not want to hear me sing.”

“Sing away, then,” Laevis laughed. He wrapped his arms around Zevran and lightly kissed the back of his neck before adjusting his sitting position slightly. If moving himself back onto the log also involved pulling Zevran closer to him, he wouldn’t claim it was on purpose, but he certainly wouldn’t complain.

He couldn’t see the mischievous look forming on Zevran’s face, the smirk that accompanied his bright chuckle, but he knew it was there all the same.

“We are in a swamp, and Wynne is making breakfast,” Zevran sang with no particular tune or rhythm, impressively off-key from a melody that didn’t exist. Laevis snorted, burying his face in the back of Zevran’s shirt to hide his giggles.

“The sun is rising behind the swampy trees,” Zevran continued, waving his hand in a dramatic flourish. “The morning birds are chirping, and I, the most handsome of them all—”

Laevis swatted at him weakly. He felt tears forming in his eyes from laughing. “Stop it! Maker, you’re unbelievable.”

Zevran turned in his lap, wearing a pout that could make even the cruelest of kings fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. “Unbelievable? My, the little wolf acts so sweet, but his bite still makes me bleed!”

“Damn. Unfortunate. Get Wynne to patch it up or something,” Laevis said with a roll of his eyes, but he couldn’t help his fond smile.

“No, no, there is an old Antivan folktale, you see. If a little wolf wounds a birdie, the only one who can heal it is the little wolf himself. Otherwise, it will bleed and fester for eternity, until the birdie’s heart cannot take it anymore and breaks so violently that it kills him.”

“Mhm. And how is the wolf supposed to heal it? He’s much better at killing things.”

Zevran turned around fully now, his legs on either side of Laevis’s, their faces just inches apart. “Well, you’re very smart. What do you think?”

It was clear what he wanted, from his half-lidded eyes and reddened cheeks, from the way he rested his left hand on Laevis’s shoulder and toyed with his braid with his right. Laevis, however, had no intention of giving in easily, and it certainly had nothing to do with the dizzy feeling he always got when the affection that clawed at his chest grew too strong and he had to shove it down, bury it alive, because they could never have more than this, he knew, never more than their nights tangled together and the teasing that followed in the mornings, and letting himself hope otherwise would tear him open from the inside.

“There are bandages in my satchel, if you need to stop the blood, but I’m not a mage. That’s the best I’ve got,” he managed, looking pointedly at a very interesting tree across the clearing and not at the man in his lap.

The hand that was in his hair grasped his chin, forcing his eyes to stare into deep brown ones, pupils blown wide from their closeness. Laevis’s instinct wanted him to run, to bolt into the woods and get away from the creature that scratched and gnawed at his heart when Zevran looked at him like that.

“No, not a bandage,” Zevran teased, and Laevis’s heartbeat was already darting through the trees like a rabbit being chased by a fox.

Laevis swallowed. “I mean, I could try stitching it closed, but I don’t think it’d go very well.”

“No stitches either, silly little wolf.” Zevran’s thumb stroked Laevis’s jawline gently. Laevis felt faint, his hands growing sweaty on Zevran’s waist. “All the birdie needs is a kiss where he was wounded, and he will feel right as rain once again.”

“And where was he hurt?” Laevis’s foot began to tap restlessly against his will, and he tried to focus on making it stop to drown out the beast chewing on his ribcage.

Zevran hummed thoughtfully. “His hand, first, where he was so cruelly attacked.” He held his left hand out in front of Laevis, not letting go of his chin with the other.

“Alright.” Laevis took Zevran’s hand in his own and brushed his lips against his knuckles, barely enough to constitute a kiss, but he hoped it would suffice, because any more would be too tender, too close, too much.

“Very good,” Zevran said, and before Laevis could yank his hand away, Zevran entwined their fingers. “Now, the birdie’s song was silenced, and he will not be better until the little wolf heals his beak, so that he may one day sing his beautiful song again.”

All that Laevis could do in response was nod. He took a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut, and leaned forward to meet Zevran’s lips—though they were so close together that he hardly had to move.

Kissing Zevran like this made him feel like he was fourteen, still innocent, sneaking behind the schoolhouse with the boy from across the street, beet-red and giggling after the tiniest peck on the lips. It made him feel like floating into the sky and crawling into the ground at the same time. And he shouldn’t feel this way, he shouldn’t, because they kissed all the time, every night, in Laevis’s tent that neither of them would call theirs, and it was rough and deep and far more intimate, followed by the closest intimacy two men could have. It should be easy to share a kiss that was soft, chaste, no tongue at all, sitting by the fire as Wynne roasted sausages over it.

