#and it just opens his wounds again and again and again

[sixeyesonathiel]

knight satoru & princess reader <3

you sit on your throne, legs swinging petulantly, slippered toes tapping the air with each bored kick. the foreign diplomats drone on about grain and tariffs and border tensions, their voices blending into a dull hum. it’s exhausting, really. the room is stifling, the incense too sweet, and if lord tamashi says “economic stability” one more time, you swear you’ll throw your goblet at his powdered wig.

the only bearable thing in this gold-trimmed prison is satoru.

he leans against one of the marble pillars like it’s a tavern wall, one ankle crossed over the other, fingers twirling the strap of his scabbard lazily. his snowy white hair is a tousled mess, falling into his eyes, and he’s chewing something—gum, probably. of course. his uniform is rumpled in a way that suggests he did it on purpose, and his cloak hangs half-off one shoulder. he doesn’t look like a knight so much as a rogue who stole armor for fun. but it’s the way his eyes stay locked on you—sharp and amused, a glint of mischief swimming in endless blue—that makes your stomach flutter.

your gaze sharpens. he catches it and, predictably, winks. it’s slow, cocky, and you hate how warm your face gets.

when court finally adjourns, you rise with a dramatic huff and sweep out of the chamber, chin high. your skirts swish with indignation, your shoulders squared. you don’t even glance back—but you don’t have to. his footfalls follow a beat after, casual, unhurried. you can hear the faint click of his boots and the gentle swing of his scabbard.

“you were slouching again,” you snap, voice sharp without turning.

“and you were falling asleep on the throne,” satoru replies, light as ever.

you whirl on him, jaw tight. your finger jabs the cold metal of his breastplate, but he doesn’t flinch. instead, he grins like you’ve gifted him a rose.

“you’re supposed to respect me.” your brows knit, lip curling slightly. your hands flutter for a moment, unsure whether to fold them or cross your arms.

his grin widens. “i do respect you.” he leans in slightly, head tilting, a single white lock falling perfectly over one eye. “that’s why i let you win when you throw tantrums.”

“i do not throw tantrums—”

“you bit a noble’s letter opener last week.”

“he insulted my handwriting!” your voice pitches up, eyes wide with righteous fury. you stomp once, a little too hard, the jewels on your gown clinking together.

“and you defended your honor with teeth. impressive, really.”

you shove him with both palms, your rings clicking against his armor. he lets himself stumble back a step with a theatrical gasp, hand pressed to his chest like you’ve mortally wounded him. his eyes crinkle in delight, and he lets out a low whistle.

“you’re insufferable,” you mutter, cheeks burning as you look away. your hands ball into fists at your sides, but your knuckles tremble slightly.

he watches you with that same look—too knowing, too fond. his smile softens, just slightly, as if he sees something fragile under all your bristle. the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to let you see how much he likes this. the shadows from the hallway window catch the curve of his cheekbone and the arch of his brow, painting him in gold.

“and yet,” he says, voice lower now, “you summoned me to guard duty every day this week. funny how that works.”

he’s closer. you didn’t see him step forward, but suddenly he’s there, within reach. his voice is velvet, and his gaze flickers over your face with disarming patience—as if memorizing every twitch, every tell. your lips part slightly, then press together in a stubborn line.

“i’ll have your head for this,” you breathe, trying to keep your voice steady. your eyes dart away, then back, betraying you.

“and i’ll gift it back to you in a velvet box,” he murmurs, gaze dipping to your lips, “heart included.”

your breath catches. your lashes flutter. you feel the air leave your lungs all at once, and your chin tips down instinctively, as though trying to hide the blush threatening to rise.

he leans in just enough that you feel the warmth of him, the smell of cedar and sun-warmed linen clinging to his cloak. his gloved fingers brush your wrist—not quite a hold, just a touch, but it makes your spine straighten and your pulse spike.

“that’s not proper protocol,” you whisper, the words catching awkwardly in your throat.

“neither is sneaking out to the orchard at midnight,” satoru replies, voice a husky hush. “but you do that too.”

you blink. your lips part in protest, but nothing comes out. your eyes flick toward the floor, then back to his. traitorously.

he chuckles softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. the sound is low and warm, like honey melting over hot coals. then, without hesitation, he lifts a hand and brushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear with aching gentleness. his fingers trail just slightly against your cheek, barely-there but impossible to ignore.

“see you tonight, princess,” he says, and it’s not a question. his voice is velvet wrapped in smugness, but there’s a hint of reverence beneath it.

then he turns on his heel, cloak flicking dramatically, vanishing down the corridor with infuriating grace.

you stand frozen, the touch still tingling against your skin. your fingers curl inwards, trying to grasp something invisible. your breath comes shallow, quick. the cool air of the hallway feels too warm.

he leaves your heart pounding, your thoughts a mess, and your pride absolutely shattered.

[little-miss-dilf-lover]

COME BACK TO ME, PLEASE. 18+

bucky barnes x fem!reader

wc. 4153 summary. bucky would never return home late from a mission, not if he could help it anyway. he would always give you updates and little texts when he gets the chance. though tonight he doesn’t message and all your texts go undelivered. you immediately think the worst and are left to wallow in your made up grief for hours before he returns back home to you. warnings. 18+ only! thunderbolts* era bucky, bit of angst at beginning, implicit suicide mention (reader says she’d join him if something bad were to happen to him (romeo and juliet who?)) established relationship (implied that they’re married) wound tending, comforting, dry humping, titty kissing, eating it from the back (only a little) unprotected pinv, ‘I missed you’ sex, bit of roughness, creampie, allusions to aftercare (I got lazy) mdni

⎯ ☆ ⎯

Time had become a mystery to you by now, any sense of the minute or hour truly lost. If you were to guess by the pain in your ass from the hard floor and ache in your eyes from the bright corridor lights, you would assume it to be ten, maybe eleven pm — three ish hours after Bucky said he’d be home. 

It wasn’t like him. He would never be home later than arranged, not if he could help it anyway. Though it wasn’t the lateness that bothered you, it was lack of communication that became the issue.

Throughout most missions, if not, all, Bucky would check in randomly with texts, keeping you up to date with his ETA and wellbeing, sometimes even just an emoji heart to let you know that he’s thinking of you. But tonight, the last and only message you received was an indistinguishable jumble of words, those dozen letters unclear and worrying. Immediately you thought the worst, thinking it was his final text to you before something awful happened.

Ultimately the dreaded feeling grew more intense when your messages to Yelena went undelivered, even the ones you sent to John. 

And so, here you still sit. Outside the apartment, your back against the door with your knees bent up, elbows resting atop as you keep your face buried in your hands. It was agonising, left to your own devices with nothing but terrible thoughts to chip away at your brain. You knew you should keep yourself distracted and busy and occupied, but you couldn’t bear the thought of accidentally missing a message if one were to ever come through. So you waited, sitting out front so you could spot him coming out the elevators. 

He would always find a way to communicate with you — to let you know all’s well so you don’t fret, so why hasn’t he this time? Could it really be as bad as what you were thinking, is it possible it could be worse? You thought.

Your palms glide up your face and your fingers run over your hair briefly, a small attempt to alleviate some of the turmoil residing inside you. You twist the band on your left ring finger, turning it around three times like you were wordlessly granting a wish for Bucky’s return.

The hopeless feeling continues to bloom and you drop your head into crossed arms, your shoulders beginning to shudder with your silent cries. You hear a ding in the near distance but you can’t bear to look up and be met with yet another stranger. So you keep your head down, not so keen on re-feeling the weight of disappointment again so soon.

You hear your name being called from down the corridor, the voice all too familiar and you peer up. You blink away the water that clouds your vision and see your lover jog towards you, heavy boots thudding on the carpeted floors. He says your name again and you stand, rushing towards him with open arms. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” you mumble, the sight of him reopening a floodgate of tears. You throw yourself into him, arms wrapping tightly around his neck like you were afraid he’d slip through your fingers. “Oh my god,” you sob into him, thankful he’s made it back.

Bucky’s arms encircle you, grip tight around the middle of your back as buries his face into the crook of your neck, re-familiarising himself with your comfort. “I’m so sorry,” he squeezes you tighter, scared that you, too, may fall through his grasp. “I’m so, so sorry,” he repeats. “I tried, I really did.”

You didn’t need to question what that meant, you already knew. You knew he would exhaust every means in order to speak to you.

“I know,” you muffle and pull away. You wipe the snotty nose on your sleeve and look over him, eager to assess his damage. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” you hone in on his forehead, only just noticing some gashes above his brow. You tilt his head with your hands either side of his face, moving him gently to get a better look. “What happened?” you ask, saddened eyes meeting his tired ones. 

He brings his thumbs to swipe away the wet under your eyes and then wraps his hands around your wrists, pulling them from his face. “It’s nothing,” he assures and slips his hands into yours, giving them a comforting squeeze.

“It doesn’t look like nothing,” you protest and sniffle, eyes narrowing at him. “It looks like it hurts, actually, quite a bit.”

His head cocks and his eyes close, it’s like he knew there was no way of making you think otherwise. To you, it was the face of acceptance. Reluctant acceptance. He inhales deeply and nods, wordlessly admitting the agony and irritation it had been causing him. 

He should've attended to the wound hours ago by himself, but between the nightmare mission and everything that had happened, it simply fell onto the back burner — his own issues discarded in that very typical Bucky way. But truthfully, he much preferred it when you’d attend to his cuts and scrapes after missions. He loved the fuss you’d make over him. It made him feel safe knowing he had something so tender and loving there waiting for his return. 

He steps around you and guides you towards the apartment, hand still entwined in yours as you walk through the door. Instinctively you each move around purely on muscle memory: Bucky throwing his jacket aside and taking a seat at the dining table, you heading to the bathroom to wash up and collect the first aid kit.

Your slippers scuffle along the floor as you make your way back to him at the table, you tighten your robe and sit beside him. 

Although you were glad he was back, you found it difficult to look at him. It was like a new wave of fear stills inside you, like you were afraid that if you were to look too hard his face would morph into someone else like a bad dream. As if you were scared he wasn’t actually there and instead a pigment of your imagination.

But his eyes remain solely on you even when yours couldn’t — watching you intently as you carefully pick up his fleshed hand. He could see it in you without even having to meet your eyes; you were feeling a concoction of all things bad, and it was more than evident in your demeanour.

Your gaze hangs low as you swipe an antiseptic pad over his knuckles, wiping away the residual blood that he very obviously ‘cleaned’ with his top. You feel his fingers tighten in yours like he was offering solace and your bottom lip begins to wobble.

He moves his head as if to try and meet your eyes, but close them tight, the act an attempt to stop yourself from crying yet again. He places his left, metal hand on your knee slotted between his and he smoothes over your thigh, trying to assure you. 

“I really thought I lost you,” you admit quietly. 

There wasn’t much he could say. Of course it was bound to be a dire situation for you, the uncertainty of the night amplifying all those bad thoughts of yours. He couldn’t change what happened, but he can change the way you feel about it now. Or at least he could try.

“I wouldn’t let that happen.”

You scoff softly and peer up from his hand to look at him. “You can’t know that,” your head shakes faintly as if to reinforce your words. 

There was truly no way he could know that. As strong as he is, there is always going to be someone stronger, someone more powerful. Someone is always going to have a better set of skills and there will be a time where he won’t be able to do anything about it.

“I do,” he scooches forward on his chair, getting even closer to you. “If I have you waiting here, there’s no way I’m not coming back.”

You smile sadly at him, almost wishing you believed it. In some aspects, you did. You knew he meant his words, but it was something out of his control to promise. 

You look down to his hand in yours and thumb over the dozens of tiny cuts — reminding yourself of all the times he’d come home despite being bloodied and beaten and worn next to nothing. He always did return. So maybe he did mean it.

You pick up a clean wipe from the pack on the table and guide it to his brow, slowly and carefully starting to blot around the gash. You keep your eyes fixed on the wound as you debate whether to translate your inner monologue into something vocal, into something he can hear too.

“By the way,” you start, hesitantly deciding to voice your thoughts. “If you go, I do, too.”

Bucky firms, shoulders tightening at the realisation that very well may be true. He focuses on you, watching the concentration in your expression as you clean the cut. 

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do,” you turn his words back on him, repeating what he voiced to you a few moments ago.

“I don’t want you doing that.”

“You won’t get a choice… because you won’t be here,” you meet his gaze and thumb the corner of his eye, looking at him sweetly.

Maybe it was dramatic, and maybe it should’ve gone unsaid. But after the night you’ve each had, some daunting honesty could do you both some good. 

All he can do is simply just look at you, the thought that you would follow him if something were to ever happen to him made him feel guilty, incredibly guilty. Just knowing that you’d be so consumed by your grief that you will actually join him. It was too heavy a thought and it wasn’t something he could stomach right now.

Bucky’s head shakes subtly, like it was an attempt to discard the thought entirely. He looks down at his lap like he was ashamed almost, like he was disgusted with himself for putting you through so much stress. He was so caught up in finally being able to take action that he didn’t stop to think about how it was all affecting you. 

Though you’ve grown to know him well, almost too well and you knew in his bashful, diverted gaze that he was conflicted. You smooth a band-aid on the cut above his brow, running your thumb along the sticky edges to further seal it. 

“You know I’m proud of you, right?” you offer some reassurance of your own, neck craning to the side like you were trying to meet his eyes the way he did you not long before. “I’m so proud of what you do,” you smile, eyes softening when he finally meets your gaze. “James, you save people. Like actually save people’s lives.”

“I wouldn’t—”

You cut him off, wanting to get ahead of the self-depreciation. “You do so much good,” your eyes firm as you look at him. “You are a hero and I am proud of who you are. I can deal with the stress, and the worry— just,” you pause, eyes losing their sense of sternness. “Just always come home to me,” your whisper reflecting your sincerity.

His hand moves to yours in your lap, fingers lacing together as he gently pulls you forward — implicitly guiding you from your seat. He leads you to his thighs, hands momentarily settling on your waist as you perch upon his lap, facing him.

Innately you drape your arms over his shoulders, fingers connecting loosely behind his neck while you survey him from your slightly elevated viewpoint. His gaze remains attentive, pure focus settled on you as he flickers between eyes and lips. 

You slowly itch yourself closer, faces meeting as you reach his mouth. Your lips linger for a mere moment, ghosting his before you finally initiate contact, pressing a lengthy, gentle kiss to him. Though when it breaks, you’re both keen to rekindle, and so he extends upwards — meeting you again. 

But this time around, it progresses, rather hastily transitioning into something more urgent. Your arms envelop his head, hands holding him firmly as if to keep him close while his grasp around your waist grows all the more prominent. Grip beginning to circle your hips atop him, small, little winding movements forming like you were each desperate for more. 

His touch rises from your waist, though you continue the tiny grinds unprompted. He reaches for the bow of your nightgown and tugs slowly on the lengths — gradually exposing you like time was no such issue. You follow suit and drop your hands from his face, letting them hang at your sides as if to help him. He parts from the kiss and your forehead briefly presses against his, noses nudging quite like you were both trying to even your breathing and regain control of yourselves again. 

He watches his movements as he settles his hands either side of your neck, watching your skin twitch and flutter beneath his touch. His fingers slip under the fabric of the robe covering your shoulders, the slight movement of his hands allows the material to fall down the lengths of your arms and to pool around your stomach. 

Without a moment of deliberation, his hands move to your bare tits, giving each a gentle, but somehow a firm squeeze. He observes the way they roll in his palm, how they fit so perfectly and comfortable in his hold.

You reach to the hem of his compression tee, fingers slinking under the tight, black fabric to undress him in a way he did similar to you. You drag it up the length of his back, delicate, unrushed movements matching his prior. 

Bucky lifts his arms, indirectly helping you undress him. You discard the top aside and run your fingers down him across the upper of his chest, fingers toying with the wedding band he attached to the dogtag chain around his neck. You repeat the motion from earlier, turning the ring three times as if it was giving thanks for his safe return. 

He releases a grip around one of your breasts and guides it to your waist, urging you to pick up your faltering winds over him. But with the one he still has cupped under your tit, he holds it upwards to meet his mouth — lips almost immediately finding themselves latched to your nipple. 

Lapping at it leisurely, he matches the motion of his lips and tongue to that of your hips, synchronising the pleasure so you could feel something alike to him. Your head falls back and your lips part slightly, a visual and physical representation surfacing what you feel inside.

You can feel him grow hard through his jeans, cock beginning to chub up against your covered cunt. And so, you direct your winding movements right on top of it, bumping over him gently as if to prepare yourselves: firm him up and loosen you. 

He lets your nipple fall from his mouth and he wraps his arms around your middle, holding you snuggly as he stands. You settle on your feet and the robe falls to the floor. You then turn, twisting to face the window ahead of the dining table.

Bucky’s arms stay intact in their placement around your middle and he presses his chest up against your back, holding you close as he peppers quick hasty kisses to the side of your throat. His hands glide up your midriff from behind, needy hands pawing as they reach your tits once again.

You lift a knee and place it at the edge of the table. And as you do so, you extend a hand back to hold the side of his head, cupping over his ear to keep him there — quite like you didn’t want him to pull away or stop. Your mind empties as you lose yourself in the little acts of affection and your head falls to the opposite side, exposing more of your neck and ultimately granting him more of you. 

Though the ache between your thighs grows distracting and you find it hard to concentrate on the way his lips feel on your neck when you would much rather them be somewhere else. So you reach your free hand behind your back and palm over his cock through his pants.

He takes the rather large, obvious glowing sign and releases his tight hold on you. With his grasp loosened, you lean forward and splay yourself over the table — both feet planted to the floor, arms crossing on the surface, chin resting atop.

Bucky bends behind you, taking a knee so he could be more level. He litters a faint, alternating trail of kisses up the backs of your thighs, each one getting closer to the cheeks of your ass. His touch rises and his palms skirt over your ass, he follows the billowing shape all the way to the elastic of your underwear. He gives it a small yank, another tug following as he drags them down your legs.

The underwear pools around your ankles and you step out of the fabric while simultaneously broadening your stance. Feet more than shoulder distance apart to allow him access to where you wanted him. 

His kisses pick up from where he left off, continuing on from the cheek of your ass and going inwards. His tongue steadily swipes through your folds from behind, the muscle flat as he starts at your clit and parts his way between your pussy’s lips. Languidly lapping at your cunt from its upside down, and rather unfamiliar angle. 

Bucky plants a kiss to the centre of your pussy and then seals a final one to your thigh  before he stands. Teeth skimming the flesh like he couldn’t quite help himself. If it were any other day, literally any day other than today, he could and would lap and suck and toy with you for hours — but right now that’s not what he wanted. And it wasn’t what you wanted either. 

The metal on his belt clatters as he unbuckles his jeans, the sound titillating your senses when you hear his pants thud on the floor around his boots. He reaches downwards and wraps his right, fleshed hand around his cock — giving himself a few preparatory pumps as he guides closer. 

He slaps the top of his dick on your ass, two, three, maybe four times, unable to keep his eyes away from the way you twitch and shudder beneath his touch. Quickly guiding his hand to his mouth, he spits in the palm and begins working it over his cock, focusing on the head as he gives it a polishing motion. 

Bucky adjusts you in place with his other hand, the vibranium one tilting and angling you by with a firm grip on your hip. He itches himself towards your cunt from behind and starts swiping his cock though your wetness, collecting it around his tip. Lining himself up with you, he nudges forward and his head sinks in.

You each gasp faint at the initial contact, though that quiet volume is short lived when he pushes the rest of himself inside with the same motion. But tonight he doesn’t give much time for either one of you to adjust, instead he pushes himself impossibly further — so, so deep inside that he bottoms out, balls pressing firmly against your clit from behind.

You whine out, the noise emitting deep from your lungs and almost guttural from the surprise, you claw at the table and your neck grows slack, forehead resting on your forearm as you pant wildly. 

Both his hands settle on the small of your back as he uses you to steady himself, a large portion of his weight holds your body down, eager to keep you in place so he can show you just how much he needs you. He tests with a small thrust, only retracting a teeny, tiny amount of his dick from its snug placement before he rams himself back in again. 

He repeats that a few times over until a pattern forms, wind of his hips growing closer together. And eventually a precise, meticulous system falls into place, cock stretching and filling you in a way so deliciously that any noise you make, sounds strained and strangled. Every gasp getting cut short by the snapping motion of Bucky behind.

One of his hands trails up the expanse of your back, gliding along your spine until his metal grip settles on the back of your neck. He holds you there while his other paws and kneads and squeezes at the doughy flesh of your ass, his grasp around it making you meet his jutting thrusts. Ass beginning to clap and slap against his thighs.

You pull your left arm out from under your chin and place your hand on the table beside your head, wordlessly communicating with him. You were too fucked out your brain to speak in a decipherable manner so you hoped he would catch onto your silent signal. 

He notices your splayed out hand and places his atop yours, vibranium fingers slotting into yours sweetly despite the harsh, almost nasty nature of his fucking. A pulse-like squeeze of his hand matching the pace of his punctuated ploughing, the difference between the two actions like night and day.

“Leg up,” he says, voice hoarse and gravelly as he slaps and squeezes the cheek of your ass, tacitly indicating the one he wants elevated. 

You lift your leg like the response was of sole instinct, doing as asked as soon as the command hits your ears. The position now is quite similar to earlier: knee resting on the edge of the table, though the rest of your body remains in place. You subconsciously mirror his blissed, lewd noise with the new angle — your raised knee opening you up further, allowing him to reach deeper inside than you ever thought possible.

Separately, you each assumed this conjugal moment to last longer, for it to go on hours into the night, but with all that’s happened, it was like everything was already on edge. Like your bodies were running on pure adrenaline, already tired and at their max with how much they could take.

Bucky leans over you slightly, weight noticeable on the back of your hand as he stabilises himself. Using you for balance as he fucks you both over the last little hurdle. 

It all becomes too much and you feel everything build impossibly further inside you: the sounds, the feels, the emotions — all of it collecting and creating an air bubble in the pitt of your stomach. The jabbing of his cock acts as a pin, threatening to make you pop with every harsh snap of his hips.

You near your end and your cunt clamps around him incessantly, pulsing and fluttering and jotting as the strength in your leg dissipates. Your stability feigning and moans hitching. And in turn, your climax triggers that of his own; breaths heavy and grunts loud as he empties himself inside you, filling you with nothing but himself.

His movements dwindle down to a halt and he pauses, allowing both of you several seconds to ease down from the high. Each of you far too sensitive for anything other than stillness. And when he eventually retracts himself, he moves slowly — cock acting as a plug and letting a trickle of his cum seep from you.

Leaning over you briefly, he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, cementing something gentle and earnest into your skin before helping you up. He kicks off his boots and pants as he peels you from the tables surface, your body limp and fucked utterly sensless. But still, you stand rather capably, facing Bucky head on, meeting his lazy, tired, but yet pleased smile with one of your own.

“Bath?” you question plainly, sweetly gazing at him. 

“Of course,” he nods, replying like it was obvious. He would never turn down some bubbles and candles, no matter how late it may be.

Bucky bends slightly and lifts you onto his shoulder, holding you in a barrel-like carry like the object of weight were no such issue. His arms wrap around you carefully, supporting you with one arm secured around the back of your knees, the other just under your ass. Holding you like a prized possession as he guides you through doorframes and hallways, heading for the bathroom.

His smile widens as the sound of your faint giggles tingle pleasantly in his ears — a far happier sound than when he returned home. Just the way it should be.

⎯ ☆ ⎯

[starset21]

It Feels Like Death, Max |MV1|

Pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

Summery: Max’s girlfriend feels like she’s dying (it’s just a bad headache and waiting for meds to kick in isn’t fun) 

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

A/N: enjoy this oneshot inspired by how I felt last night haha

The headache came out of nowhere.

One minute you were fine — scrolling aimlessly on your phone, sipping water, waiting for Max to get back from the simulator — and the next, a dull ache bloomed behind your eyes and spiraled into something sharp and blinding.

Now, lying motionless in the dim bedroom, it felt like your entire skull was pulsing with every heartbeat. You’d managed to swallow two painkillers with trembling fingers and crawl under the covers, but they hadn’t kicked in yet, and time was moving like molasses.

The door creaked open.

“Schatje?” Max’s voice floated through the fog of pain, quieter than usual — which told you instantly he knew something was wrong.

“In here,” you croaked. Or at least you thought you did. The words felt thick in your throat.

Max appeared in the doorway, his silhouette outlined by the hallway light. When he saw you curled into a fetal position, half-buried in his duvet like a wounded animal, his brows pulled together.

“Hey.” He padded in, crossing the room in a few strides, and crouched by the bed. His hand went instinctively to your forehead. “What’s wrong?”

“Headache,” you whispered. “Bad. Like, biblical bad.”

“You take anything?”

“Yeah. Just... waiting. Feels like it’s never going to kick in. Am I warm?”

He placed a hand on your forehead feeling for temperature but shakes his head. You groan. He leaned over and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Poor thing. You want me to shut the blinds tighter?”

“They’re already closed. The sun’s just being rude.”

He smirked at that. “Alright. Let me grab you some water.”

You didn’t protest — didn’t have the energy to — and a moment later you heard the familiar sound of a bottle cap unscrewing. He set it down beside you with a gentle thunk, and then climbed onto the bed next to you, moving slowly like he was trying not to disturb a wild animal.

He settled behind you, an arm sneaking under your side, then wrapping around your waist as he pulled you gently into his chest.

“I’m dying,” you mumbled into the pillow. “This is how it ends.”

Max laughed quietly against your hair. “It’s a headache. You’re not dying.”

“Easy for you to say. Your brain isn’t trying to claw its way out of your skull.”

He stroked your arm gently, his voice amused but soft. “If you die, I’ll have to retire. No point racing without you cheering for me.”

You huffed. “Dramatic.”

“Says the girl who just declared death because of a migraine.”

“Touché.”

Silence settled over you for a minute. The pain was still there, brutal and unrelenting, but Max’s presence helped dull the edge of it — just a little. He was warm. Solid. Familiar.

You felt his fingers trace slow, aimless patterns across the back of your hand.

“I hate this,” you said quietly.

“I know.”

“I was gonna make dinner.”

“I ordered Thai. Extra spring rolls.”

You smiled faintly. “I love you.”

“I know,” he said again, lips brushing against your shoulder. “I love you too.”

Your eyes fluttered closed. The pain was still there — but it was starting to fade, just slightly, in that subtle, promising way that told you the meds were kicking in. Relief still felt like a faraway promise, but now it was a reachable one.

~

You woke up slowly, the edges of the migraine faded to a dull throb that was no longer consuming every thought. Max was still beside you, scrolling through his phone with one arm tucked under your shoulders.

“How long was I out?” you asked, voice raspy.

“Hour and a half,” he said, glancing down. “You snored. Very delicately. Like a little gremlin.”

You groaned. “Please don’t start calling me Gremlin now.”

“No promises,” he teased, brushing a strand of hair off your face. “How’s the pain?”

“Better. Like, manageable. No more hallucinations of my own funeral.”

“Pity,” he deadpanned. “I had the playlist ready and everything.”

You rolled your eyes and tried to sit up and winced. He helped you, propping pillows behind your back like it was second nature. Then he kissed your forehead, the most reassuring thing in the world, and walked off to grab your food.

When he returned, you were already smiling weakly at the smell.

“Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for being the best person alive.”

He grinned as he handed you a spring roll. “Well, someone’s gotta be. You were too busy dying.”

You tossed a napkin at him — and for the first time that day, it didn’t feel like the world was ending.

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to overhearing their s/o call them their “current boyfriend”

Request: hiii could i request svt overhearing their s/o calling them “current boyfriend” and seeing how they react? thank you!!

A/N: I loved this request so much 😭 please keep them coming. It was so fun 😭😭😭

Absolutely offended [and dramatic about it] — Seungcheol, Mingyu, Seungkwan

Excuse you? current?! He stops whatever he’s doing and just stares at you like you committed treason. “Current?? Like there’s a lineup? A waiting list??” He’s not mad… just very wounded [and milking it]. Cue the arms crossed, pouty stare, and “I guess I’ll go pack my things then 🧳😔” energy. You’ll have to smother him with smooches and assurances like, “I meant only boyfriend!!” before he forgives you, still with a sulky pout ofc.

Pretends to be chill but is very much not — Joshua, Jun, Woozi

He hears it, blinks, and doesn’t say anything… at first. But suddenly, he’s weirdly formal. “So… current, huh? Should I… schedule a date for next week or something?” He’s calm on the surface but is lowkey spiraling inside. You’ll catch him being unusually attentive for the rest of the day; kissing your forehead more, complimenting you randomly, and making sure you know he’s husband material BAHAHSSEFVTVYTYVTEAHAH YES. It’s giving ‘this job isn’t open for applications.’

Immediately starts competing with imaginary boyfriends — Hoshi, Dokyeom, Dino

“Oh? Current? Then tell your future boyfriends to level up because they’ll never top this.” He takes it as a challenge and starts flexing all his boyfriend perks. “Did your next boyfriend buy you flowers/snacks/[or add whatever boyfriends buys] today? No? Tragic. I did.” He’ll go extra out of his way to do cute stuff e.g., suddenly becoming clingier, cuter, louder [than he already is] and he’ll keep calling himself ‘the best boyfriend you’ll ever have’ for a week straight even after you admit it was a joke.

Actually concerned and needs reassurance — Wonwoo, Vernon

You said it so casually, but it sticks with him. Later, he weakly brings it up, almost like he’s afraid to ask. “You said… ‘current boyfriend.’ Did you mean something by that?” He’s not upset, just a little worried, because he treasures you too much to not take it seriously. Once you reassure him that it was a joke, he softens, lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, and says, “Okay. Just… didn’t want to lose you, you know?”

Already planning to upgrade the title — Jeonghan, Minghao

I think y'all saw this duo coming, right? XD He raises an eyebrow, smirks, and doesn’t say anything for a minute, but you know he heard. Later, he casually drops, “Current boyfriend. Hmmmm, guess I’ll just have to fix that.” Cue the most unexpected but intense period of flowers, forehead kisses, and ‘accidental’ hints at marriage. “What’s your ring size again?” he’ll ask like it’s nothing. He’s going to make sure the next time you introduce him, it’s as your forever person [but likely it's gonna be husband since he will upgrade].

[ice-man-goes-bwoah]

Fix You Up, Baby||Joaquin Torres x Reader

Summary— You patch Joaquin up after a rough mission—tending his wounds with the same tender touch you learned from your grandma.

Word count—978

The door creaked open, and there he was half limping, half swaggering, with dried blood trailing down his temple and a sheepish grin already working its way onto his face.

You didn’t bother hiding your sigh as you set down the first aid kit.

“Jesus, Joaquin.”

“Hey,” he rasped, wincing as he leaned against the counter. “You should see the other guy.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” you asked, already tugging off his jacket, brows pinched. The black fabric stuck to his skin in places, soaked through with blood and sweat. “You look like you went three rounds with a wrecking ball.”

“Maybe two and a half,” he muttered, letting you work.

The shirt came next. You didn’t look away; he was used to that by now. Your gaze was clinical, mostly. Okay, partly. His chest rose and fell in steady rhythm, marred by bruises and a shallow gash across his ribs. He hissed when you dabbed at it with antiseptic.

“Careful,” he whined, exaggerating the flinch.

You arched a brow. “You get yourself banged up just to see me, huh?”

The room went still for a beat.

His lips quirked up as he met your gaze. “Maybe.”

You scoffed, but it came out too soft to be convincing. “Idiot.”

He shrugged one shoulder, eyes never leaving yours. “I like your hands. They’re gentle.”

That made you freeze. Just for a second. But you picked the gauze back up like nothing happened. “That’s ‘cause my grandma taught me. She said if you love someone, you gotta fix them up like they’re the most important thing in the world.”

Silence again, thicker this time. Your fingers slowed against his skin.

“…You love me, mi ángel?”

Your eyes flicked to his. You were close enough now to feel the heat of his body, to see the faint smirk battling with the raw tenderness in his eyes.

You pressed the last piece of gauze down a little harder than necessary.

“Don’t push your luck.”

But your voice was too warm. Too careful. And the way he grinned? He knew.

The gauze stayed where you pressed it, but your hand didn’t move. Joaquin’s breath caught just slightly and for a moment, all the teasing and flirtation gave way to quiet understanding. You were both tired. Worn thin by the job. But in these little pockets of stillness, there was something soft between you that neither of you had dared name.

You cleared your throat and stepped back, fingers brushing the curve of his shoulder as you moved. “Sit still. I’m not done.”

He obeyed, which was rare. Not even a smart remark. You swore you could feel him watching you as you opened a new roll of bandage, the low light catching in his lashes, the gold-brown flecks in his eyes still too damn kind for someone who’d just been in a knife fight.

Your hands slowed again, muscle memory taking over and your mind drifted, unbidden, to the first time you’d ever patched him up.

It had been a mess. Your second mission together. He was still too trusting, too green, and you’d been all sharp edges and silence, trying to unlearn the instincts the Red Room drilled into your bones. You didn’t talk much back then just did your job, cleaned your weapons, and stayed out of the way.

But that night, he’d come back bloody and too stubborn to ask for help.

“I can handle it,” he’d insisted, jaw set even as he swayed on his feet.

“You’re about to pass out.”

“Am not.”

You’d called him a dumbass. Ripped his shirt open with your knife and cleaned the wound with a shake in your hands you hoped he didn’t notice.

He did.

He’d winced, but he’d smiled through it. “You’re really gentle for someone with murder eyes.”

You’d told him to shut up.

He hadn’t. Not then. Not now.

Back in the present, you tied the last of the bandage off and set your hands on your hips. “There. Good as new.”

Joaquin blinked, like you’d pulled him out of a thought. “You zoned out for a second,” he said quietly. “Where’d you go?”

You looked down at your bloodied fingertips, then back at him. “Just remembered the first time I patched you up. You were mouthy then too.”

“I was trying to make you laugh,” he admitted. “You looked like you’d forgotten how.”

That knocked the air out of you for a beat.

“I hadn’t,” you said softly. “Just hadn’t had a reason in a long time.”

His expression shifted. The teasing faded. “You got one now?”

Your eyes met, and it felt like something inside you cracked wide open.

“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”

A long pause. Then Joaquin reached for your wrist, slow, giving you time to pull away but you didn’t. His thumb brushed against your pulse point, warm and steady.

“I think I’m gonna keep getting banged up,” he said, voice low. “If it means I get you like this. Focused. Soft. Close.”

You should’ve warned him not to say things like that.

Instead, you leaned in just a little. “You don’t need to bleed for my attention, Joaquin.”

“No?” he murmured. “What do I need, then?”

You hesitated. Let yourself feel the weight of the moment. The years of slow-burn closeness, late-night stakeouts, battlefield stitches and quiet kindnesses.

“Just show up,” you whispered. “In one piece.”

His hand slipped from your wrist to your cheek, tentative and careful. “And if I do? Keep showing up? Maybe let you patch me up even when I don’t need it?”

You smiled.

“Then maybe I’ll let you kiss me next time.”

[synity]

Hi! Could you write a fic with DK where he playfully teases the reader while they’re in a relationship, and the reader teases him back — but in the end, they both end up flustered?

Caught In 4K

(Lee Dokyeom x FemReader)

*Fluff, Playful Romance, Established Relationship*

It started with a smirk.

Dokyeom had that gleam in his eyes the kind that meant mischief. You were curled up on the couch, minding your business, scrolling through your phone when he snuck up behind you and hooked his chin over your shoulder.

“You’re cute when you concentrate,” he whispered against your ear, voice lower than usual, knowing exactly what he was doing.

You raised a brow without looking at him. “Trying to seduce me in a hoodie and fluffy socks?”

He gasped, feigning offense. “First of all, this hoodie is sexy don’t disrespect the limited edition SEVENTEEN merch. Second, I don’t need to dress up to seduce you. My existence does enough.”

You rolled your eyes and set your phone down. “Wow, confidence through the roof today. What did you eat?”

“Affection. I had a full-course meal of your love and attention,” he said, grinning like a five-year-old who knew he was being extra.

You reached behind and flicked his forehead lightly. “You’re so cheesy, I swear I’m going lactose intolerant.”

He let out a dramatic gasp and slid onto the couch beside you. “You used to find me charming. Now you just abuse me with your sarcasm.”

You smirked, turning to face him. “You used to play the guitar to impress me. Now you just steal my fries and make fun of how I pronounce ‘schedule.’”

“Skedule is not how it’s said and you know it.”

“Shed-ule. Fight me.”

“You’re picking fights with a vocalist who could sing your name into a love song and make you cry in five seconds?”

“I’m not crying unless it’s from how cringe your pick-up lines are.”