But it was harder like this, the feeling bursting through his chest that he didn’t dare to name because if he did, it would mean admitting that friendship wasn’t enough, that the sex without strings attached wasn’t that at all, that there were so many strings that he was tangled up in them and unable to escape, a wolf caught in a hunter’s trap, awaiting the knife that would slit its throat.

He couldn’t do that. It wasn’t more than this to Zevran. He’d made that clear enough. And this was just fine, wasn’t it? How could he complain?

One of them had to have pulled back first, but Laevis wasn’t sure who it was. He couldn’t stop the leaping of his rabbit heart when Zevran rested their foreheads together and squeezed his clammy hand.

They were friends. Nothing more.

Zevran cleared his throat. “I must sharpen my daggers. We shall reconvene when it is time to eat, yes? Leave my seat open, or I will sing an even sadder song.” He pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of Laevis’s nose before standing and slinking away, gone to the other side of the camp in a blink.

“Right,” Laevis said hoarsely.

He heard a chuckle from behind him and looked up. Wynne held out a bowl to him, sausages and scrambled eggs and toast. He took it quickly, having forgotten how hungry he was while he and Zevran… talked.

“I know I gave you a hard time, but the two of you are a sweet couple.” Wynne smiled at him, and he nearly choked on a piece of sausage.

He shook his head. “We’re not—it’s not that,” he muttered, groping around for the waterskin he’d set in the grass. “We’re just sleeping together. That’s it. Don’t read into it.”

“…Alright. If you insist.” He could feel her giving him a look, he knew she knew him better than that, but he refused to meet her eyes. Because she saw him, she always did, and she’d try to ask him to talk about it, and he wouldn’t be able to without the creature tearing his ribs apart and baring its fangs for all to see.

And he couldn’t let it out. Not now. Not yet. Not ever.

[swampstew]

Can I request Buggy with Fluff N3 for the event? Thank you!! ❤️❤️❤️

Hello anon❤️ Thank you for your submission and patience! I hope you get a chance to read this :) You requested fluff, subtle intimacy, and I give you: [ Simple Touches ] Bandaging/stitching up an injury

Oh Captain, My Captain Buggy

Warnings: None. Fluff and cute stuffs. Ended up sorta sweet n' romantic in a way I wasn't anticipating but Buggy deserves it tbh, cutie but wet n' pathetic King of the Pirates❤️ Word count: 1.1K

“OOOOOWWWWW!”

You push through the pained howls of your Captain as you stitch up his latest injuries. For a man who had eaten the chop-chop fruit, he sure got brutally chopped up by other people more than he should reasonably be.

To be fair, his latest network of contacts involved some intense and no-nonsense individuals. Two in particular who seem to have a rather tight hold on his gorgeous blue head as he did their bidding and processed their contracts.

“DAMNIT Y/N that HURTS!” Buggy hollers at you, tears spilling down his face in pure agony. It makes your heart break. Still you push on.

“It will hurt more if it festers and worsens. Then we’d have to seriously chop pieces off you,” you chide him gently, done with pushing the needle through the tail end of the long gash on his chest. “This is going to sting a bit but I’ll count down from 3. 3—” you tightened the sutures securely before he could hold his breath.

“YYYYEEEEOOOOOWWWW!!!!” his head flew from his neck, as did his hands and feet from his body. “GRR!! YOU ENJOYED THAT TOO MUCH!” he spit at you.

You give him an unimpressed look, “You know that that’s not true. Now get back here. You have some wounds on your face and right hand that need to be disinfected and bandaged. If you can make it through without any complaints, I’ll give you a treat. Sound good?”

His head reattaches to his head but his hand floats down to grip his chin, “A treat? What kind of treat?”

“A nice one. We got a deal?”

With a nod, Buggy reassembles himself and sits still as you inspect each cut and bruise. Washing away the dirt and dried blood, applying a salve on the wounds, and wrapping each one in a bandage or long, woven cotton wrap to soak up any leaking from the cuts. A hushed song brews in your throat and without realizing it, you start to emit the tune from your lips as you patch him up.