Dokyeom chuckled, tossing a pillow at you. “You are so mean. I think I need to report this relationship to the Ministry of Adorable Boyfriends.”

You caught the pillow mid-air and raised a brow. “That’s a thing?”

“It should be. I’d be president.”

“More like a clown.”

“You wound me,” he clutched his chest dramatically, slumping into your lap. “Your words, they sting.”

You laughed, running your fingers through his hair. “Poor baby.”

He peeked up at you with that lazy smile and twinkle in his eyes. “Still wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

Your fingers paused. Just like that, your face warmed.

DK, noticing your slight blush, smirked again. “Aww… got you flustered, didn’t I?”

You pushed his head off your lap gently and tried to play it cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, I’m just warm. This hoodie is thick.”

“Oh, so now you like my hoodie?”

“You’re so annoying.”

“But you love me,” he sang with a grin.

“No comment.”

“You’re not denying it!”

“I’m pleading the fifth.”

He sat up with a triumphant look. “Ha! I win.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Fine. If you’re going to play that game” you paused, leaning in close to his face. “Then maybe I should tell you that you looked really hot at rehearsal the other day. All that sweat and effort? Chef’s kiss.”

His mouth dropped open. “Wait—what?!”

You tilted your head innocently. “What? I can’t appreciate my boyfriend’s stage presence?”

Dokyeom blinked, processing it slowly. “You were watching?”

“Of course. I always watch you.”

His ears turned red. You grinned wider.

“Yah… don’t do that,” he mumbled.

“Do what?”

“Say that so casually. I’m a weak man.”

You leaned closer, this time whispering, “Then I guess I shouldn’t tell you that your back muscles look really good when you’re focused.”

He turned bright pink and dramatically collapsed back onto the couch.

“I’m dead. You killed me.”

You couldn’t stop laughing as he hid his face behind a pillow. “You okay there, Mr. Flirt?”

His voice came muffled. “I was supposed to fluster you, not the other way around.”

“Plot twist,” you giggled, poking his side.

Suddenly, he pulled the pillow down and cupped your cheeks. “Fine. You wanna play dirty? I’ll end this right now.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, what are you doing—”

And then he kissed you.

A deep, slow kiss that had your heart skipping a beat, hands freezing mid-air as his lips moved against yours with a smug kind of softness. You melted a little, caught off guard.

When he finally pulled back, he smirked. “Now who’s flustered?”

You were breathless, blinking at him in disbelief. “You… that’s cheating.”

Dokyeom winked. “All’s fair in love and flirt wars.”

You couldn’t even argue. Not when your heart was thumping and your cheeks were on fire. You playfully shoved him, burying your face in the nearest pillow.

He laughed, pulling you into his arms. “Game over. I win.”

“You’re such a menace,” you mumbled, voice muffled.

“But I’m your menace.”

And just like that, he rested his chin on top of your head, humming contentedly while you both sat tangled together in a heap of soft blankets, warmth, and unspoken affection.

Flustered or not, it was moments like these that made you fall harder.

[moonstruckme]

hello, sweetie!! i've been reading your doctor!remus content for a while now, and i literally can't get enough of it. you write him so well, and i just can't help it when i binge through every fic you have of him. <33

is it okay if i send in a request? please ignore this if you're not taking any right now or if you don't want to write it. totally fair!!

could you do one where reader (female or gender neutral is fine with me) sort of breaks an ankle or an arm, and it hurts like hell? aside from pain meds, reader craves a hug or two from remus, but he's very busy and he almost doesn't have the time to visit reader?

again, don't feel like you have to write my request. i completely understand.

have a nice day or night. and remember to stay hydrated and take care of yourself. :) <3

Thank you angel, hope you're taking care of yourself too <3

cw: hospital setting, Remus is slightly negligent of his patients but don't worry they're all fine because I make the rules

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 759 words

Remus thinks that he handles stress well. He’s good at prioritizing, and he can juggle more patients than most when the hospital is at its busiest. Remus is often the one his colleagues call for when there’s a child in need of calming, frantic families who won’t let them work, or when they can’t think straight because they’re so overwhelmed. He prides himself on having his shit decently together at least while he’s at work. 

But, unfortunately, knowing you’re in one of the curtained rooms lined up in front of him and not being able to spend his shift sitting with you has Remus’ carefully wound concentration coming apart at the seams. 

He finds himself cocking his ear for your voice when he knows he’s only two rooms over from yours. The patient he’s meant to be paying attention to has to repeat the name of the medicine she takes twice before he gets it. One room over, and hearing your gasp makes him stop mid-sentence, standing up straighter. His patient asks if he’s okay. 

Remus does feel close to the appropriate amount of guilt when he rushes that last patient’s final checks before discharge. He resolves to steep in penitence later. 

You’re chewing your lip when he pushes your curtain open, your eyes flitting up to his with something like relief. 

“I only have a minute,” he breathes, pulling the curtain closed behind him before kissing you. “Hi, lovely. How is it?” He looks down at where you’re still holding your fractured wrist in your lap. “Have you not been seen to yet?” 

“They said a doctor would come soon.” You lean forward to kiss him again, hitting the corner of his lips. “And look, here you are.” 

Remus frowns. “Bailey should have been in here by now.” 

“I don’t mind waiting.” 

“You’ve been here over half an hour. Your arm should at least be stabilized while you wait.” He glances out the crack in between your curtains, trying to catch a glimpse of his negligent colleague. “How’s your pain?” 

“Rem, I’m fine,” you say. “Can we just—” 

“I’m going to go get him in here.” He touches your unhurt shoulder, giving it a brief, reassuring squeeze before he turns to go. More focussed than he has been since you arrived. “Just sit tight, it won’t be much longer.” 

“Remus.” The splinter in your voice halts him as his hand closes over the curtain. Remus turns back around. 

Your eyes are glossy. It shakes him in a way nothing else can, like none of the horrors of his work ever do. It’s not pain, he doesn’t think. There’s a raw quality to your expression. 

“I don’t want him to come in here yet,” you whisper. 

Remus finds his voice dropping to match your quiet. “Why?” 

“I just want you.” 

His heart shudders. “Sweetheart,” he says, compassion heaving his tone, “I want to stay here with you, too, but you know why I can’t be the one to treat you. It’s against the rules.” 

“I know, but I just—can we—” You blink harshly, trying not to cry. Remus feels sick. For someone who deals with other people’s pain all day long, it’s sort of pathetic what the sight of yours does to him. “Can I just have a hug before you go?” 

“Oh,” he murmurs. An ache in the back of his throat. “Yeah, of course.” 

Remus has moved closer to you without realizing, drawn by the need to fix your upset, so it only takes a half step to be able to get his arms around you. You put your head on his shoulder like you’ve been wishing for it for hours. 

“Is this alright?” he asks, careful not to press anywhere near your injured arm. “Don’t let me hurt you.” 

“This is good.” Your voice is a watery consistency. Relief seeps from your every pore. 

Remus feels it seep into him, too. He rubs between your shoulders. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to brush you off.” 

Your sniffle breaks his heart. “You didn’t brush me off. I know you’re busy.” 

“I always have time for a hug.” He presses a kiss into your hair. “It’s, like, half my job, you know.” 

“Are you hugging other girls?” 

“Only the very, very sad ones.” 

You make a sound he suspects might be a muffled laugh. “Guess I should count myself lucky I got some of your time, then. In between all these sad girls.” 

Remus hums. “I may have a bit of a soft spot for one in particular.” 

[silent-stories]

𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐇 𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐒 - 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Pairing: underground fighter! noah x reader

Summary: You’re dragged to watch an illegal fight, and after the match, you meet Noah, a fighter who seems to be battling more than just his opponents.

Tw: violence, blood, wounds, drugs/alcohol mentions

The building almost looked dead from the outside.

It was hidden deep in a forgotten corner of the industrial district, tucked between rows of abandoned warehouses and loading docks long out of use. It had no sign, barely any light, nothing that marked it as anything but another slab of concrete and rust.

The only hint that something was happening inside were the muffled voices coming through the metal door and the occasional chatting of people slipping in.

You stepped out of the car and pulled your jacket tighter around yourself. The wind bit through your sleeves, but Kole didn’t seem to feel it. He was already circling the front of the car with a grin plastered on his face, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket like he was trying to play it cool.

He was dark-haired, his eyes green, dressed in black from head to toe except for the gray jacket he always wore. A trace of stubble darkened his jaw, the kind that came from not bothering to shave for at least two days.

“Come on,” he said. “Don’t be weird about it.”

You didn’t move right away. Your eyes lingered on the building.

Could you still walk away? Pretend you weren’t about to watch two men try to kill each other while strangers bet on who’d bleed the least?

Kole bumped your shoulder lightly.

“I told you, this place is insane. You’ve never seen anything like it."

You gave him a flat look. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”

He laughed.

“C'mon. I’ve got two hundred on the guy fighting tonight. Undefeated. Everyone’s saying he’s a beast, fast as hell, never goes down.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And if he does?”

Kole grinned wider. “He won’t.”

He reached for your hand and gave it a squeeze, then started toward the building. You followed, reluctantly. The gravel crunched under your boots as you crossed the lot, the only sound besides those muffled voices growing louder the closer you got.

As you neared the metal door, someone slipped out, a man in a black hoodie, talking fast on a phone, his head down. He looked angry, but you couldn’t make out what he was saying. You wondered if he’d lost a bet, or if someone had tricked him somehow.

You hadn’t even stepped inside yet, and you already hated the place.

Kole knocked twice.

A slot in the door slid open with a metallic rasp. A pair of sharp eyes peered out. They flicked to Kole, then to you, then back again.

Kole spoke first. “We’re good. Dean’s expecting me.”

Dean was one of the organizers of the illegal fights, a guy your boyfriend had met a few months earlier and seemed to have quickly become close with. He was the one who had introduced Kole to that world, telling him it was fun and that you could make good money if you knew how to bet, and bet with the right people. Kole had already been to three matches without you before that night.

A pause. Then the door creaked open just wide enough for the two of you to slip inside.

You were struck by the smell first: a mix of sweat, beer, smoke, metal (you wondered if it was blood, and you hoped not) and weed.

The place was big and the walls were streaked with faded graffiti and tinted yellow, like the place had been dipped in old whiskey. The ceiling was high, with led lights casting a warm glow over the room.

People were packed in tight, standing, laughing, drinking.

The ring at the centre wasn’t a ring at all. It was a square outlined with chain and caution tape, the floor inside scuffed and stained in too many places to count.

Kole tugged your arm.

“Come on. We need to get closer before it fills up.”

You didn’t move.

“Kole, this—”

“It’s fine,” he cut you off. “Just stick close to me.”

You let him pull you through the crowd. The voices got louder. You caught fragments of conversation, names, bets, someone bragging about how much cash they’d put down.

A man passed by with a clipboard, calling out something over the music. People handed over bills without hesitation.

You found a spot near the makeshift ring, the crowd pressing in tight all around.

Suddenly, Dean appeared beside Kole, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Hey, man,” he said with a grin. Then his eyes shifted to you. “Finally! It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he added, nodding in your direction.

Kole smiled and introduced you quickly, but you barely caught the words over the noise.

Dean turned back to Kole. “Placed your bet?”

“Two hundred.”

Dean nodded, a knowing smile crossing his face. “Good call. Sebastian doesn’t stand a fucking chance tonight.”

Kole grinned wider. “Then everyone betting on him’s crazy. But good for me.”

Before you could say anything, someone called Dean’s name from behind. He glanced over his shoulder, then back at Kole.

“I gotta go. Enjoy the show,” he said, clapping Kole on the shoulder once more before disappearing into the crowd.

You turned back to Kole, trying to find some kind of comfort. He caught your eyes and gave you a reassuring smile.

“Relax,” he said quietly. “It’s not as bad as it looks. You’ll get used to it.”

You glanced around. The crowd was mostly men, gruff, loud, sizing each other up or lost in their bets. A few women were scattered through the room. One was pressed against a wall in the far corner, kissing a man fiercely. Another laughed with a bottle clutched in her hand.

As you were still scanning all the people in that place, Kole spoke again, his mouth close to your ear, his voice low so only you could hear. “There, see that guy? That’s Sebastian. Or Noah, whatever you wanna call him.” He nodded toward a tall figure on the other side of the room with his back mostly turned, speaking quietly to another man.

He had broad shoulders but didn’t look too muscular, he wore a black tank top and seemed covered in tattoos. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and he lifted a hand to brush some strands out of his eyes.

He had a silver bracelet around one wrist, something simple that caught the light when he moved, and both his hands were wrapped in black tape.

His tattoos, unlike some of the harsher ones you'd seen around the place, looked almost softer, though you couldn’t make out the details clearly, they seemed to be flowers and leaves wrapped around his arms.

He turned around, and for a moment, his brown eyes met yours. They looked tired but not cold, just like someone who’d been through a lot and had nothing left to lose.

Kole didn’t seem to notice.

There was something softer about him, and not only the way his tattoos looked. Something that didn’t quite fit the image he was trying to project. He looked like someone playing the part of the scary fighter because it was expected of him, not because that was really him.

Then, he shifted his weight and turned slightly, continuing his conversation with the man in front of him like he’d never looked at you at all.

You leaned in a little closer to Kole, still watching the guy across the room. “Why are you so sure he’s gonna lose tonight?”

Kole gave a short laugh under his breath, like the answer was obvious. “Because you haven’t seen the guy he’s fighting yet.”

You opened your mouth to ask another question, but before you could get the words out, a loud metallic clang rang out, not quite a bell, more like someone slamming a steel bar against a pipe. The noise cut through the music and chatter, and almost instantly everyone turned toward the ring, voices rising and shouting.

You saw Noah stepping toward the makeshift ring, his movements calm, almost slow. He climbed through the chain barrier with ease, black-taped hands flexing slightly as he adjusted his stance.

Then his opponent followed.

If Noah was tall, around 6’3”, the other guy was towering. At least 6’8”, maybe more, and built like he was carved from concrete. His arms were huge, veins visible even from where you stood. He looked strong and he moved like he was sure he was going to win.

And just like that, it made sense.

You suddenly understood why Kole had bet against Noah. Why everyone probably had.

Because standing next to this guy, Noah really looked like he had no chance.

Noah stood still, head slightly lowered, hands loose at his sides. The other guy rolled his shoulders back and flexed his neck like he couldn’t wait to tear something apart.

Then the signal came.

No bell. No referee. They weren't even wearing boxing gloves or any dental protection. Just a shouted “Go!” from somewhere in the crowd, and they moved.

Noah darted forward first. Fast. Faster than you'd expected. He closed the space between them in a second and ducked low, slipping just under a wide punch that would’ve taken his head off. He twisted to the side and landed a quick jab to the ribs, nothing extremely heavy, but enough to make the bigger man grunt and pivot.

They circled.

Noah stayed moving, fast on his feet. The other guy was slower, but every swing he threw felt like it could break bone if it landed.

For a while, it was just movement. Dodging. Glancing hits. The thud of fists against ribs, the crack of footfalls on the stained floor. The crowd screamed every time someone got close to landing something big.

And then, Noah misjudged the angle, maybe by an inch. He went in again, too close this time, and the bigger man caught him.

A punch to the side of his face.

You heard it. That awful, heavy crack of skin on bone.

Noah’s head snapped sideways and he staggered. But before the cheers could even rise, he twisted back with a elbow that landed against the other man’s jaw. A small payback.

It wasn’t enough.

The bigger man slammed his shoulder forward, knocking Noah off balance, and then another hit, straight to the stomach. Noah went down.

He hit the floor hard, one hand catching himself, but there wasn’t time. The next punch came before he could stand. Then another.

Each one landed with a sickening sound, like something breaking.

Noah's opponent took a step back, chest heaving, not from exhaustion, but like he was just getting warmed up.

He turned slightly, raising both arms above his head, palms open as if inviting the crowd to praise him.

And they did. People screamed a name you couldn’t understand, drinks were thrown into the air, fists pounded the chains of the makeshift ring.

Noah pushed himself up again. Blood dripped from his mouth. He swayed on his feet.

The bigger man didn’t wait.

As soon as Noah was back on his feet, blood painting his chin, the other guy launched forward like a freight train.

A kick slammed into Noah’s side.

Noah’s body twisted before crashing to the ground with a thud, skidding across the floor.

He landed right in front of you.

You flinched, instinctively stepping back.

Something slid across the concrete, his bracelet. The silver one that had caught the light earlier. It had somehow come loose in the fall and now scraped its way toward Kole’s boots, stopping just against the toe of his black shoe.

Kole crouched down quickly and snatched it up.

You turned to him, staring. “That’s not yours.”

He grinned, holding the bracelet up between his fingers, letting it dangle in the air like a prize. “This night just keeps getting better, huh?”

“Kole, you can't —”

“I didn’t steal it,” he cut in, slipping the bracelet into his pocket. “I found it. On the ground. Finders keepers.”

You opened your mouth, but no words came out.

Noah was still on the floor, coughing, trying to push himself up again. His blood smeared the concrete just inches from your boots.

Noah pushed himself up again, barely. One knee under him, a hand gripping his ribs like it might keep them from shattering altogether. For a second, he found his footing enough to swing another punch.

But the other man saw it coming. He ducked easily, a smug grin stretching across his face like he was enjoying every second of this.

Then he drove a brutal fist into Noah’s ribs.

The sound was sickening, like a crack, or maybe just your imagination, but either way, it made your stomach turn. Noah dropped again, folding over his midsection, arms wrapped around his stomach as he collapsed.

He didn’t even have time to catch his breath before the other fighter was on top of him.

Straddling his chest, pinning him down, and throwing another punch at his face.

Noah tried to block it, but his arms were too slow.

And he punched him again.

His head jerked to the side.

And again.

Blood sprayed against the stained concrete.

He squirmed beneath the weight, tried to raise a hand to hit back, but the punches kept coming.

The crowd cheered and shouted.

But all you could see was a man covered in blood.

On the ground.

Defenseless.

Getting his face caved in.

There was so much blood.

It didn’t even look like a fight anymore. It looked like an attack.

The man on top had already won. It was obvious. Noah wasn’t resisting, wasn’t fighting back, wasn’t even moving anymore. Just jerks and spasms with every blow to his face or stomach.

And no one was stopping it.

You wondered what the rules were. If there were any.

You felt something twist in your stomach. Your mouth went dry.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I need air,” you said, barely loud enough to hear yourself.

Kole turned his head, distracted. “What?”

“I said,” you snapped, louder now, “I need air.”