Buggy watches you closely as you lightly hum to yourself while you work. Normally, he would literally talk his ass off about anything and everything – but watching you treat him so tenderly has his mouth dry and his mind quiet. Trying to understand the feelings in his chest that you cause him to have with your firm but kind personality. Not understanding why you treat him with such dignity and warmth despite his antics; you’re one of the few people who sees through his bullshit but you also accept it, encourage it even. In his brain playing back all his interactions with you over the last year that you’ve been on his crew to better understand what your deal is.

His eyes bug out of his head for a moment, a memory unearthing itself. With Alvida.

“I think the new doc likes you, Bugs,” she tilted her cowboy covered head at Buggy. When he gave her a confused look, she scoffed and used her head to gesture at you sitting at the bar with his most trusted men. “You’re telling me that you’ve NEVER noticed how much time they manage to spend with you, or how they always talk you up? That they know almost everything about you that not even your own crew knows about?” Buggy scoffed, “Most of my crew are idiots, why would I tell those morons anything?” Alvida gave him a bewildered look, “Then why do you share anything with the doc?” “I don’t share EVERYTHING!” “Oh no? So you haven’t spilled to them how Emperor Shanks is the only man you can respect as the next King of the Pirates?” His hands flew to her face and smothered her speech, “QUIET YOU DAMN WOMAN!”

Buggy felt like an idiot.

That was maybe three months ago.

“All done. You should heal up in no time but if you feel worse, you know where to find me.”

Buggy brought his hand to the back of his neck, “Yeah. Sure.” He wasn’t sure how to pivot from being a crybaby patient to a flashy guy with rizz when he suddenly felt…overly aware of how he acts around you. To be perceived by you and now knowing that you were perceiving him.

“Wh-where’s my treat?”

“Oh that’s right I do owe you a nice one. Wait right here.”

His mind is racing a mile a minute, trying to plan, trying to scheme a charming personality in 2-seconds flat as he watches you go to your desk and pull out a dark bottle. Buggy didn’t notice how attractive your face is as he did just now. He always thought you were the most attractive in the crew in general, but now he was seeing your face. And he found that…he actually quite liked it.

Your step falters are you become aware of his intense stare. You feel…insecure suddenly. Is there something gross on your face or scrubs? Does he not like liquor suddenly? Oh no, is your hair messy?? With a trembling hand you tuck some loose hair behind your ear and lightly touch your scrub as you present the bottle.

“An aged rum that I nicked from our last raid. I hear it’s a grossly expensive brand.”

Buggy took the bottle and rolls it in his hands quietly, not saying anything at all. You watch him nervously, anxiety eating at your gut, a hot flush spreading behind your ears and the back of your neck. You know for a fact that Buggy likes expensive things, no matter what it is. Even if he hates what it actually is, like that time he tried bull fighting fish caviar. He was laid up in your office for a week after that one. He still keeps a preserved jar around, just so he can say he has it on hand.

“I hear it goes well with steak, or something,” you mumble, confidence draining away slowly.

He perks up to that, “Steak? Oh yeah, yes that does sound like a good pairing.” He stands up from the cot and shifts on his feet.

Buggy the Star Clown is shooting his shot.

“If I make Cabaji cook up a few steaks, would you…be interested in joining me for dinner? A flashily impromptu date?”

Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, that being the last thing you expect to hear from him. You had been certain that you would have to ask him out yourself with all the hints and nudges you gave him in the past seemed to go, well, right over his head.

“Oh! Y-yes that sounds nice!”

Smiling, Buggy turns to exit. Passing through the threshold he turns back to add, “I’ll pick you up at your cabin later. Escort you to the dining hall and all that jazz.” He ducks out of the room.

You’re glad he isn’t there anymore because your knees weaken and you grab the cot in support. Thrilled, you look at your schedule and decide to close up early. The injured would have to stay injured on their time, you had an important date tonight.

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

Why?

Requested: No

Warnings: Light angst, Robot!Reader

A/N: Wow, two preferences in one day? What the hell was in my chocolate this morning?

You couldn’t fathom it. Couldn’t….couldn’t understand it. Comprehend it. Accept it. That this person, this living breathing human being, was really treating you like this. That they seemed to….value you in some way. At first you had thought of it as a joke, a cruel one that they shared amongst themselves. Tease the bot, remind them of their place. It was a game you were all too familiar with, and always ended up with a pain in your chest, right where a beating heart would be for a human being. But this person….they were so nice. So genuine in their actions, so unlike all the others you had met over the years. And they had taken care of you, patched you up and repaired you, given you a purpose in this life after you had been tossed aside like common trash, left to rust and deteriorate in a scrap pile, barely clinging to that last bit of battery life, to consciousness. You remembered exactly what you thought of before the lights inside you dimmed.