And then you were moving, shoving through the crowd.

No one probably even noticed.

You were just one more body in the way.

You pushed past shoulders, dodged a man holding a beer who didn’t even glance at you.

You spotted a door at the back.

You hoped it was the exit.

You pushed it open and stumbled into the night.

The door creaked shut behind you with a dull clang, muffling the noise of the crowd just enough that you could finally think. The air outside was cold and sharp, but you welcomed it. It smelled way better than the stink of sweat and blood and beer inside.

The alley stretched out in both directions, empty and quiet. A few scattered streetlamps buzzed overhead, casting pools of pale yellow light that flickered slightly.

Trash bins lined the wall, dented and overflowing in places. A broken pallet leaned against a fence, a cracked bottle near the curb, glittering faintly.

You walked a few steps and sank down onto the edge of the curb. The concrete was cold beneath you. You pulled your coat tighter, but it didn’t help much. You stared at the ground, and you breathed.

In.

Out.

Slow.

Your heart was still racing, and your hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

What you saw in there, wasn’t even sport.

You tried to understand it. Why people would come here. Why they’d want to watch someone get beaten half to death for fun. For money.

Did they ever think about what it looked like after the lights went off? After the winner walked away, and the loser just... stayed down?

You swallowed.

You wondered if anyone had ever died in that ring. If anyone even cared.

It was nothing like the movies. There, the blood was fake and the bruises washed off.

People cheered because they knew it wasn’t real.

But this?

This was real, and it fucking sucked even just being there, even just watching.

You were still sitting there, hunched over, trying to breathe, when the door behind you burst open with a loud clang.

You flinched.

Two men stepped out, each one gripping Noah by an arm. His feet dragged limply behind him, feet scraping over the concrete. His head hung forward, chin against his chest, and his hair, dark and sweat-slicked, clung to his forehead in wet strands. His face was a mess of blood and swelling. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and his cheek was split open. Blood dripped from his nose and his mouth.

They barely even looked at you. One of them opened his hand and shoved Noah forward like he was nothing but trash.

He hit the pavement hard, the sound awful and dull, and then he didn’t move.

Just crumpled there. One arm bent awkwardly beneath him, the other lying useless at his side.

Then the men turned and went back inside, letting the door slam shut behind them.

You stayed silent for a moment, the only sound in your ears the quick thump of your heartbeat. He didn’t move. Not at all. For a fleeting second, your mind raced with the worst thought: maybe he was dead.

Slowly, you inched closer, careful not to rush or startle him. His face was pressed against the cold concrete, one cheek resting flat on the rough surface while the other was hidden beneath tangled strands of dark hair.

You dropped to your knees beside him, your heart still pounding in your chest. “Please, tell me you’re not dead,” you said, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Gently, you brushed the hair away from his face with your fingers, trying not to hurt him even more.

His eyelids fluttered open just as your hand made contact, but he didn’t look in your eyes.

“Not yet,” he mumbled.

A small relief washed over you.

He didn’t try to move. He just laid there, face bruised, lips split, blood drying in sharp red lines along his jaw and neck.

“I should probably… get you up or something,” you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

No answer.

You swallowed and shifted forward an inch.

“Okay, I’m going to help you sit up, alright?” You paused. “Unless that’s a terrible idea.”

His lips barely moved. “They’ve had worse ideas tonight.”

You let out a faint breath that was almost a laugh, then finally reached toward him, slowly, gently, and slid your hand under his shoulder.

He groaned but didn’t protest, and with a little effort, you managed to ease him into a sitting position, his back leaning against the brick wall behind him. He winced through gritted teeth, one hand coming up to press lightly against his ribs.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“S’alright,” he rasped, closing his eyes for a second. “Better than lying face-down in garbage.”

You sat back on your heels, watching him breathe. One of his hands wasn't covered anymore, and his knuckles were raw and red, the other was still loosely wrapped in torn black tape. The side of his face was already swelling.

“I have no idea what to do.” You said. And it was true. Obviously it was the first time you found yourself in the back of an illegal fight club with a beaten up guy.

His mouth curled faintly, more pain than smile. “It’s not the first time,” he said, “You don’t have to do anything.”

He looked like a kicked dog, half-expecting someone to come finish the job.

You didn’t know what to say. You just stared at him, and for the first time, up close, he looked back. Even with one eye nearly swollen shut, he met your gaze.

He was younger than you’d first assumed. Probably still in his twenties. You’d never seen someone look so young and so tired at the same time.

He was looking at you like he was trying to understand why you were still there, why you were trying to help him. Like it never happened to him before.

You found yourself wondering why he was even there. Why he did what he did. What his story was.

There was no way he did it because he liked it, you could see that written all over his bloodied face. In the way he sat slumped against the wall, exhausted.

He wasn’t like the guy who had beaten him. That man had raised his arms for applause, grinning. That man enjoyed it, Noah didn't. And not just because he lost.

You opened your mouth to speak, but before you could, a sudden rush of blood spilled from his nose. He coughed hard, blinking fast.

“Shit. Tilt your head forward,” you said quickly, reaching toward him but stopping just short of touching. “Don’t let it go down your throat.”

He nodded faintly and leaned forward, breathing heavily through his mouth. You looked around instinctively for something, anything, to stop the bleeding. You didn’t have tissues and your leather jacket couldn’t help.

You thought about it just for a moment, hoping you were not going to regret it.

Then, you stood up quickly, heat rushing to your face even though the air outside was biting cold. Your heart was still racing, your hands trembling slightly.

Honestly, it felt a little bit like you suddenly lost your mind. Because this wasn’t something you usually did:

stripping in a dark alley in the middle of the night for a guy you barely knew, a guy you saw for the first time less than an hour ago in a underground fight club. A guy whose name you only knew because someone else told you. If that was even his real name.

But there was nothing else. No tissues. No towels. No first-aid kit magically appearing out of the shadows. Just you, him, and the slow, steady drip of blood from his nose onto the dirty pavement. And the fact that you were a person with at least a bit of a heart, someone who hated seeing another human being suffer, unlike all those people back inside.

So you turned around, to have a second of privacy while undressing.

Your fingers moved quickly, unzipping your jacket and shrugging it off your shoulders. The cold bit into your skin instantly, but you ignored it. Then you pulled your shirt over your head in one smooth motion, balling it up in your hands. You were left in just your bra for a moment, breath hitching in your throat as the wind kissed every inch of exposed skin.

Then, you pulled your jacket back on, zipped it up to your throat, and exhaled a shaky breath as you turned back toward him.

He was still hunched over, blood slowly dripping between his fingers, and he hadn’t said a word. Maybe he hadn’t even noticed.

You dropped back down to your knees beside him, still holding your shirt in your hands.

You held it out to him carefully, not pushing it into his hands.

“Here,” you said.

He looked at the shirt in your hands like it was something he didn't deserve for a moment. Then, slowly, he reached for it.

His fingers brushed yours, and the contact was barely there but it was enough to make your breath catch, even if you didn't know why.

“Thank you,” he said.

Then he paused.

You saw it, the moment he noticed the smear of blood on your fingers. A small streak where his fingers had touched your skin.

His eyes widened slightly, and he looked up at you with a flash of something that almost looked like shame.

“Sorry,” he muttered.

You blinked, looked at your hand. It wasn’t much. Just a thin streak of red, already drying in the cold air.

“It’s okay,” you said softly.

Because it was okay. You hadn’t even noticed until he pointed it out. Maybe because, in that moment, you were too focused on him.

On the man who, if it weren't for you, would probably still be lying face down in a pool of his own blood. The man you knew probably wouldn't call anyone for help and would just stay there until someone else found him, maybe while throwing out the trash.

He nodded slowly, not quite meeting your eyes again. He looked down at the shirt, then raised it gently to his face, trying to stop the bleeding. You watched him as he moved.

You didn’t say anything else for a while. Just sat there as he used your shirt to stop the bleeding.

“What’s your name?” he asked then.

You told him, and he repeated it quietly, as if tasting the word, then gave you a faint, tired smile. “Noah.”

"Yeah, I figured."

“I’ve never seen you here before.”

You shrugged, trying to sound casual but feeling a bit exposed. “Yeah, first time. My boyfriend dragged me along.”

He shifted slightly against the wall. “You didn’t even see the match finish.”

You frowned. “It wasn’t exactly something I was enjoying. For a second I thought I might throw up.”

Only after answering did you register what his words really meant.

He had noticed.

Somehow, while lying on the floor, half-conscious and getting the life beaten out of him, he’d seen you leave. Was that even possible?

“How much did you win tonight?” He asked before you could say anything.

You shook your head. “I didn’t bet. Just him.”

He let out a low chuckle, then flinched for the pain. “You should’ve. It was obvious I was gonna lose.”

You frowned. “Why did you fight then?”

Noah gave a dry laugh. “This is all I've got.”

A dark alley, a fight club and body covered in bruises?

“Impossible.” you said.

He had to have a family, friends, a home somewhere. Right?

“You don’t know me.” he muttered.

And the way he said it… it felt like an answer to all the questions that had been racing through your mind.

No, he didn’t have anyone. No other options. No place to go.

You didn’t really know him. For all you knew, he could’ve been a criminal.

But something deep down told you he wasn’t.

He didn’t seem like someone who deserved to be thrown out like garbage, left bleeding and broken in a dark alley after getting beaten half to death.

A damp strand of hair kept falling into his eyes, and you found yourself fighting the urge to brush it away with your fingers.

The bleeding from his nose had finally stopped, but then he shifted, just slightly, and let out a sharp hiss through his teeth.

“Fuck,” he muttered, one hand flying to his ribs. His jaw clenched, and his eyes (or eye) squeezed shut for a second.

You leaned in. “Ribs?”

He gave a faint nod, breathing shallow. “It'll be okay in a couple of days.”

“You need a hospital,” you said firmly, even though you already suspected what his answer would be. “They need to check you out. That could be serious.”

“No.” The word came out fast. “Out of the question.”

“You could have internal—”

“I said no.” He insisted. “I don’t have the money. And they’ll ask too many questions. I can’t risk that.”

You hesitated. “I want to ask many questions too.”

He looked away. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then, softly, he said, “You shouldn’t.”

Your mouth opened, but before you could speak, he went on.

“You seem like a good person. So… don’t come back here. Don’t get involved.”

“I-”

“It’s better if you don’t ask anything. And it’s better if we never see each other again.”

Then, quieter still: “But thank you. For this. For staying. For giving a damn when nobody else did. I mean it.”

You exhaled, your breath fogging faintly in the cold air. "Is that your way to tell me to leave?"

“Yes. But before I need-” he paused, glancing at the damp concrete beneath him. “Can you help me up?”

You stared. “You’re joking.”

He shook his head once, slowly. “No joke. I just need to stand. Please.”

Your heart squeezed. Please. He didn’t look at you when he said it. There was something almost painful in how quiet the word came out, like he wasn’t used to asking anyone for anything.

“You’re insane,” you murmured. “You’re going to pass out the second you try to move.”

He didn’t answer. Just held your gaze, and waited.

And you just couldn't tell him no.

So you just slipped an arm around him, one under his shoulders, careful of his ribs.

He was heavy and incredibly tall. Your palm pressed briefly against his chest, and you felt the stickiness of old blood, dried and flaking now.

He hissed through his teeth, body trembling slightly, and his fingers gripped your jacket.

“Okay,” you whispered, grounding both your feet. “On three.”

It took longer than it should have. Every movement was careful and slow.

When he finally made it upright, he swayed.

You tightened your hold for a second, steadying him. His body was warm against yours despite the cold of the night.

You didn’t speak.

Neither did he.

Then, slowly, he took a half step back. You let your hands fall away as he reached for the wall, one palm bracing against the brick for support. He leaned into it.

“I’m good,” he said quietly. “I’ve got it. Thank you.”

Just as you were about to say something, the door Noah had been thrown out creaked open.

You turned at the sound, seeing Kole stepping into the alley.

“There you are,” he said, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

You froze for half a second. Noah straightened a little, his fingers still splayed on the brick for balance.

Kole’s eyes flicked to him and stayed there. He let out a low whistle, dragging his gaze from Noah’s bruised face to the bloodied shirt.

“Damn, man,” he said with a lopsided grin. “You look like shit.”

Noah didn’t say a word.

“But,” Kole continued, shrugging with one shoulder, “you made me win two hundred bucks tonight, so... thanks for that.”

There was no real gratitude in his voice.

Kole turned to you again, like the interruption was over. “Come on,” he said, jerking his chin toward the street. “Let’s go.”

And just like that, he started walking.

No pause to see if you’d follow. No offer of a hand. No helo for the man covered in blood next to you. Just an expectation that you’d fall into step, like always.

You lingered for a second. Looked back at Noah.

He hadn’t moved. His eyes were on the ground now, jaw tight, face unreadable. You didn’t know what you wanted to say.

“Try to take care, Noah” you said softly. What a weird thing to say to a man who was fighting for a living.

For a moment, you thought maybe he wouldn’t look up. But then he met your eyes again.

"Yeah. You too."

You started walking away.

The air felt immediately colder without his warmth beside you.

You didn’t stop thinking about him the entire car ride home. Not even for a second.

Not when the lights of the city blurred past the window, not when Kole went on and on about how he should’ve bet more, how the guy didn’t stand a chance from the start, how easy money like that didn’t come around often.

“You dipped out before it ended,” Kole said, eyes on the road, voice casual.

You kept your gaze fixed outside the window. “I wasn’t feeling great.”

He hummed. “Yeah, it was pretty rough. That guy took a beating. Probably gonna piss blood for a week.”

You didn’t respond.

Kole glanced over at you, eyebrows raised. “You good?”

“Fine.”

A beat of silence. The hum of the engine filled the space.

“Didn’t think this stuff bothered you,” he added eventually.

You shrugged, still watching the city slide by. “I guess I never watched someone actually get hurt like that before.”

“It’s a fight,” Kole said. “They sign up for it. You think the guy didn’t know what he was getting into?”

“I’m not saying he didn’t,” you replied, your tone flat. “Just… doesn’t make it easier to watch.”

Kole scoffed under his breath, amused. “You’re getting soft on me.”

You didn’t answer.

He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, then smirked. “Don’t tell me you were rooting for him.”

Still, you stayed quiet.

“Babe.”

You finally looked at him. “What?”

He grinned. “Come on. He didn’t stand a chance. The second he walked in, you could tell. That’s easy money. I should’ve put down double.”

You looked back out the window.

“Right. Easy money,” you echoed quietly.

Kole didn’t notice the shift in your tone, or didn’t care. He kept going.

“You gotta learn to detach a little. It’s not ballet.”

You remembered the way Noah had staggered, ribs heaving, blood matting his hair.

You remembered the way he’d looked at you like you were the first person to treat him like he wasn't trash in a long time.

He shook his head, amused. “Come on. You’re not actually sitting there feeling bad for the guy?”

You didn’t answer.

He tapped your knee lightly with his hand. “Babe.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

Kole let out a short laugh. “Seriously?”

You turned your head just enough to glance at him. “Yeah. Seriously.”

You both remained silent until you got home.

You didn’t stop thinking about him even when you got into bed and Kole’s arm wrapped around you like nothing had changed.

Especially not then.

Because while his breath warmed the back of your neck and his hand rested heavy on your waist, your mind was still in that alley.

With him.

That man who, somehow, felt like he deserved better.

Who looked like a beaten-down stray too wary to trust kindness.

Who hadn’t asked for help, but hadn’t completely pushed you away either.

You kept seeing his face, bruised and tired but his eyes were still kind.

You kept hearing his voice, low and rough, saying thank you like it was the first time anyone had tried to help him.

You fell asleep thinking about him. And he was your first thought when you woke up.

You were definitely in trouble.

Chapter 2?

Tags: @anything-more-than-human @ladyveronikawrites @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @fadingangelwisp @xmads-omensx @iwasntstable @thisbicc @pathion @flowery-mess @into-the-grey @lacy1986 @tosoundlessdarkistare @stardustsirenmelody @thewrstinme @hurricanesfollowyou @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @missduffsblog @pandora-08 @geminigirlfromfinland @bloody-spades

Fresh bruises tags: @1toreyouapart @respectfulrebel @dragoncopper

[sosa2imagines]

Are you mine? Part 3

Warning- Little angst, fluff.

It was just past dawn.

The sky was blushing with faint streaks of peach and silver, the morning air sharp with cold.

You hadn’t meant to open the door, you just needed fresh air. A moment of stillness before the ache behind your ribs reminded you of everything you lost.

But the second you stepped outside barefoot, hoodie tugged tight around your frame, you froze.

They were both awake, sitting on the hood of the car like statues of regret.

Bucky was cradling a thermos between his hands. His eyes snapped up the moment he saw you, and the breath left his lungs. Steve stood immediately, wincing slightly from the healing claw marks across his ribs. His bruised face looked worse in the light, one eye still half-closed, his jaw scraped and tight.

All three of you stared at each other, no one moved.

You didn’t expect your voice to work when you finally spoke, but it did, “Why are you still here?”

Bucky swallowed hard, “Because you’re here...” Steve’s throat bobbed. “And we’re not leaving. Not unless you tell us to…”

Your fingers clenched around the edge of your hoodie, “I left,” you whispered. “You could’ve moved on. Let it go...Cassidy?”

Steve stepped forward, carefully, as if any wrong movement would break the spell. “We don’t want to move on.” Bucky took a single cautious step, still keeping distance. “We want you! To hell with Cassidy!!!”

You looked away, blinking fast. “You already had me. And you let me be forgotten...”

That made Bucky flinch visibly and Steve’s jaw clenched. They didn’t argue. They didn’t deny it.

Steve took a breath. “You’re right. We did. And we’ll never stop being sorry for it.”

You looked at him then, really looked. At the pain behind the blue. At the dried blood in the corner of Bucky’s mouth. At the bruises they didn’t even try to hide.

And the coffee. The notes. The car.

Day after day.

“You stayed…” you whispered.

Steve nodded. “Because you’re worth staying for.”, Bucky’s voice was hoarse. “We don’t deserve a second chance. But we’re gonna keep showing up until we do.”

Silence stretched between you again, but this time, it didn’t ache. You didn’t move closer, didn’t smile and didn’t cry.

You just whispered, “Okay…” and turned around.

Left the door open behind you and Steve and Bucky followed.

Not into your heart.

Not yet.

But into the first moment of something real.

The days passed, not easily though, they dragged. Some heavier than others. Some so quiet it hurt.

You didn’t bounce back and you didn’t crawled back.

Bit by bit, there were days when the sight of them in your periphery made your chest tighten. When Steve’s soft voice felt like salt in a wound. When Bucky’s eyes so full of guilt and tenderness, made you want to scream.

But then there were moments.

Moments when Steve cooked breakfast and burned the eggs so badly even Logan snorted. Moments when Bucky, still aching from his healing wounds, grumbled through washing dishes and almost dropped a pan.

You didn’t laugh.

Slowly, steadily, piece by piece, you started to feel like yourself again.

Logan, ever the protective older brother, watched with cautious eyes as you laughed for the first time in weeks. As you smirked when Steve burned the eggs one morning, and as you rolled your eyes when Bucky tried to charm his way out of washing the dishes.

It was late when it happened.

The kind of late where the stars were loud and the woods had gone still.

You sat on the porch steps, a blanket around your shoulders, the mug in your hands gone cold. You hadn’t said a word in over an hour.

Bucky sat beside you, quiet, not touching. Steve leaned against the railing, arms crossed over his chest, watching the trees like they might give him answers.

“I need you to hear me…”

Both men turned immediately.

Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was steady.

Bucky sat straighter. “We’re listening.”

You stared at the trees. “When Cassidy started showing up, I didn’t say anything at first. I told myself I was overthinking it. That I was being dramatic. That you wouldn’t do that to me.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed, while your fingers curled around the mug. “But then you started cancelling dates. Forgetting things. Laughing with her the way you used to laugh with me. And every time I came into the room, it felt like I was interrupting something.”

You turned to look at them now, your eyes tired, but burning. “You made me feel invisible.”

Steve opened his mouth, but you lifted a hand to stop him, “Let me finish.”

He nodded, jaw clenched.

Your voice shook, just a little. “I would go to sleep next to you and still feel like I was alone. I would hear you talking to her and wonder what I did wrong. I started walking around the compound like a ghost, trying not to be in the way…”

You blinked, tears threatening but not falling. “And the worst part?” you whispered. “You didn’t even notice I was breaking. Not once.”

Bucky dropped his head, his hands clenched between his knees.

“I didn’t leave because I wanted to punish you. I left because I didn’t recognize myself anymore. I was becoming smaller just to fit into the cracks you left me in.”

Silence. Painful and dense.

Steve finally spoke, his voice raw. “You have every right to hate us.”

“I don’t hate you,” you said quietly. “That would be easier.”

Your eyes found Bucky’s. “But I’m not ready to forgive you. Not yet. And I don’t know when I will be.”

Bucky nodded slowly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “We understand,” he rasped.

Steve stepped closer, lowering himself onto the step below yours, so he had to look up to meet your gaze. “We’re not asking for forgiveness,” he said. “We’re just asking for time.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Then nodded. “Time is all I can give you right now.”

And Steve, the man who once thought he was strong enough to carry the world, let out the most fragile breath of relief you’d ever heard.

After that night on the porch, things didn’t magically fall into place, but they shifted.

Steve and Bucky didn’t press. They didn’t talk about forgiveness. They just worked.

They helped Logan chop wood, hauled supplies from town, fixed the creaky porch step that had been splintering for months. Steve cleaned around, even the drainage like it was penance. Bucky learned how to cook Logan-style stew, thick, over-seasoned, and strangely comforting.

Logan didn’t say much, but the grunts grew less threatening. And once, you saw him nod at Steve as he passed him a toolbox, it meant more than a full conversation.

There were still bad days.

Days where your chest felt too tight, your patience too thin. When they smiled too easily or sat too close, you flinched.

One afternoon, after Steve made some offhand joke about movie night, the words ripped out of you before you could stop them. “It won’t work.”

The porch went quiet.

Bucky was closest. He stood from where he’d been tightening a hinge on the screen door, his brows drawing together. “What?”

You backed away a step, blinking hard. “This. You and Steve. Trying to be better. It’s not going to fix anything…”

Bucky swallowed hard, but stepped toward you anyway, “I’m trying, Doll…”

“I know. And I see it. But that doesn’t change what you did.”

“I’m not asking it to.”

You crossed your arms, pain curling in your chest. “Then why are you still here?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he closed the space between you and wrapped his arms around you, holding you so tightly you could feel his heartbeat through your hoodie.

“Because I love you,” Bucky whispered into your hair. “And I will never, let you believe you’re not worth fighting for again.”

Your hands stayed frozen for a moment, then slowly, they fisted in the back of his shirt.

You didn’t sob. Didn’t speak.

But you held him back, and that was enough.

That night, for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, you fell asleep near them.

You were on the couch, curled into the corner with your head against a pillow, the fire crackling low.  You didn’t mean to drift. But the warmth, the silence, the steady hum of their presence, not too close, but not far lulled you.

When your breathing evened out, Bucky looked over from the armchair and stilled. Steve, stretched out on the floor in front of the hearth, lifted his head to look at you.

They didn’t say a word,  just watched.

And when your hand slipped down slightly from the blanket, fingers grazing open air, Steve gently reached up and placed your hand into his.

You didn’t pull away, didn’t stir.

And for them still bruised, broken, aching, that tiny gesture?

Felt like a beginning. You were on the porch, curled up in one of the old chairs, knees drawn to your chest beneath a blanket. The wind had turned colder, whispering through the trees like ghosts that wouldn’t let you sleep.

Your mind wouldn’t quiet.

Memories played on repeat, Steve’s laughter with Cassidy, Bucky’s distracted silences, the way you’d shrunk smaller and smaller without them noticing. You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself.

And then you heard it, the porch boards creaking under familiar boots.

Logan.

He stepped out without a word and sat in the chair beside you, a fresh beer in his hand, a bottle of water in the other. He passed the water to you and you took it.

Silence stretched between you.

Then softly, he said, “They’re trying.”

You didn’t look at him. “I know.”

He took a long sip, then leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I’ve seen people beg before. Seen people fake redemption to get what they want. That’s not what this is.”

You glanced over, “They’re still them. Still the ones who let me break...”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. But they’re also the ones bleeding to fix what they shattered. The ones splitting wood with broken ribs. The ones who haven’t taken a real bed in weeks just to be near you, just to prove they won’t abandon you again.”

You were quiet, but your grip on the bottle tightened.

Logan leaned back in his chair, sighing. “I’m not telling you to forgive them, bub. That’s not my call.”

He turned his head toward you. “But I am telling you to look at what they’ve done. What they’re doing. And ask yourself, is this worth something?”

He reached over and gently brushed your hair back from your face and kissed your forehead. The gesture was so soft, so achingly warm it undid something in your chest. “You don’t owe them anything,” he whispered. “But don’t throw away something real just because it hurt once.”

Your eyes stung, but you didn’t cry.

You just leaned your head slightly toward his shoulder and whispered, “I’m so tired of hurting.”

He rested his hand gently on your back.

“I know, Bub,” he murmured. “But maybe it’s time to start healing.”

It was quiet the next morning.

Too quiet.

The kind of stillness that didn’t scream anymore, but waited.

You stepped out onto the porch as the sun broke over the trees, golden light spilling across the cabin steps. Your blanket was wrapped loosely around you, your hands tucked inside. They were already there.

Not on the car this time. But seated on the porch steps, facing the forest, their backs straight despite the exhaustion still carved into their bodies.

They heard your footsteps, but neither of them turned around.

Not until you whispered, “Hey.”

They both looked over, and the expression on their faces made your chest ache.

Hope. Fear. Love.

“I need to say something,” you said, stepping closer.

They stood slowly, carefully but kept their distance.

You stopped a few feet in front of them, the rising sun painting soft light across their bruises, their bandages, the worry lining their faces.

You took a breath, “I hated you…” you said, voice raw. “For what you did. For what you didn’t see. For making me feel like I was replaceable…but I never hated you because I love you…”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. Steve’s gaze dropped to the porch floor.

“But I also saw you try,” you continued, a tremble in your voice. “Every day. Without pushing. Without demanding. Just… showing up.” You swallowed. “That meant more than you’ll ever know.” You stepped forward, just one step and looked between them. “I forgive you.”

Steve’s head snapped up, eyes wide, blinking back tears. Bucky’s lips parted, like he didn’t trust what he’d heard.

You nodded. “Not because it didn’t hurt. Not because it’s forgotten. But because I’m tired of carrying the weight alone. And because I still believe in us.”

They didn’t speak at first. Then Steve stepped forward slowly, eyes locked on yours. “We swear to you, Doll…what happened? It’ll never happen again. Ever.”

Bucky followed, voice thick with emotion. “No one, no one will ever take your place. You are it. Always have been.”

Steve took your hands, gently. “We were blind. But never again.”

Bucky rested his forehead against yours, voice low. “You’re everything. We’ll spend forever proving it.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, tears finally slipping down your cheeks, not from pain. But relief. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt steady.

Home.

And when they wrapped their arms around you, one from each side, you let them.

Because you knew this time? They’d never let you go.

Bucky let out a sharp exhale, his shoulders sagging in relief. Steve reached for your hand, hesitating for a split second before lacing his fingers with yours.

You let him.

And for the first time in a long time, it felt right. It wasn’t instant. You didn’t just fall back into place like nothing had happened.

No, this time, you started fresh.

As friends first.

You three rebuilt the foundation, step by step. Of course it required Steve and Bucky to take permission from Logan, who threaten that next time the consequences will be non-healable and Natasha who threaten to send them in a dark place.

Steve asked about your missions, truly listening. Bucky made sure to never let a day pass without checking in on you. You teased them again, sparred with them, laughed with them.

And one night, as you sat between them on the couch, watching some terrible action movie, Bucky casually draped his arm around your shoulders.

You didn’t push him away.

And Steve, on your other side, glanced down, a soft smile on his lips as you leaned into them both.

It wasn’t just the way things used to be.

It was better. Stronger.

Because this time, they knew what they had almost lost. And they would never take you for granted again.

The couch was too small, the floor too cold, so eventually the three of you ended up where you belonged, in the bed. Together.

Not because you needed sleep.

But because you needed them.

The light was low, the room warm, your breathing soft and even. It wasn't anything intimate, but more like being grateful and just feel each other.

You lay tangled between them, your back against Bucky’s chest, his metal arm draped protectively over your waist. His flesh hand held your thigh, anchoring you there like he never planned to let go again.

Steve lay on his stomach, face turned toward you, fingers tracing slow, tender patterns along your bare arm.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you were home.

“Did you know,” Steve murmured, his voice laced with sleep, “that I couldn't function anymore...”

You blinked, turning your head slightly. “What do you mean?”

He hummed, brushing his thumb along your knuckles. “After you left… I couldn't breathe...I felt weak, you are our strength, our everything doll...”

Your throat tightened.

Behind you, Bucky’s lips pressed against the nape of your neck, warm and reverent. “I never stopped looking for you, Doll. Not really. Even when we knew where you were, I felt like we lost you...and this seperation period was worse than any nightmare and torture...me and Steve never want to live that ever again...”

Your fingers curled around Steve’s, squeezing gently, “I felt lost too...” you admitted softly. “But… not anymore.”

Steve kissed your shoulder, his touch lingering like a promise.

Bucky’s grip on you tightened, like he could physically hold you against any pain, any memory, any threat.

“We’re never letting you go again...” he whispered, voice low, fierce.

You turned slightly in Bucky’s arms, shifting to face Steve now, your hand rising to cup his cheek. He leaned into it, eyes half-lidded with love.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because we are right where we belong...”

Steve smiled, eyes shining as he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

And as Bucky pulled you closer, one hand stroking your hip, the other curled protectively around your belly, he whispered soft, unintelligible things into your skin, words he couldn’t speak fully, but you felt every bit of them.

And you knew, this bond between you three?

It wasn’t just fixed.

It was unbreakable.

Part 2- ✅

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[heartsiebyul]

hey so how do you think Riddle, Lilia and Leona would deal with having a s/o who gives them enthusiastic goodbye or hello hugs in public? S/o is just so happy to see them, is living in the moment the moment they lock eyes with their boyfriend? And then they don’t continue the pda after a bit if the boys are shy about that stuff, But if the boys seem sad throughout any time in the day in public s/o will just lean their head on their shoulder or loosely hug their arm if s/o can’t lean cuz it’s awkward doing that standing up, as a sort of comfort thing while they help try and solve the problem or just listen to what’s bothering them?

Twisted Wonderland characters when their boyfriend excitedly hugs them in public and gently clings to them when they’re feeling down.

(Featuring: Riddle, Leona & Lilia)

Riddle Rosehearts

Enthusiastic Public Hello/Goodbye Hugs

At first, Riddle completely short-circuits. You’re running at him in the hallway like a scene out of a romance drama, eyes lighting up when you see him, arms thrown around his shoulders—and all he can think is: What are you doing? We’re in public!

His face turns bright red every single time. He’ll try to scold you for being improper, but his voice falters midway. Why? Because deep down… he loves it. He just doesn’t know how to handle it.

The PDA is overwhelming to him at first. He’s not against physical affection, but he was raised to value decorum, and your bold warmth completely bypasses his formal upbringing.

Eventually, he stops flinching and awkwardly pats your back or lets his hand settle against your waist while muttering something like, “Yes, yes, I missed you too…”

He starts secretly waiting for these greetings. His expression will brighten the moment he spots you from a distance—but he still plays it cool. Sort of.

Comfort Gestures in Public (When He’s Sad)

Riddle’s the type to internalize stress, especially with the pressure of being Housewarden. He doesn’t like being seen as vulnerable, but you notice the little things: a tight jaw, tense shoulders, clipped tone.

If you quietly lean your head on his shoulder or loop your arm through his while walking, he’ll stiffen at first… but doesn’t move away. He lets out a slow breath like he’s finally allowing himself to feel.

“I’m fine,” he might say at first—but if you stay close and gentle, he opens up. Your wordless presence makes him feel safe enough to say what’s bothering him, even if it’s just a small complaint about dorm responsibilities or an upcoming exam.

The act of being beside him without pressure gives him the courage to let go of his need to be perfect. You become his safe space in a world that demands control.

Leona Kingsholar

Enthusiastic Public Hello/Goodbye Hugs

The first time you do it—running at him with that wide, boyish grin and hugging him like you couldn’t wait another second—Leona is visibly stunned.

“The hell are you doing? You trying to tackle me or something? We’re in the middle of campus...” But his hands don’t push you away—they settle naturally on your hips or back.

Leona grumbles. A lot. But the lazy smirk he hides in your hair or the low chuckle when you hug him again the next day tells the truth: he adores it.

Public displays of affection aren’t really his thing… or so he says. But he gets used to your greetings. Starts timing his arrival to catch you. His tail might even flick contentedly when you come running.

If you ever don’t hug him, he gets grumpy—“What, you forget how to say hi properly?”

Comfort Gestures in Public (When He’s Sad)

Leona’s pride is a fortress. He hates showing weakness. But sometimes his mood dips—old wounds, pressure, or simply feeling overlooked.

You don’t say anything. You just stand beside him, leaning your head on his shoulder or gently slipping your arm through his.

He tenses slightly… then sighs, slow and deep. The contact helps him breathe easier. Even if it’s subtle, you’re reminding him that you see him—truly see him.

He might mutter something like, “Don’t go thinking this means I’m sulking,” but he doesn’t move away. If anything, he stays close longer than usual.

If you gently ask what’s wrong, he’ll eventually talk—quiet, blunt, maybe a bit self-deprecating. But he knows you’re not judging. You’re just there. And for someone like Leona, that’s everything.

Lilia Vanrouge

Enthusiastic Public Hello/Goodbye Hugs

Lilia thinks your excited greetings are the cutest thing ever. The first time you tackle-hug him in the hallway, he laughs, scooping you up and twirling you in return like you just reunited after a war.

“Oh, my sweet darling, were you counting the seconds we were apart?” he teases with sparkly eyes, loud enough for the whole hallway to hear.

PDA doesn’t bother him at all—in fact, he encourages it. He thrives on physical affection and isn’t shy about giving it back, especially if it makes you happy.

The only time he gets flustered is if you blush. Then he switches tactics, going quieter, leaning in close, whispering “I love how warm you are when you see me,” in that mischievous, velvety tone.

With a deeper bond, the affection becomes more tender. The greetings are still joyful, but they carry more emotion—he starts holding you for longer, breathing you in like you’re a precious memory.

Comfort Gestures in Public (When He’s Sad)

Lilia’s a master of hiding his feelings behind a smile. But he can’t fool you. You can tell when his eyes are just a little dimmer, when his usual energy falters.

You quietly lean your head against him or hold his arm—and for a moment, the cheerful mask slips. His posture relaxes, and he leans back into you as if to silently say thank you.

He rarely talks about what’s bothering him unless you gently coax it out. “It’s nothing serious… just echoes of the past,” he might say, eyes distant.

Your quiet support means more to him than words. For someone who carries centuries of memories, your touch reminds him he’s still here, still loved, still seen.

[vinylmango]

Hi I was the anon with the request so this was my idea

The reader is a Black woman who lives alone on the outskirts of town. She’s always heard stories whispers of creatures that roam the woods at night. She doesn’t believe all of them, but she knows enough to trust her instincts.One night, Remmick shows up at her door. There’s something off about him, and she can tell. She doesn’t let him in but plays along, tricking him into slipping up, testing him with questions. It becomes a game. Every night, he returns. She keeps her distance, but there’s an undeniable connection growing between them. The more he visits, the more vulnerable he becomes. She sees a loneliness in him, something broken but still human.Then one night, he comes to her burned and bloody, barely standing. Without thinking, she rushes out to help him. As she brings him inside, he jokes weakly, “Aren’t you afraid I’ll hurt you?” She looks into his eyes and simply says, “No. I trust you.”Something inside him changes. For the first time in years, he craves more than blood he craves connection.As she cleans his wounds, his vampire side begins to slip through. He tries to hide it, ashamed, but she touches his face and tells him it’s okay. She’s not afraid. She sees him. And when he leans in for a kiss she returns it, without hesitation.

Don't Hide From Me Remmick x black!fem!reader

Word count: 5k Warnings: blood, vampirism, brief mentions of: KKK, cheating/loser ex-husband, killing, guns

Note: Yay! My first request! Thank you anon! Sorry, this is kinda long and also took me longer than I planned because I restarted it about three times 😀 Unrelated, but I also just watched Little Fish for the first time yesterday and omg that movie hurts beautifully lol.