I don’t want to die.

And you hadn’t. Something that had been quite a shock to you when you woke up in a dark room. The rust scrubbed from your plates, your gears and joints oiled, your battery in the middle of a long recharge. By a cable no less! You couldn’t remember the last time you had been charged by one of those instead of the wireless charging that had become common over the years.

You were alive. You had been given a second chance. And you were determined not to waste it. But that doubt lingered in you, festered like infection in an open wound. And one day, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking the question that plagued you since the day you woke up in their home.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“Treating me like a person.”

Price

Price hummed softly, the question not entirely unexpected. It’s likely that he was already questioning that himself for some time now. Ever since he brought you into his home, started fixing you up, growing so attached to you so quickly. Sitting by your bed as he waited for your servers to turn on, replacing your batteries so many times he lost count. So gentle whenever he had to open you up to fix something. Even giving you your own room, and a bed to lay on. And complete and utter freedom to do…whatever you wanted. Sure he’d always been a bit kinder to bots everywhere, some part of him unable to separate their human faces from their mechanical insides, but with you it was like it was dialed up to a thousand. He looked at you, and he couldn’t see anything but a living breathing person.

“....Dunno, Love.” He’d say, tilting his head as he met your eyes. The clear crystal blue soft and shimmering under the moonlight that shone in through the kitchen window. “You want me to stop?” He asked, seeming pleased when you shook your head. “Good. That’s all that matters then.”

Gaz

“You get bonked on the head again, Love?” Gaz would ask in return, arching his brow at you before bending over to pick up a box left at the front door. A new cooling fan for you, since yours was starting to malfunction. “That’s about the dumbest question I've ever heard. You’re a person. Course i treat you like people.” He says, cutting open the box before pulling out the small fan. “Don’t matter that you need things like this. That your insides are different then mine. You’re a person all the same. And I'd bet my last pound that, if such a thing as souls exist, you got one just like me. One much shinier and brighter, all good and perfect. I just know it.” He tells you, a bright sunshine-like smile crossing his face, and you could feel your broken whirring to life as your circuits malfunctioned and started to burn molten hot, heating up your whole body until your systems had to do a mandatory shut down just to avoid melting anything. Leaving Gaz to panic and damn near tear the house to pieces looking for the tools to open you up and replace that damn fan.

Ghost

A slow blink, a tilt of the head. Cold eyes raking over you in thought. Thinking through every word meticulously, making sure nothing left his mouth until he knew exactly what he wanted to say to you. It took a few minutes, anxiety inducing silence that would have you sweating if you were capable of such a thing. Until finally, blessed finally, he graced you with a soft response.

“You are a person.” He whispered, so soft that you almost didn't hear him. He repeated it, a bit louder when you tilted your head in confusion. “You are a person. To me at least. Maybe not to all those bellends outside, but to me. I’ve seen you laugh, get upset, excited, curious. I’ve never met someone who has so much personality to them before. And it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks, because they don’t know you like I do. They haven’t seen every beautiful part of you that you try to hide behind a disguise of being just a bot. I know. And I’ll make sure that you know it soon enough to, so you don’t ever ask any daft questions like that ever again.”

Soap

“Watcha mean, Love?” Soap will ask, head tilted in utter confusion. Like you just asked him something in gibberish, brows scrunched together and mouth twisted in a little pout. “Tha’s a dumb question. You are a person. Course I treat you like one.” He says, shrugging his shoulders before turning back to your dismantled arm piece, adjusting some of the little screws and oiling the gears. It was almost funny how he could say that so casually, as if he wasn’t fixing your mechanics right this instant, his fingers tenderly stroking over metal and silicon, like he was scared he might hurt you if he pressed too hard. You didn’t even get the chance to protest his statement before he was opening his mouth again, effectively cutting you off. “I dinnae wanna hear anymore ah that talk, Lovey. You’re a person, my person. Simple as that.” He says, turning to give you a soft smile, hand reaching out to touch your cheek. His hands calloused and rough, but oh so warm. You could feel your motors backfiring, sensors heating up beneath his touch. And that grin on his face took a mischievous turn when he noticed, leaning in to whisper in your ear. “Glad we had that chat then, Love.”