Anyways, thanks for reading and I hope you like it! Feel free to send in more requests or just say hi. My inbox is open and the list of who I write for is on my pinned nav post.

masterlist

The screen door rattled against the wooden frame, the wood had begun to warp after the last big rainstorm, but the door still worked all the same. “Well, you grew into a beauty, didn’t you?” You hummed cutting a few bunches of herbs, planning on drying them out in the summer sun, the rays starting to beam down on everything below it. Stopping on the porch, you looked out to the woods, the trees and overgrowth so thick in parts that light couldn’t even touch the ground, much less give you visibility into the depths. You strung up the herbs to begin drying, heading back inside to do some other chores before you were heading off to pay Annie a visit. 

You didn’t arrive back home from Annie's until the last rays of the sun were bleeding orange into the purple sky that was growing darker and darker by the minute. Stars began to dot the sky, twinkling in the still night. “You better get home. There’s unnatural things in those woods. Things that you can’t even imagine.” Annie’s words echoed in your mind as you latched the screen door closed upon entering and setting your things down. You opened it once more to light the oil lamp that had once shone a bright silver but now was weather worn and rusted. The flame caught, dancing in its little cage as it cast dim yellow light out into the darkness, shadows dancing on the wood and grass.

“Hm.” You dialed through the radio stations attempting to find one that came through clearly, but it seemed like there wouldn’t be one. You settled on one that only faded in and out slightly, the crackling and faint hum of music was a nice change from the silence. You sang along to the radio, spinning around your living room. 

Three loud knocks wrapped against the wood, pulling you from your moment as you quickly crossed the living room, shutting the radio off and going towards the door when the knocks sounded again, though quieter this time, not as incessant. “Yes?” You questioned, opening the solid door just enough to look through, the screen door acting as a barrier between yourself and the outside world. 

A man stood on the other side, shoulders squared and broad, hands in his dark wool pants pockets. He looked up when the door creaked open, dark eyes shining in the warm candlelight that reached out around you past the door. 

“You have a real nice voice.” His voice was gravely and his words flowed slowly like he had all the time in the world. You remained quiet, dark eyes looking over the figure that still managed to keep most of himself cloaked in the darkness of the porch, the places where the moonlight didn’t quite reach. “I don’t mean to frighten you, Ma’am. I just had to tell you.” He nodded like he was trying to convince himself just as much as you.

“Thank you.” You looked around behind him. It was times like these that you wished you lived closer to town, closer to neighbors. The night was still and silent and the woods around were too dark to make out the shadows. “Why’re you out here?”

He looked behind himself before he looked back at you. “I was just walkin’.”

“This far out from town?” Your eyebrows furrowed as he shrugged, hands still lazily in his pockets and a crooked smile on his pale face. 

“It’s quiet out here.” He states. “Good for thinkin’.” You nodded, stepping back and closing the door a little more. 

“Too quiet sometimes.” His eyes raked over you with an unreadable expression that made a chill wrap around your spine and settle into your limbs. He looked at you like he knew you and he acted like he’d been in the area for a while with the way he seemed to stand rather comfortably on your porch, the wood creaking below him at his change of stance. “How long you been walkin’ for?”

“Not long. I only just started.” He took a breath but the way his chest rose and fell seemed too labored, as if for a split second he had just finished sprinting a full length marathon. There was something about it that didn’t look involuntary. His breath changed a second later, his shoulders rising and falling in a more normal pattern. Maybe he was sick with something? “You play any music?”

“Sir, it’s 10 o’clock in the evening.” You frowned after glancing at the clock on the wall by the door. He gave you a lopsided grin, looking down for a moment before he met your eyes again.

“You have to go?” He asked as your mouth opened and closed, glancing behind you as you gripped the doorknob tighter. You finally shook your head no as a slow smile spread across his face. 

“Why’d you wanna talk to me so badly?” You shifted again at the door as he stood for a moment as if he were thinking. 

“You got a nice voice.” He shrugged. “Ain’t nobody else out here.” He listed off. “Your neighbors said you’re a kind woman.”

“My neighbors?” You questioned. “Which neighbors?” Your closest neighbors were about a half mile up the road. You didn’t see them much, but they were nice nonetheless. They always gave you extra crops they had when the seasons changed and you babysat for them a couple times when one of them had to go out of town and the other couldn’t take off to watch their young children. 

“Uh.” He paused, looking down with furrowed eyebrows. His head tilted to the side when he looked at you again. “That family up that way…The Johnsons?” You nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. 

“Why you speakin’ to my neighbors about me?” You opened the door, grabbing a rolling pin from the kitchen table and holding it up just enough for him to get the message. “You know me or something?”

“No…” He trailed off, voice quieter than before. “But I’d like to.”

“What’s your name?” You lowered the rolling pin, but still kept it in your hand. 

“Remmick. What’s yours?”

“(Y/n).” You still eyed him cautiously as you set the rolling pin down again. “You best be going now, Remmick. It’s getting late.”

“I’ll come back tomorrow, then.” He didn’t ask a question and you didn’t protest, simply closing the door when he had stepped off the porch and began to walk back to the road. 

He did come back the next day, just as the sun had set over the horizon and you had lit your lamps. “You came back.”

“You never said I couldn’t.” He shrugged, this time sitting on your porch steps. “When you gonna let me come in properly to talk to you?”

“When I know why a strange man showed up at 10 o’clock last night trying to talk to me about music.” You answered dryly as he cracked a smile, a chuckle coming from somewhere in his chest. 

“I ain’t a stranger no more. You know my name.” He pointed out as you nodded. 

“Remmick.” You dragged his name out as his eyes shifted to you from where he had been looking at his well worn brown boots. You couldn’t really decipher much from his gaze other than a little amusement from what you had said. “That just means you’re not a nameless stranger. My grandma’d be having a heart attack right now.” You added the last sentence under your breath. He didn’t laugh but he let out a breath in a huff that made it seem like he almost laughed. 

“Why? Because you live alone?” You shook your head no. 

“My grandma always told me growing up that nothing good ever comes to your door at night. Nothing good really ever happens at night.” You shrugged as you saw his freeze. His shoulders relaxed a second later as he smiled softly, not showing his teeth. 

“Grandmas are all the same that way, huh?” You nodded with a laugh. “Superstitious.”

“Where you from Remmick?” You questioned after a period of silence. “Like really from?” You added when he looked at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Here.” He laughed as you rolled your eyes. “I been here for a long time.” His voice grew quiet and looked out into the woods, his eyes getting this hazy far away look to them before he cleared his throat with a shake of his head as if breaking a trance. 

“You got a family?” You asked next as he shook his head. 

“Just me. Just me for a while now.” He looked down at his hands. “My parents been gone a long time now. They weren’t long for this world.”

“That sounds real lonely.” You told him quietly. He looked over at you before his eyes flashed towards the door, just for a split second before going back to you. “And you don’t have any brothers or sisters or cousins or…” You stopped speaking when he shook his head no. 

“You live out here by yourself, ain’t you lonely?” He stretched, his back cracking as he hummed in satisfaction before settling back against the wall. 

“No, I’ve got my chickens and cow and they keep me plenty busy.” You glanced over at the barn and chicken coop on the edge of the property by the creek bed. “Plus I see the Johnsons from time to time. When people need me they know where I am.”

“I find it hard to think you live out here alone.” He looked into your eyes when he said that as your eyebrows furrowed and your head tilted to the side. 

“Why’s that so hard to believe?” You crossed your arms over your chest which caused him to look down at your chest before he looked away. “You don’t think women are capable of doin’ things by themselves? It’s the 30s now, things are changing.”

“No it ain’t that.” He waved off. “I’m just surprised that you ain’t got a husband out here with you.”

“Why’s that, Remmick?”

“You gonna make me say it?” He gave you a lopsided smile again. His eyes glinted in the moonlight and heat rose in your body and across your face as you dropped eye contact. “You keep a nice house, you got animals and land, and you’re real nice to be around. Any man woulda jumped at that chance.” He shrugged as if he was simply just making objective observations.

“I gave somebody a chance once.” Your voice grew soft and hoarse as if you were attempting to talk around a lump in your throat. “I learned my lesson. He was a liar and a cheat.” You shook your head, curls moving with the motion before settling back around your face. “I left and came here. Everything I did here, I did for myself and by myself.”

“He ever try to come back around?” Remmick’s voice grew low and cold, a strange glint in his eye you hadn’t ever seen before but in a split second it was gone when he shifted his gaze away from you and back out to the road. 

“He tries just about every damn month.” You laughed bitterly, grabbing his attention when he heard you shift from your spot. “That’s what I got this for.” You held up the shotgun you kept by the door with an innocent smile causing Remmick to smile and chuckle. 

“You’re somethin’ alright.” He said to himself, the smile still on his face. He stands up after a moment more, stretching again before his hands find his pockets. “I best be goin’ now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He didn’t ask again, but you still nodded anyway. This time closing the door with a small smile on your face. 

The next night you couldn’t help but sit at near the door watching the sunset behind the trees and over the horizon. “Rem-”. Your voice caught in your throat when it wasn’t the nice yet mysterious man you’d been talking to for the past few nights. “Tom, get the hell outta here!” You yelled as your ex-husband pushed through the screen door. One of his calloused hands ensnared your wrist, gripping it tightly as he pulled you towards him. 

“Gimme the money you owe me!” He bellowed as he held you tightly. That didn’t stop you from kicking and thrashing, trying anything to get out of his grasp and to the gun that sat neatly perched against the table.

“Get the hell off me! I don't owe you shit!” You dug your nails into his arms, but it only made him hold you tighter in his grasp as he slammed the front door closed and threw you to the floor. Your head hit the floor and you didn’t really remember anything after that. 

Sunlight poured through the windows and into your eyes as you cracked them open, groaning as you lifted your head and staggered to your feet. A dull ache sat at the base of your skull as you looked around the room. “What the hell?” The entire house looked like a tornado had ran through it, curtains torn from the windows, chairs knocked over and one of them was broken. Your kitchen was in a state of disarray you had never seen before. Pots and pans lay scattered, food thrown about, jars half empty and broken with glass shattered on the counters and floors. Your bedding was pulled back and off the bed, bedside tables with the left half open or completely removed. You stumbled to the jar you kept in the back of your pantry, you had painted it so it wasn’t see through anymore. Unscrewing it quickly, hot tears welled up in your eyes when you saw it was completely empty. All that money you had been saving away, had worked for, put in extra shifts for, sold herbs and crops for, was gone, probably burning a hole in Tom’s pocket. 

The knock at the door caught you off guard that evening. You set down the broom, leaning it against the table as you reached for your gun, cocking it as you opened the door and pointed the barrel out. “Woah (Y/n). I do somethin’ wrong?” Remmick joked, before his smile dropped and he took in your appearance and the state of your home. 

“Oh.” You set the gun down with a shaky breath, before you looked back at Remmick and then at the state of your living room. “I lost track of time.” 

“What’s happened?” He questioned, voice tight and eyebrows knitted together. His hands were at his side, balled into fists before he flexed them and then balled them up again. 

“Nothin’.” You froze. “Nothin’.” You repeated again, firmer this time, as if you believed it now. “I just…” You couldn’t come up with anything so you just let the words die on your tongue as Remmick shook his head, dark eyes swirling with anger and something you couldn’t quite place. 

“You hurting?” His voice was softer, standing right in front of you now, the only thing separating you was the screen door, or what was left of it. 

“It’s just some bruises.” You waved off. 

“It was him wasn’t it?” His jaw tightened as he said the words.

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter.” He shook his head at your dismissal. “Why do you care? Tom’s my cross to bear, not yours, Remmick.”

“Because you’re a good person (Y/n). Too good.” His southern drawl seemed to thicken as his knuckles turned white. “He had no right to come through here like that.” He stepped back from the door. 

“Where you going?” You called after him as he stopped mid-stride, turning his head just enough to look over his shoulder. 

“I forgot to hang my laundry. I’ll be back soon.” He called, running off down the trail without waiting for an answer from you. 

By the time he returned the holes in the screen door had been patched up with tape and when you opened the door again your place looked relatively back to normal. He walked back up onto the porch, hands in his pockets, though they were different pants this time, a cocky smile pulling at his lips. “You look nice.” You complimented his shirt which was also a different color, one that complimented his eyes and contrasted his hair in just the perfect way.

“Thank you, Darlin’.” Heat rushed to your face at the nickname. You decided not to ask any questions when you saw him picking at his nails or that his lips looked stained, like he had drank dark wine on the way back to your house. 

“You ever wonder what else is out there?” Your back was against the wall just by the threshold as he sat mirroring you on the porch. The screen door now left open along with the other more solid door.

“What’d you mean?”

“Just…” You paused as if trying to find the right words. “That the world’s so big and yet I’ve never left the Delta. Feels like if you went somewhere else you could be just about anything you’d want to be.” You sighed, eyes tilted towards the stars. 

“There’s alotta stuff out there.” He agreed. 

“You traveled?” You sat up then as he smiled at the shine in your eyes. 

“Yeah I’ve seen things.” He agreed. “I didn’t like all of it though.”

“What’s your favorite place?”

“Besides right here next to you?” You rolled your eyes with a laugh. He paused for a second and you watched as a slow smile grew on his face as he crossed his arms. “Ireland.”

“Tell me about it?” You asked, your head leaning back against the wall as he nodded before taking a breath. 

“It’s real pretty.” He sounded wistful now, eyes closing with a smile on his face. “There’s these rolling green hills right by the coast. They go on for miles and miles. It’s just nothin’ but farmland out there. It’s perfect in the summer. The grass is tall and soft and you could just lay on those hills for hours and listen to the waves lapping at the rock. I used to do that all the time.” He chuckled to himself, voice soft as velvet. “My parents used to get worried because I’d disappear for hours, but I’d just be there in the grass or with the cows.”

“It sounds beautiful.”

“I never told anybody about that.” He opened his eyes as you grinned at him. 

“Was that home?” Your voice was just above a whisper as he nodded. “You miss it?”

“Every day.” Your hand reached out for his, lightly settling over it as you felt him go rigid. His dark eyes focused in on your hand before finding your eyes. You smiled at him as you felt his cool touch on your fingertips. He turned his hand up as you settled your hand back in his, interlacing your fingers. 

“You’re cold.” You whispered.

“I run cold.” He said before you noticed the dark blue veins that peaked from under his shirt sleeve. They looked strange against his pale skin, but you didn’t say anything. 

“Why haven’t you tried to come inside?” You asked, your voice still soft. “Any other man woulda barged in here by now, but not you.” He didn’t say anything, just sat there as the crickets chirped into the night. You looked down at his hand again. “You hear about Tom? Some woman in the general store was sayin’ that her husband found him face down in the mud with all the pigs around him.” You turned only slightly, feeling him freeze for a moment before he relaxed. 

“Hm.” He hummed, eyebrows raising and mouth opening just slightly. “No, that’s a shame.” Remmick hadn’t even tried to sound surprised or disgusted. If anything, some happiness seeped into his eyes before he returned to his neutral expression. “A real shame.” He added with a nod after a moment. 

“I know you did it, Remmick.” He froze again, his eyes searching your expression before looking away and then back at you again as he swallowed, like a guilty child that had just been found out.

“Wha-”

“Don’t lie to me.” Your whisper had the excuse dying on his lips as he closed his mouth and simply looked back at you. “You got this look in your eye…like a coyote or something…then you disappeared and Tom turns up with the pigs.”

“I didn’t do anything that motherfucker didn’t deserve.” He reasoned, voice steady and unapologetic. The crickets chirping filled the growing silence between you. 

“How many?” Your voice was barely a whisper as you looked down at your lap, hands on either side of you feeling the woodgrain below you, no longer ghosting over his icy skin. 

“(Y/n)...” 

“How many, Remmick?” You repeated a little louder this time. “How many times you done something like that?”

“(Y/n)...” You watched his mouth open and close before he frowned while looking down. It was as if something had broken behind those black eyes that you had grown fond of. He reached his hand towards yours, but you pulled it away and turned to look at him more, just over the threshold and just out of reach no matter how much he wanted to touch and hold you. “Please.” He whispered.

“I know what you are.” You told him as he seemed to flinch at that, cowering away as if searching for a shadow to creep into. “Why you can’t come in unless invited, why you only come around at night. Why you’re so pale and cold to the touch…” You trailed off. “My grandma told me about ‘em. About vampires.” You stood now as you looked at where he was still sitting, refusing to meet your eyes. “I think you should go home, Remmick.” You said softly before stepping back and closing the door. 

You sighed as you went over to your bed and laid down. The man that you had grown fond of, that made your heart beat a little faster and cheeks heat up, was no man at all, at least he hadn’t been for a long time. 

The next day you didn’t light the lantern or open the door, instead turning the radio on and deciding to stay inside and work on the quilt you had started ages ago but never finished. You were in the middle of stitching part of the border up when you heard a commotion in the distance, something that sounded like horses and yelling. 

Letting the needle and fabric fall to the floor you stumbled quickly towards the door, throwing it open when you saw him fall into the dirt just as the sun was setting. The screen door slammed against the wall as you raced down the steps, the old wood creaking from your quick movements. “Remmick?” Your eyes widened as you saw the angry burns, still smoking faintly, that littered his arms and chest, his shirt ripped and bloody, his hair pointing in different directions. “Remmick? Hey, can you hear me?” Your words flew out of your mouth as you looked towards the woods where the shouting was coming from in the distance and then back towards your porch. You held his face in your hands, moving his hair from his face as you tried to assess the worst of his wounds. You helped him stand, a groan escaping his lips at the exertion. 

“(Y/n).” Your name slipped from his lips as he groaned again, his leg buckling as he fell against you. 

“It’s alright, Remmick.” You reassured him as you tried to get him back inside before whatever or whoever was chasing him finally caught up. “We gotta get you inside, but you gotta help me alright? I can’t do this by myself.” He nodded weakly as you helped him stand up again, leaning heavily into you, as you finally got him closer to the house. “You ain’t afraid I’ll hurt you?” He said, trying to crack a joke with a hint of a smile on his face, voice barely above a whisper and hoarse as if he’d not drank water in days. You shook your head immediately with a frown on your lips.

“No.” Your voice was firm and unwavering. “I trust you.” You told him and you saw something in his eyes when he glanced at you as you said that. “Now, come on.” You positioned his arm around your shoulders as you grabbed his belt loops and helped him up the porch and to the threshold. “You’re gonna be just fine, alright? You’re gonna come on in and we’re gonna fix you up.” You told him, though you were also trying more to convince yourself. “You’ll be right as rain, okay?” He didn’t answer you but you set him on the couch, quickly slamming and locking both doors behind you. 