[allthatmay]

If sabolaw was ever in your wheelhouse/interest to write my life would be yours /hj

I saw this ask and then immediately went and wrote something off the top of my head. It's not edited or anything but I thought you might enjoy seeing what it's like so far, rather than waiting for whenever I finish it?

The moment Law meets with Sabo, he knows there’s a wound within him, festering. Oh, Sabo might cover it up and pretend it’s not there, but Law’s a doctor; he knows all about wounds. Knows, keenly, the very nature of Sabo’s.

“What are you staring at?” Sabo asks. He wears a smile with an edge like a letter opener—versatile in purpose if only one’s imaginative enough. “Got a thing for burns?”

Law has witnessed many burns on both the dead and the alive. He only has to think of fire to smell its rot in the world around him, to feel the thickness of its fumes in his lungs—no thicker than the grief it agitates. But the burn scars on Sabo’s face—and presumably down his arm and ribs—are wounds that have long since healed.

No, Sabo has a deeper injury than that.

“I was just wondering how quickly I could take you down,” is what Law replies. “You’re left handed, aren’t you?”

Sabo laughs. He’s leaning back against the door, his legs crossed at the ankle, his coat falling elegantly around him. “Go ahead and try it, Trafalgar.”

The ship sways beneath them, but neither of them budge an inch. It’s a small ship they’re on, perfect for sneaking about under the cover of fog. Law had a ship of his own—even smaller than this, nothing but a skiff full of patched holes—but he was forced to leave it behind when matters got complicated. After all, what could be more complicated than a mysterious man in a blue suit escaping with the very information Law sought to steal?

After a long while of silently daring each other to try something, Law says, “Look, you don’t want me here, and I don’t want to be here.” Kikoku is held close to his chest. “I only want the information I’m owed.”

“And you’ll get it, Trafalgar. Just show a little restraint, hm?”

Law’s jaw clenches; irritation bangs against his skull. He runs a finger down the length of Kikoku’s glossy sheath, catching Sabo’s eye as he reaches the hilt.

“I think I’ve been showing a lot of restraint.”

“Hardly, though I admit you’re more bloodthirsty than I would’ve thought. Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor?”

The question rings hollow. Law doesn’t remember the last time he healed someone. It was probably back with Bepo on the Polar Tang, but it’s been months since he’s seen any of his crew. He doesn't feel deserving of the title.

“I’m a surgeon, not a doctor. I don’t know any doctors with death on their hands.”

He’s of course referring to his tattoos, but Sabo’s head tips to one side as he replies, “What doctor doesn’t have death on their hands?”

Law’s eyes narrow. He hates being deliberately misunderstood, especially by a man as smug as Sabo—a man he knows so very little about.

“Tell me,” he starts again, rising from his chair. “Is Sabo even your real name?”

At this, Sabo chokes on laughter. His gloved hands press against his face like he’s holding himself together. “Fuck, and I thought I was paranoid.”

“It’s a revolutionary’s job to be paranoid, isn’t it?”

Now Sabo’s laughter cuts short. His hands lower, revealing eyes like glaciers, cold and pinpoint in their consideration. “Oh? Is it that obvious?”

“Well, you’re certainly not a pirate.”

“I could be a pirate. I wanted to be.”

“I don’t give a shit what you wanted to be.”

Only, that’s not quite true, is it? Sabo’s wound bleeds when he talks about his past, and Law can’t help but fall into introspection, all too aware of that kind of pain. He feels it constantly, a dull ache in his own chest, healed for now but not for long; something always manages to tear the scab away.

[koisuko]

Tw: horror, mentions of gore, unfinished work just a snippet, gn reader, no use of y/n, unestablished relationship

Never go in the dark.

No matter the situation, nor the circumstances, never go into the dark. The songs they sing may tempt you, and the cries may tug at your human sense of empathy, but it's a trap. Don't be a hero, don't be stupid.

Once you wonder to far into the depths of the night, its too late for you. They hypnotize you to lure you away from the safety of your kin, only to tear you to shreds like scissors to paper.

Quite a sight really, yet the darkness is kind enough to shield the eyes of others from the horrors within — the only inkling left behind are patches of fresh blood stained into the white winter snow by morning.

No one had seen how these creatures looked. Most had assumed they were just figureless, nothing but stark white eyes peaking from the curtains of night. Waiting. All left clueless, except one. "They hud these lang bony fingers, except they were black. Everythin' was." he paused with a look of horror as he recounts the events. "Their eyes hud nae lids an' they hud stretched smiles... it wis a fuckin' nightmare." You shook your head in disbelief. What could possibly cause him to do something so foolish? "How did they even get you in there Soap?" Prying was mandatory right now, with these creatures being almost entirely unknown, including their methods. He hesitated, avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room as he whispered, "They pretended tae be yo-" he shook his head, "mah mother." This checked out in your mind, they get into your head like a parasite and make you see things that no one else can. Often, it would be the shape of someone you love, one way or another. He looked up frantically, his eyes almost watering with emotion, "I thought she wis in trouble, she wis screamin' an' hud pairts of her..." he trailed off, swallowing hard with a sick look on his face, "she wasn't entirely whole." Soap held his head in his hands and took in a sharp breath, the wound on his side festering at the sudden movement, "I can still hear them in ma heid, callin' me fur help."

A/N: This is just a random idea that I had and decided to write, only a snippet. Let me know if y’all like this idea! Been at that weird stage where I want to write, but have a hard time starting and a hard time finishing it. It’s an off and on issue with me, so when I disappear that’s what happens. Comment if y’all like it!

[psychiatry-and-poetry]

Letters of Grief

Part 1 | Part 6 | AO3 | ACOTAR Masterpost | Masterpost of masterposts |

A/N: Inspired slightly by this Tumblr post

Word Count: 2516

Each week, each visit had done nothing to quell the rage and grief within Azriel. He’d gone on missions for Rhys, spent time with his family on Solstice; had even managed to go to Illyria and assist Cassian with keeping some of the camps in check.

Despite it all, despite his routine, the hollowness within him only grew. It was a festering wound, he knew, and would cause him to bleed and explode over people who had in no way wronged him. The problem with being far too self-aware was, he didn’t know what to do with this terrifying piece of knowledge about himself.

As the Night Court’s Spymaster, it was his job to notice subtleties about others that a usual glance or once-over would miss. The slightest pinch of a brow, the crook of a mouth, the barely-there shrug of a shoulder…Azriel had accustomed himself to observing and cataloguing anything and everything that he came across. The trait was as much a part of him as his wings. He didn’t know who he’d be without it.

A moment of weakness on a more recent mission when he’d failed to do exactly that, however, had nearly cost Azriel his life. He’d been scouting the continent for any sign of the mortal queens, any whisper from his spies that indicated a plan or even movement towards Prythian. Sitting on the roof of a ramshackle little hut that was no doubt abandoned, he got the perfect view of the palace they lived in. The decrepit little cottage sat on a small mound (it was too small to even refer to it as a hill) and provided Azriel with enough of a view that he could easily monitor any movements through the main gates.

He’d scoured the smaller, less frequently used drawbridges, though his shadows and his own findings had only ever led to the same conclusion: only the main gates were used. The queens likely preferred their servants to be kept out of sight and thus encouraged them to use to side passageways. Azriel had only ever found servants leaving to get to the stables or go to the market. It was nothing out of the ordinary.

At least, that was how it had seemed until a naga had pounced on him. Azriel barely had any time to react before it had ripped a decent chunk of armour off, penetrating through the metal until the muscle. He’d hissed in pain and barely fought it off, finally killing the damn thing, before he’d winnowed straight home. 

There was no way in hell he was surviving a naga attack when one of his limbs was rendered immobile.

Azriel didn’t remember how he ended up in a warm bed at the House of Wind that night. Cassian must have seen him and called for Madja.

Indeed, she was a talented healer who’d patched him up in less than an hour. He’d felt guilty for coming back so soon with no intel, nothing to report, but he also knew his body’s limits. He wasn’t about to stretch it for the sake of his pride, not when his ignorance had nearly gotten him killed. By a naga, no less.

Upon further contemplation, Azriel made a mental note to ask Rhys about the naga. He’d encountered a few here and there on his countless missions to the other courts, but he couldn’t remember them ever hunting faeries specifcally, or the ability to scale trees with such ruthless efficiency. From what he remembered, they preferred the safety of solid land beneath their feet and only ever hunted mortals for sport and entertainment.