You quickly grabbed your bandages and supplies, setting them down in front of the couch as your eyes scanned over him. His breathing was even more abnormal than you had noticed before and his wounds weren’t healing like you had heard about. “Why aren’t you healing fast like you’re supposed to?” You asked as you poured some alcohol onto a bandage and held it one of the bad wounds. He groaned loudly, hissing when it made contact with his skin. “I’m sorry.” You said softly, giving him your hand to hold. “Some of these are real bad.” You continued the process of soaking gauze in alcohol and cleaning his wounds, letting him squeeze your hand when you’d do it. He never squeezed hard enough to hurt you though, even though you knew he was in excruciating pain, he still managed to hold himself back.

The banging on your door pulled you away from the couch, letting his hand go weakly as you grabbed the shotgun, loading it and cocking it as you swung the door open. “Get goin’.” You said, pointing the shotgun at the group of men gathered around.

“Ma’am, you seen a white man around these parts? He killed our friend.”

“You comin’ to my door asking about Tom?” You chuckled humorlessly. “Take that shit somewhere else. I haven’t seen no white man around here.”

“Will you let us just look around? Something about him ain’t right.” The man at the your door said. You assumed he was closer to your ex-husband than the rest of them. “What he did to Tom wasn’t right and it wasn’t natural.”

“Now you motherfuckers need to get the hell off my porch.” You waved the gun at them again. “I don’t care what happened to Tom, that man was evil walkin’. Now get goin’ before I start shootin’.” You fired the gun, it kicking back as it blasted a hole through the screen door, causing the men to flee while muttering curses at you. 

You closed and locked the door again before rushing back over to Remmick. He looked more alert as he adjusted himself and sat up properly on the couch, an amused grin on his face as you huffed and set the gun down by the kitchen table.

“You look a little better.” You smiled, going towards the bottle of alcohol and grabbing more gauze. “I need to finish, alright? I don’t know if vampires can get infections, nobody’s told me that, but I don’t want to find out. Not when it’s you.” His eyes shone as he looked at you, his irises dark as night but looking at you as if you had put the stars in the sky. 

“Shit!” He hissed loudly as you held the gauze to his side. 

“Sorry.” You whispered as he shook his head, eyes closed and head falling back against the back of the couch. When the sting died down, he lifted his head and opened his eyes watching you lift the edge of the gauze to see if he had started healing there before holding it back against his pale flesh. “Wow.” You whispered as his eyes met yours. 

The once dark irises now shone an astonishing deep ruby, glittering as if the sun was shining in them as he watched you. “Your eyes.” You whispered. He turned his gaze away from you quickly, squeezing his eyes shut as his breathing changed, becoming deeper as if he was trying to concentrate on something. “Am I hurting you again?” Your eyes looked back at his wounds before looking back at his face. He shook his head no quickly. 

He was biting his bottom lip now as he turned his head to the side and away from you. His nostrils flared almost as if he was inhaling something before he cleared his throat. “Remmick, are you alright?” You asked, growing even more concerned. You abandoned the gauze, standing in front of him between his outstretched legs, holding his face in your hands. “Remmick look at me.” You whispered as he shook his head no. 

“Don’t wanna scare you.” He sounded pained as if he was actively struggling. 

“You won’t.” Your thumbs ran against his cheeks and he slowly turned his head to look at you, his eyes opening slowly. “I promise.” You added as you looked into his ruby colored eyes. 

“I’m a monster.” He whispers as you shake your head quickly. “I don’t want you to see me like this.” You saw a small glimpse of the razor sharp fangs as he spoke.

“I want to see you.” Your thumb ran against his bottom lip. “All of you. Don’t hide from me.” His lips parted as he looked at you again, really looked at you, causing your chest to warm before the feeling spread to your whole body. No one had ever looked at you like that. 

He took your hand, intertwining your fingers with his. His touches were soft and gentle, like whispers against your skin. He didn’t say a word as he pulled you closer to him, sitting you down on his lap as his other hand went to your cheek, his thumb running against your lips before he moved closer to you. “Can I-” His voice was a whisper as you nodded and your eyes closed just as his lips touched yours. They were soft and cold against your own as your hands went to his shoulders and then his hair. He placed his forehead against yours, breathing out when you both pulled away for air. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while now.” You smiled at the dazed look in his eyes and the small smile on his lips. 

tags:

[khuzena]

The Ink Didn’t Fade

Phainon’s Version: My DearestPairing: Phainon x AFAB!Reader Word Count: 11.1k (overall fic)

Part 1, Part 2

Summary: He held the line. He made the shot. He remembered the smell of your burnt bacon while bleeding out.

A casket. A letter. A love that survived the war—he just didn’t.

Phainon died a soldier. But he loved you like a man.

And the ink didn’t fade.

C.w: Major character death, war themes, graphic violence, implied ptsd, survivor's guilt, tragedy, hallucinations, violence, blood, grief, separation anxiety

A/n: second part here we fking go bro SOBS HYSTERICCALY I WAS GOING INSAEN TRYING TO POST IT YESTERDAY ON MOBILE BUT IT KEPT CRASHING AND WOULDN'T SAVE. It was actual hell trying to post from mobile so I had to wait AGAIN to post it so welpp here we are. HEy, read part 1 first !!!! idk man wtf why

taglist: @reapersan @strawb3rri-bliss @sugilitez @aerisevx @takeyomikamakura

The moment you step out of the bathroom, the hallway slams into you again.

Shouting. Moaning. Blood on the floor.

Hyacine runs past, her braid loose, gloves smeared red. “He’s seizing!”

Another soldier. You follow, legs still trembling, mind still fraying at the edges. You’ve already treated six today. You’ve watched three die.

You’re not supposed to be this shaken.

You can’t afford to be.

But your hands are trembling, and your heart won’t stop racing. There’s no time to cry again. There's no time to feel.

Inside the treatment room, it’s chaos. The boy who just came in is on the cot, shirt half-ripped open, wound gushing from his lower abdomen. He’s maybe nineteen. His mouth foams faintly at the edge, his eyes rolled back. He's losing blood. Fast.

“BP 85 over 50,” Hyacine yells. “He’s going into hypovolemic shock.”

Your body moves. Instinct. Experience. You grab gauze, press it to the wound, and call for saline.

“Get the morphine,” you mutter. “He won’t hold long.”

Mira’s already preparing the syringe behind you.

But the bottle’s half empty.

There’s a shortage. Everything’s running low. Running low on meds, hands, and hope.

You grab another vial. Your hands won’t stop shaking.

You try to steady them. But your vision is swimming, and your ears are ringing, and…

You miss the mark.

The syringe pulls in too much. 10 milligrams.

Too much. Far too much.

“Mira!” Hyacine yells before you can inject. “That’s over 10!”

“What?” You freeze. The needle’s inches from his arm.

Mira’s already stepping forward. She gently but firmly takes it from your hand. “This is your second shift with no break,” she says, voice soft, “Go sit down. I’ll do it.”

You blink. “I’m—no, I can still—”

“You almost overdosed him.”

The words land like bullets.

The boy coughs, blood spurting over the side of the cot.

You step back, dazed. Mira adjusts the dosage quickly to 2 milligrams. Not a hair more. She injects it fast and starts wrapping the wound, calling for clamps and thread.

You’re still standing there. Stupid. Frozen.

Hyacine looks up, her expression torn between worry and frustration. “You need to rest,” she says. “You're doing too much. We all are.”

But you don’t move.

You hear the clipboard clatter against the table. Somewhere, one of the newer nurses vomits in the sink.

Everything’s falling apart.

You’re down five nurses this afternoon alone. One of them fainted in the hall from dehydration. Two are treating the burn victims from last night’s shelling. Another is coughing up blood herself. The last? You’re not sure. She hasn’t come back since noon. Maybe she never will.

The soldier on the cot begins to breathe normally again. Mira wipes his face. Hyacine double-checks his vitals.

And you just stand there.

You almost gave him enough morphine to stop his heart. A single careless dosage of 10mg in a man this size, already bleeding out, already crashing.  it could’ve killed him in seconds.

A voice echoes in your head.

He might be gone too.

Phainon. No letters. No word. Maybe you’re unraveling because you can’t bear losing one more man—even a stranger, while not knowing if your own still breathes.

The tears are rising again. But you can’t cry here.

Not in front of your girls. Not in front of a patient who just nearly died because of your hands.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice dry and empty.

You leave again. You don’t wait for permission this time. You walk to the storeroom, step inside, shut the door.

The dark smells like metal and alcohol. The floor is sticky. The air is too hot. You press your back to the door and slide down again.

You breathe.

You clench your fists.

And this time you don’t cry.

You sit there, shaking, until Mira knocks once. Gently.

“I covered your charts,” she says through the door. “But we still need you.”

You close your eyes. You nod. When will this end?

For what felt like forever, four days flew by.

No reply.

Still no reply.

You check the incoming crates again. the envelopes bloodied, creased, or waterlogged. You sift through them one by one in the mail tent during your short break. Still nothing from him. Not even a scrap of handwriting. No flower, no tape, no ink-smudged paper. Not a single thing from Phainon.

You’re starting to think the letters got lost.

You’re starting to wonder if he’s the one who got lost.

Mira walks past you in the mud, her boots sinking slightly with each step. “Still nothing?”

You shake your head slowly.

She doesn’t push. But she lingers, just enough to place a hand on your arm, squeezing gently. “They’ve been rerouting mail. There was a screw-up at the intercom dispatch. One of the couriers said half the letters meant for the 4th division got sent back to the capital by accident.”

You blink. “Phainon’s division is the 4th.”

“Exactly.”

Your breath catches. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your clipboard. Something cold and sick coils in your stomach. “So… he might have written.”

She nods. “It just never got through.”

Then she exhales — long, quiet, full of the things no one says out loud in places like this.

“And…” she adds softly, “Word is, they had to relocate. Ambush near the ridgeline. They lost the original station. No signal. No outgoing post for two, maybe three days. Might be longer.”

The clipboard slips a little in your hands.

Your head spins.

He wrote.

He could have written.

But you wouldn’t know.

Because the wires failed. Because someone else decided a new station was safer. Because the war swallowed one more piece of hope before you could hold it.

Your throat tightens

.

Mira’s already walking back to the clinic. You stand still, cold in the chest, hot in the eyes. Everything hurts. And no one even died today — not yet.

You pull out your pen.

You write again anyway.

Not because you know it’ll get to him. Not because there’s any promise it’ll even leave this field. But because if you don’t write, the silence might eat you alive.

So, you harden your grip one the pen and start writing.

“Dear Phainon, I hope you’re okay. I’m okay. I’m trying to be. Mira says our post is messed up. I don’t know if you’ve gotten anything from me. I don’t even know if you’re still where I last wrote to. But I’ll keep writing. In case you are. In case this one gets through.”

Your hand shakes as you write, wailing of soldiers still echoes in the hallways.

“A boy died last night. He was so small. And he wanted to go home. And I wanted to cry again but I couldn’t. The girls… they’re all really exhausted. We’re losing nurses every day. We keep covering for each other. The pain here doesn’t stop. I’m scared, Phai. But I love you. I love you so much. So I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep waiting even if your reply takes months later.Come home to me, okay?”

You fold the letter. Tape a tiny leaf you found outside, the same kind that grew near the hill you both used to walk. There’s no flower today. But he’ll understand.

“Stay safe, from your dearest.”

You slip it into the box. You don’t know if it’ll reach him.

But it’s better than doing nothing. Better than letting the silence be the last thing between you.

Back at Phainon's, the rain hasn’t let up in hours. It pours in sheets, washing over the wounded, slicking the mud until everything stinks of metal, blood, and gunpowder.

“Get the perimeter secured,” Phainon says hoarsely, voice frayed from shouting over cannon fire and screaming. “Use the broken crates. We don’t have time for sandbags.”

Charis jogs past him, splattered in mud up to the neck. He doesn’t need to reply. He just nods, already barking orders to the remaining able-bodied soldiers. Merek is stabilizing Nolan under the collapsed tent, fumbling with the bandages while keeping one eye on the hills.

Phainon kneels beside the boy with a shattered leg. Holds his hand. Tells him he’ll be okay. That he’s strong. That help is coming.

The boy smiles faintly before he seizes up and goes still.

Phainon shuts his eyes. Just for a moment. Then he stands.

There’s no time to grieve. Not yet.

The new post is worse.

They said it was safer, higher ground, better cover…but Phainon knows better. Safer just means the dead haven’t warmed it yet.

The soil’s still wet from the last rainfall, but not enough to wash away the blood. Trenches are half-dug, uneven. The fires won’t stay lit long. The food’s cold before it’s even passed around.

They lost too many men in four days.

He walks past the fallen. Past the half-covered bodies they don’t have enough tarps for. Past the tent where someone is sobbing into their hands. He doesn't stop. Can’t stop.

He doesn’t count them aloud, but he knows all their names.

One of them died laughing, delirious. One died choking. The youngest begged for some nice pasta before he died. Phainon had held that one’s hand until it went cold.

He keeps hearing their voices at night. He hasn’t slept properly since they switched camps.

Now Phainon walks the new ground like a ghost tethered to duty. He doesn’t speak unless he has to. His coat is stiff with dried blood and ash. His boots are worn through at the soles.

The men still look to him.

So he gives them what he can—orders, a steady hand, sometimes just silence that doesn’t break.

He crouches beside another injured soldier, He was young, freckled, trembling. The boy flinches as he adjusts the bandage. “You’re not gonna die tonight,” Phainon mutters. “That’s an order.”

A weak laugh.

Then a cough.

Then a shiver.

He tucks the boy’s letter into the boy’s pack. No postage, no name on it yet. Just a shaking hope that someone will send it.

A dog howls somewhere far off, and it catches him off guard. He flinches.

He remembers the last one. The dog he had to shoot because it wailed loudly in pain.

He can still feel the click of it in his bones.

He finds himself by a collapsed shed, away from the eyes. The frost creeps along the edges of the wood. He doesn’t shiver.

Instead, he touches his chest—

And there it is.

Your letter.

Pressed flat and protected in the inner lining of his uniform. The edges are soft now, the ink a little faded. He still remembers every word. He still imagines your hands folding it. Taping the flower. Writing his name.

His fingers slide down to the ring on his hand, dull with dirt, but still there. He turns it slowly. A ritual now. A vow in motion.

“I’m coming home. I have to.”

He grazes the ring again and again, like it’s the only thing keeping his hands from shaking. He cannot cry. Not when Nolan’s still unconscious. Not when Merek is holding things together by a thread. Not when Charis is covering three positions at once and hasn’t eaten since dawn.

He cannot cry.

He thinks about you.

He wonders if you sleep enough. If you’ve eaten. If you still hum when the kettle boils. If the flower he taped into the letter stayed in place, or if it crumbled on the way there.

He wonders if you smiled.

He misses your voice. The way you said his name like it was alive.

He wants to hold you.

He wants to come home.

But the enemy is pushing harder each day, and they’re running low on ammo. Low on warmth. Low on hope.

And Phainon is a lieutenant—but that doesn’t mean he’s made of stone.

He is still a man.

Still someone’s fiancé.

Still someone who promised a future. A wedding. A garden behind a crooked little house. A quiet life.

And now?

Now he’s not sure he’ll come back intact.

Or come back at all.

The alarm screams—a frantic, terrible sound. It was cutting through the rain and the gunfire. It’s starting again. The enemy’s coming.

“Get down!” Charis shouts, but it’s too late.

A shell explodes nearby, the earth erupting in a shower of mud and splinters.

Phainon’s chest tightens… not from the blast, but because every explosion pulls him further from you.

 I have to come home. I have to.

He’s yelling orders, voice raw, throat burning from constant shouting over the chaos. “Move the wounded! Cover the flanks! We hold here!”

 But inside, his mind is spinning. He ask himself again.

Did my letter reach you?

Are you safe?

Are you warm? Are you hungry? Did you sleep at all last night?

A soldier next to him stumbles, clutching his bleeding side. Phainon catches him, but there’s no time to linger.

Merek’s still stabilizing Nolan under the tent…

How many are left?

 Eleven gone in days. Eleven too many.

The sky lights up red with fire. Bullets zip past, pinging off scrap metal and stone.

Phainon ducks behind broken crates, heart hammering—not just from the gunfire, but from the weight of every life depending on him.

Then, the alarm screams—a desperate, grating wail cutting through the rain and gunfire.

It’s starting again. The enemy is relentless, always surging forward.

“Someone’s down!” Merek ducks under the rubble nearby as he yelled, but the world erupts before Phainon can react.

A shell detonates again nearby, mud and shards tearing through the air.

Everything is slowly starting to become a blur. How much longer will peace take?

He raises his rifle, breath ragged, eyes burning.

Bang.

One enemy falls.

Bang.

Another drops.

But with every shot, a ringing clogs his ears—sharp, insistent, drowning out the chaos but magnifying the screams he heard back at camp.

The boy with the shattered leg, fading too fast.

The dog’s terrified eyes before the final, painful shot.

Nolan’s faint moans under the torn tent.

Phainon blinks away the memories as a hail of bullets sprays toward him. He rolls, firing again.

Bang. Bang.

His muscles scream, sweat and rain mixing on his skin, but his mind fractures further with every enemy he takes down.

How long can this go on?

Charis yells nearby, rallying the soldiers, but Phainon barely hears him.

He catches a glimpse of Merek, frantic, trying to keep Nolan alive.

His throat tightens.

He forces himself forward, dragging a wounded man across the slick ground, heart pounding like a war drum.

The ringing grows louder, blurring the world into white noise—guns, screams, the rain pounding on broken earth.

He wants to shut it out, but it only pulls him deeper into the dark corners of his mind.

Do you miss me?

Do you ever think of this place—of me—when it’s quiet where you are?

The thought is a brief spark in the suffocating fog.

Phainon fights on, every breath heavier, every movement more desperate.

He can feel the weight of the fallen pressing down on him—their faces etched in his mind like shadows he can’t shake.

The sky burns, the enemy presses, and Phainon fights—because surrender isn’t an option.

Because somewhere beyond this hell, there’s a home waiting.

Somewhere beyond the gunfire and loss, there’s you.

And he clings to that, even as his body screams and his mind edges toward breaking.

As the rain lashes harder, turning the battlefield into a mire of mud and blood. Phainon’s boots slip with every step as he drags a wounded soldier toward the crumbling wall of crates. 

The man’s weight nearly pulls him down, but Phainon grits his teeth and presses forward.