Az? Why are you still awake? As if summoned by his thoughts, the High Lord of Night spoke into Azriel’s mind. A naga attacked me while I was doing reconnaissance of the palace. I’m fine, nothing for you to fret over, but I did have to come back and get Madja to heal me.

I don’t care that you had to come back halfway through a mission. I care about you. Damnnit, Az, why didn’t you tell either of us? There was irritation lining Rhys’ voice, yes, but also concern. It was palpable even through his absence.

I told you, I’m fine. Visit me in the morning. Cass will probably startle awake like a frenzied boar the moment you land. If this was what Azriel had to do to avoid Rhys getting all worked up like a mother hen then that was what he would do.

He’s a deep sleeper. I doubt he’d notice my presence until I made it glaringly obvious to him that I was staying for the night. A pause. Then…Good night, Azriel. I hope you feel better soon.

Sunlight streamed in through the now-open window, the House having drawn the curtains. Azriel still wasn’t used to the fact that the House was sentient, and had found it extremely odd to utter a ‘thank you’ when no one was around. Was it wrong to want a magical house which summoned nearly everything under the sun to like you?

Azriel was awake, and was propped up with a mountain of pillows surrounding him. He hadn’t had the heart to tell Madja that so many pillows would make him feel as if he was drowning in cotton; not as she’d fussed over him and groused over his deteriorating health.

By deteriorating health, she’d meant his lack of a structured sleep schedule, irregular meal times, lack of hydration…the usual. It wasn’t odd for Azriel to receive these comments from most of the healers he visited, each one expressing varying degrees of concern over how and why his regimes were so lax.

This time, however, it seemed that the female wasn’t going to leave without a proper argument. “You need to start taking care of yourself. This neglect and unwillingness to listen to you body’s needs is going to catch up to you one day, and you’ll be worse off for it.”

“I do listen to my body’s needs,” he protested halfheartedly, looking up at the healer who had her arms on her hips in a clear show of disappointment. “I came to you when my arm was nearly bitten off by a naga, didn’t I?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“Madja.” Azriel’s tone had softened. “My body does fine on its own. There’s no point interfering in things that are working well enough unattended.”

“Except you’re not.” It seemed that Azriel’s placating voice had done nothing to ease the healer’s worry. “You neglect yourself. Your needs, your wants.”

“I go to a mind healer once every week.” That had Madja sobering up, a newer, more assessing look in her eyes as she took Azriel in again. “Since when?”

“A few months.”

“And have you found that it has helped?”

Azriel fell silent. No, the visits weren’t helping, but he wasn’t getting much better, either. It was hard to tell. A couple of months was hardly anything to the Fae, after all. The loss of his mate was still fresh as ever, the wound just as deep as the day he’d seen her die.

“I see.” Her brow furrowed, clearly interpreting the silence as a negative. Azriel didn’t even know why he’d told her. Maybe he’d needed someone to talk to, and Madja had been the closest person, the one most willing to listen. It wasn’t like there was a line of people outside his door ready to listen to his plights and tragedies, but…it felt good getting that particular truth off his chest. Azriel trusted her. She’d tell no one without explicit permission from Azriel. She was discreet that way, and that was perhaps one of the things he admired most about Madja, aside from her healing abilities.

“I will check on you once this afternoon. If the wounds are not fully healed then I will have to visit once more.”

Azriel knew his body, knew that the wounds had begun healing and would likely disappear by the next afternoon.

✦ ✦ ✦

“I just…I want to go back. To her. To a time when we would have been happy simply because we had each other and we needed nothing more. Every day, I wake up and my first thought is of her. Every morning, I think about what I wouldn’t do to go back. Just once.”

Azriel had been encouraged to go back to the mind healer even if he felt as if the visits weren’t helping. No, encouraging was too weak a word for what Madja had done. Despite being nearly a foot shorter than him, the healer had nearly threatened to freeze his balls off if he didn’t go. It had been amusing, at the very least, to see Madja so worked up, and Azriel had thought nothing but her agitated expression as he made his way down to the too-familiar, all-white room.

All laughter had evaporated, however, when she’d asked how he’d been doing and Azriel hadn’t quite known how to answer. The response he’d given had been an echo, a glimpse into the true stumbling mess that he was.

She’d looked at him as he told her the words he’d been willing to give voice to; an odd, contemplative sort of expression that Azriel hadn’t been able to place. “You could go back. But there is nothing and no one waiting for you there.”

“I am waiting for her there,” he’d answered as he fought not to let his temper get the best of him. “I’ve been waiting for her, and I will continue to wait for the day I die because then it will mean that we will be together.”

“And what will you do once you are together?”

“Simply hold each other. Bask in the other’s presence. She was my light, my sunshine, my everything, and I cannot imagine myself in a world without her.”

Audrine sighed. Not an exasperated sigh by any means, but a quieter one. No, there hadn’t been an ounce of displeasure on her face, only an exhaustion that had Azriel wondering if she was alright. It vanished as quickly as it had appeared, though, and Azriel didn’t have any more time to contemplate her well-being as she asked him another question.

“What made you decide to come down here once more?”

As always, her question had caught him completely unawares, and he was only able to utter a one-word response. “Madja.”

“She forced you?” Audrine quirked a brow, but it seemed that the situation was not unusual for either of them: Madja for having to force patients to the mind healers, and them expecting nothing less as they took in patient after unwilling patient.

“No. She…persuaded me.”

The priestess snorted. “Trust me, I know exactly how persuasive she can be.”

Despite himself, Azriel snorted. “She did play a role in getting me to come visit, yes, but that’s not the only reason I came down. I was…involved in a mission recently, so to speak. The outcome wasn’t as I hoped it would be, and I found my thoughts getting the better of me once more. I thought being in the company of others in a quieter environment would help.”

“And these sessions have helped you so much that the first thing you decided to do was to talk to me?”

“Not quite,” Azriel replied with no small amount of hesitation, attempting to soften the blow. “But I told her that I take counselling when she healed me, and she encouraged me to go even if it doesn’t help. She said I lack routine, and that this will help build it. According to her, training for hours on the roof of the House without a break isn’t acceptable,” he finished with a snicker.

“No indeed.” A small smile graced Audrine’s lips as she made more notes, hastily scrawling them in the margins of her notepad. “I do have to ask, though,” she began. “Is there any specific reason you train for so long? I mean, you’re well over five hundred now. Surely the lack of training for a few days, maybe even weeks, wouldn’t be the end of the world?”

How was it possible for someone to see through him at every turn? He’d managed for a long time, so why were his walls beginning to crack now?

“No. I suppose not.” His reply was more brittle, more jagged than he would have liked it to be. At his unwillingness to supply more, she asked again. “Then why do you train so much?’

“It’s…the only way I know how to channel my emotions. It keeps them at bay. That’s how it’s been for as long as I can remember, and I can’t think of another explanation other than old habits die hard.”

“Have you tried journaling?”

“Yes.” This time, Azriel looked away, his eyes finding the wood panelled floor in front of the priestess’ feet far more riveting than their current conversation.

“How did it go?”

“I couldn’t write more than half a page. My hand cramped up.”

“Have you been to a healer to see if anything can be salvaged underneath the scarring?” It was noble of her to care so much for wounds that would never fade.

“Yes.” These were questions Azriel had endured for as long as he could remember. The condescending, pitying tone that most took on when talking about him and his hands nearly had the male seeing red. He was tired of being infantilised, dammnit. “Nothing could be done. The healer did as much as she could, and now I must live with them the way they are.”

The finality with which he said the statement might cause a fresh wave of pity to rise in some, believing Azriel was being pessimistic. He was not. He was practical, and many seemed to confuse practicality with pessimism. If others chose to believe in fantasies they’d spun out of the seemingly endless depths of hope they somehow possessed, they could not complain when that same hope crushed their spirits as it tumbled down like a house of cards blown away with the wind.

Azriel had hoped once. Long ago, before High Ladies or mates or the inevitable grief which followed death like a shroud, an invisible veil he couldn’t seem to rid himself of. He had hoped there was a better life, one where there was no pain, no punishment, no cruelty. They had been the fickle dreams of a child, and he’d held onto them so tightly his nails and cracked and left crescent-shaped marks on his palms, until his fingers went numb and all he could think about was holding on lest he was left behind in the aftermath.

Azriel remembered the days the healer had tried for hours to save at least some part of his hands, to ensure he retained some mobility. When nothing good had come of it, he’d been given a salve for the pain until that too, and rendered the scarring permanent. He’d long since given up on trying to fix it. It was too late now.

Line dividers credit goes to @enchanthings