Gunfire cracks sharply all around, bullets whistling past with deadly intent. A hail of lead tears through the air. Phainon drops to one knee, firing blindly at the advancing enemy. The recoil jars his aching shoulder, sending sharp jolts through his arm, but he holds the rifle steady, squeezing the trigger again and again.

An explosion nearby shakes the ground violently, throwing mud and splinters into the air. Phainon’s ears ring, and his vision blurs for a heartbeat. As the dust settles, he pushes off the crates and staggers to his feet, only to catch a searing pain ripping through his thigh

He looks down to see blood soaking the torn fabric of his uniform, the wound deep and burning cold in the rain.

Ignoring the pain, he limps forward, using the crates as cover, the weight of his body dragging him down. Another burst of gunfire forces him flat to the ground, the wet earth slick beneath him. He crawls a few desperate feet toward a fallen comrade, trying to shield the man’s head from the rain and flying debris.

Charis yells orders somewhere behind him, but Phainon barely hears through the roar of cannon fire and the ringing in his ears. 

The enemy closes in. Shadows move through the sheets of rain—figures advancing with ruthless determination.

Phainon grits his teeth, manages to raise his rifle once more, and fires. The crack of the shot cuts through the chaos, and a figure drops, but the effort drains him. His knees buckle, his hands tremble, and he slumps forward onto the mud, face pressed against the cold, wet ground.

A sudden sharp sting explodes in his ribs as shrapnel tears through his side. He gasps, the air forced from his lungs, his body convulsing with the pain. Blood bubbles at his lips as he fights to stay conscious.

Somewhere beyond the storm of violence, he hears the frantic cries of his men—calls to regroup, to hold the line. But his body betrays him. Limbs heavy and unresponsive, Phainon struggles to lift his head, his vision swimming in and out of focus.

The rain mixes with the blood on his face as the world narrows to the taste of iron and the relentless pounding in his ears. The enemy surges closer, and the fight drags on, even as his strength fades.

The sharp crack of a rifle shot split the air. Charis was moving fast, dodging debris, trying to reach cover when a bullet whistled just behind him. Without thinking, Phainon grabbed Charis’s arm and yanked him down hard behind a broken crate. The ground exploded where Charis had just been standing.

Phainon barely had time to catch his breath before a searing, crushing pain stabbed into his ribs. He gasped, staggering as a bullet tore through muscle and bone. His body slammed against the jagged wood of the crate, breath caught in his chest.

Charis’s eyes widened in horror. “Phainon!” His voice cracked, frantic and raw. “You’re hurt…stay with me!”

Phainon swallowed back a groan, clutching the wound as blood soaked his fingers and ran down his side. His breath was ragged, each inhale sharp and burning like fire in his lungs. Around them, the world was a chaotic blur of gunfire, screams, and explosions, but Charis’s voice anchored him.

“We can’t lose you now,” Charis pleaded, his hands trembling as he grasped Phainon’s shoulders. “You’re the only reason half of us are still breathing.”

Phainon’s eyes flickered, pain and determination wrestling for control. He tried to speak but only a rasp escaped. His fingers brushed his engagement ring—dirt-smudged, bloodied—an unspoken promise locked on his hand.

Charis’s chest tightened as he took in the deepening pallor of Phainon’s face, the way his breaths grew shallow. “Hang on, just a little longer,” Charis said, voice breaking. “I’m not leaving you. We all need you.”

Phainon’s vision blurred. The pounding in his ears grew louder, a relentless ringing that drowned out everything but the thundering of his own heart. He tried to focus, to push back the pain, to fight for every second.

A fresh volley of shots sent dirt and splinters raining over them. Charis pulled Phainon further behind the crate, shielding him as best he could. The world tilted, and Phainon’s grip loosened, his fingers barely holding on.

Charis’s breath caught as he saw the flicker of fading life in Phainon’s eyes. “No. Not like this. You’re not done.” His voice was fierce, desperate. “You still have to see it. The future you fought for.”

Phainon’s lips parted slightly, blood bubbling at the corners. Somewhere deep inside, a stubborn spark flared. But the pain was swallowing him whole.

Charis pressed closer, refusing to let the silence grow. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Phainon’s head was pounding like a drumbeat inside a cave—each throb louder than the last, drowning out the chaos around him. The ringing was relentless, a high-pitched scream echoing in his skull that blurred his vision and muddled his senses.

Despite the pain clawing through his body, a single memory pierced the fog.. a flash of your smile in the quiet light of dawn, the way your fingers curled around his in a silent promise. The image brought a tear, hot and unbidden, tracing down his cheek. He blinked it away, unwilling to let weakness take hold.

The battle wasn’t over. Not yet.

With trembling hands, Phainon gripped his rifle. His breath came shallow, ragged, but he forced himself upright, steadying against the broken crate. Every movement was agony, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto the ground, darkening the mud beneath him.

Through the haze, he saw the enemy advancing. THE figures moving like shadows, relentless and ruthless.

He raised his rifle, squeezing the trigger. The crack was sharp, a small victory in the endless storm. One fell.

Another shot. Another.

But his body was betraying him. Each breath was a knife twisting in his ribs. His strength was fading, and the medics, too far to reach, swallowed by the chaos, couldn’t come to him.

Charis’s voice was a distant anchor, pulling him back from the edge. “Stay with me, Phainon.”

Phainon’s lips quivered, an unspoken vow burning behind closed eyes. He still had a future to fight for—a life beyond this hell. There were plans left unfinished, laughter to share, a wedding to have, a home to build.

His fingers brushed the ring again, the cool metal grounding him once again. 

Was this the end?

He refused to let it be.

With a ragged breath, he readied himself to fire once more, the world narrowing to the muzzle flash and the desperate hope that he could hold just a little longer.

Phainon’s grip tightened around the rifle, but his arms trembled beneath the weight. The pain in his side flared—hot, relentless—burning through every breath he forced into his lungs. Each heartbeat pounded louder, drowning out everything else.

Stay awake. Don’t—don’t give in. Not yet.

But the world around him blurred. The sharp crack of gunfire and shouts faded into a distant hum, like echoes underwater. His vision flickered at the edges, darkening.

Then…. warmth. A gentle touch. He blinked, confused.

Was that… your hand?

His fingers twitched, searching desperately. The cold rifle in his grasp began to feel unreal, like a weight lifted.

No. That can’t be real.

His mind wavered between pain and memory.

The house. The one we dreamed about.

He could almost smell the rich coffee brewing in the morning light, feel the warmth of the sun spilling through the crooked windows.

You’re there. You’re always there.

Your laughter floated through the quiet room, a fragile thread anchoring him. He reached out, eyes barely open.

I’m almost home. Just a little further.

The ache in his ribs screamed, but the phantom warmth of your hand held him steady. His breath hitched, a tear slipping down his cheek.

I promised. I promised you a future.

A future he wasn’t sure he’d see.

His mind raced—thoughts scattered like shattered glass.

Did you get my letter? Are you safe?

Are you warm? Are you even thinking of me now?

He wanted to say so much, but words tangled and slipped away. The noise of battle was gone now. All that remained was the fading echo of your voice, the feel of your hand in his.

"Hold on, Phainon. Hold on for me."

But his body betrayed him. The rifle felt lighter, almost as if it melted away beneath his grasp, replaced by the softness of your hand. He imagined fingers weaving into his, steadying, unyielding.

I’m tired.

So tired.

He swallowed hard, vision dimming further, every edge blurring into the quiet sanctuary of the house.

Please don’t let this be the end.

A final tear, warm and salty, slid down his dirt-smeared face.

I’m not ready. Not yet.

The world slipped away, but the warmth stayed. Your hand, the scent of coffee, the promise of home.

Phainon’s breath was shallow and uneven, the cold seeping into his bones like ice water. His body trembled, wounds burning, muscles screaming… but his mind was quieter now, softer, turning inward.

He wasn’t fighting anymore. Not really.

The distant roar of gunfire faded into a dull, pulsing hum, replaced by the fragile echo of his thoughts.

If this is the end... what will happen to you?

The thought hit him harder than any bullet.

Will you be safe? Will you be alone?

His heart clenched, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest. He could already see your face, pale with worry, holding back tears he wouldn’t let fall.

I’m sorry.

Sorry for the nights you’d spend waiting, wondering if he was alive.

Sorry for the future he might never build with you.

Sorry for the silence that would stretch between you like a chasm.

The memories came unbidden, a bittersweet flood.

The day you became a nurse, he remembered, pride twisting painfully in his chest. How fiercely you’d fought to make a difference, how your hands had saved lives—while his own blood stained the ground here, so far from you.

And me, my first day as lieutenant.

The weight of that title, once a promise, now felt like a curse.

I wanted to protect you.

His fingers brushed the dirt and sweat caked over the engagement ring beneath his uniform. The ring he’d spent weeks searching for, the one you’d worn as a symbol of everything you two had planned.

I never wanted you to carry this alone.

Phainon’s mind drifted to the small moments—the burnt bacon smell in the kitchen, your teasing laugh as you shook your head. The quiet evenings spent dreaming of a crooked little house with a garden, of a life far from this war.

I wish I could have one last breakfast with you.

The ache in his chest deepened, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes.

He knew the world was slipping away. His body growing colder, his thoughts more distant.

I hope you can forgive me.

If I don’t come home... please know I loved you.

His grip on the rifle loosened, the weapon feeling impossibly heavy. But somewhere deep inside, a spark remained, fragile, but alive, holding onto your face, your voice, your love.

Phainon closed his eyes, the sounds around him fading as the hallucination grew stronger.

You’re with me now.

It wasn’t long till three months later.

The capital was too quiet for a day like this.

No bombings, no alarms. Just the wind moving through rows of black flags, flapping weakly under a silver sky.

They’d set the memorial in the central square—an open ground, framed by the shattered columns of what used to be the Hall of Triumph. It had been hastily rebuilt, just enough to stand. Just enough to hold the weight of grief.

There were caskets lined across the stage, draped in the flag. Each one sealed.

Each one silent.

And there you were, standing among a sea of mourning families, white-knuckled and barely breathing, clutching the small pin they gave you—one of the medals he earned. Valor. Leadership. Sacrifice. The words meant nothing. They clinked dully against your chest.

They wouldn’t even open the casket.

They said it was better that way.

“Too much damage,” someone whispered.

“He wouldn’t want you to see.”

But you wanted to see him.

You needed to see him.

Your body moved before your mind could stop it. Shoving past soldiers, stumbling up the steps, tears hot and streaming down your face. You heard your name shouted, hands reaching for you, but none of them mattered. Not now.

Not when it was real.

Not when his name was carved into that plaque like a period at the end of everything.

“Phainon,” you choked out, falling to your knees before the casket.

This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.

Not him. Not your Phainon.

The man who picked burnt bacon out of his teeth and still said it was the best breakfast of his life.

The one who held your hand like he was memorizing it. Who kissed you like he was afraid time would steal you.

The one who promised you a crooked house with a little garden and a roof that always leaked when it rained.

You pressed your forehead to the wood of the casket, the smell of polish and smoke mixing in your lungs. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get to say goodbye. You didn’t get to hold him. You didn’t even get to bury him properly—just this fucking box, this thing, and a stupid folded flag.

“Come back,” you whispered, voice cracking. “Come back, come back…”

You knew he wouldn’t. You knew.

But it didn’t stop you from wishing.

Not when Charis was there too, standing beside you… alive, limping, eyes rimmed with red.

“I tried,” he said quietly, kneeling next to you. His voice was hoarse. “He saved my life. Took a shot meant for me. I—I held on as long as I could but…”

He looked away.

“He was asking for you until the end.”

That broke you.

Your sob echoed across the memorial, raw and guttural. No one stopped you this time. No one rushed forward to pull you back. The war had already taken so much; how could they deny you this one, final collapse?

You stayed there, your hand pressed to the casket like it could somehow keep him here. Like if you were still enough, quiet enough, maybe he’d reach back.

There’s no word for what you are now.

Not widow. Not fiancée. Not wife.

Just… left behind.

The world has terms for every kind of grief, every kind of role. But not this. Not for the woman who was supposed to marry a man who never made it home. Not for the ring that gleams cold and thin on your finger—a promise that never got fulfilled, a vow that never got spoken.

The train ride was quiet.

Too quiet.

The countryside blurred past the window, the same hills he once wrote about—how the grass turned gold at this time of year, how he wanted to show it to you himself. You sat still, hands clenched in your lap, eyes burning but dry.

You’d run out of tears days ago.

The bed still dips where he used to sleep. His uniform still hangs in the closet—pressed and perfect, waiting for a body that won't wear it again. His boots by the door. His sweet tea bags in the kitchen. The ones he insisted made him "feel human again" after deployment.

Sometimes, when you boil water, you reach for one out of habit.

Just to hold it. Just to pretend. Just to feel like he might walk through the door and say it was all a horrible joke. That he’s here. That he made it.

But the tea cools. The cup stays full. And the door never opens.

The sky was overcast by the time you reached your stop. The path home felt longer than it ever had before, every footstep hollow. The sounds of town—bakers shouting, carts rolling, distant laughter—felt like echoes from another life.

No one looked your way. You were just another shadow walking home with nothing left to carry but a silence so loud it filled your lungs.

And then you saw the house.

The same way you left it. The roof still crooked. The vines still overgrown. The front gate still squeaking like it always did, just slightly off the hinge.

But the flower taped to the letter—it had wilted.

Once a deep, vibrant red. Now a sad curl of dried brown, shriveled at the stem.

You paused, frozen.

There was a letter tucked behind it.

Your name on the front.

You reached with shaking fingers.

Two envelopes. One in his handwriting—sharp, careful, like always. The other... stamped and returned. Yours.

Unopened.

Marked: "Recipient Deceased. Unable to Deliver."

Your breath caught.

The world spun.

And you dropped right there on the doorstep, knees hitting the ground, arms folded around your stomach as the sobs finally returned—deep, wrenching, and endless.

He had written you. You had written back. But the war stole the time in between.

You held both letters to your chest, curling in on yourself as if the paper might warm you, as if maybe it still smelled faintly of him—his hands, his cologne, the ink he always accidentally smudged.

You didn’t read it yet.

You couldn’t.

Some of your friends talk about wedding dresses and baby names now. One of them wears her husband’s dog tags over her heart, with their newborn sleeping two rooms away. Another is learning how to build a life with someone new. Some are expecting.

You? You have silence.

No new beginning. No second chapter. Just this ghost of a life that almost was.

You sat on the kitchen floor, the envelope trembling in your grip. The same kitchen where he once spilled coffee trying to impress you with breakfast. The same counter still bearing the scorch mark from that one time he tried to iron his uniform “like a real adult.” Everything still smelled faintly like him. Or maybe that was memory clinging to the air.

The kitchen still smells like lemon and smoke. Like that last morning. His laughter still echoes faintly in the tiles, tucked between the cracks in the floor. You find yourself stepping over them gently, like the memory might shatter.

Sometimes you sit at the dinner table, two plates set out. One untouched.

And sometimes, in the quietest hours of the night, you swear you feel the warmth of him. Just for a second. Just long enough to remember what it was like to be loved that much.

And then it's gone.

Your fingers worked numbly, slipping under the flap. A soft tear. The paper inside unfolded slower than your breath, careful like you might break it. And there it was.

His handwriting.

“My dearest—”

You didn’t even make it through the second line before the tears came. Hot and soundless, tracing old paths down your cheeks, stinging like ash. The ink had long dried, but none of it had faded. Each word held him—his quiet warmth, the way he overthought every sentence, the little notes he always tucked in to make you smile.

You read it like scripture. Like prayer. Like if you memorize it deep enough, maybe he’ll come back in a dream and finish the parts he left unsaid.

But he doesn’t.

The only thing that answers is the wind outside the window, and the slow, steady ticking of a clock that won’t stop for grief.

The message hadn’t aged. Not even a little. It was like he was still here.

Still trying to love you across the distance. Still trying to come home, in the only way he could. With this.

Your hand pressed to your mouth as you read, not because you were trying to hold back the sobs, but because it felt like speaking would ruin the fragile spell, the impossible moment where time bent, and for just a heartbeat, you were his again.

He wrote of hope. Of how he missed you. Of the way he imagined your face when you opened this. Of love that refused to vanish.

And when you reached the end, when the last word met the edge of the page, there was nothing else.

No final twist of fate.

No more time.

Just the quiet.

The weight of a letter that had come too late.

And the echo of someone who never stopped loving you, even as the world burned around him.

You folded it back with reverence. Pressed it to your lips.

And for the first time in weeks, you whispered his name.

But he didn’t answer.

Because it was over.

notes: wow that was an emotional rollercoaster woweee! okay enough of that I cried writing this. i actually posted the of version on ao3 if u search hard enough but this ver I posted on tumblr is a bit refined but ya. Okay, kinda disappointed a bit but yes thank you reading this depressing fic of mine. and no I am not fine which is why I wrote this fic. I start jumping up and down in joy from feedback and notes so any type of interaction is appreciated and I will post the anaxa fic series and work on mydei's tomorrow. Thank you for reading this was something. 11k words of sobbing. How awesome of me. Even read some real world war letters from soldiers and civilians for some idea. idk man.

Written by @khuzena. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. ♡ 

[604to647]

Wife Material

1.9K / Detective Tim Rockford x fem!reader

Summary: Tim wakes up in the hospital after getting shot.

Warnings: Minor angst/fear (don't worry, he's okay!), established relationship, nicknames as usual (Shutterbug, baby, gorgeous), fluffy fluff while Tim is high as heck on anaesthesia 🤣🤭 (a wee The Pitt reference).

A/N: HELLO I AM HERE 😅😆 Took an unintentional break from Tumblr/socials, but have been quietly writing in the background - hopefully there is still some interest 🫣🥰. Hope you've all been well and looking forwarding to being on here again! This story takes place after Tiny Tim, but as with all instalments of The Rockford Portfolio, can be read standalone. Inspired by TikToks of husbands on anaesthesia like this and this (and thank you to @maievdenoir for the idea!)

Dividers by @saradika-graphics as always / Series Masterlist

The hospital emergency waiting room is buzzing and chaotic, but you’re oblivious to it all as you race to the reception desk – all you can focus on is those three little words that have been playing on a loop in your head ever since Detective Arnold Calloway called:

“Tim’s been shot.”

Luckily, you’re able to go straight up to the intake receptionist; trying to keep the panic out of your voice, you ask, “Can you tell me where I can find Detective Timothy Rockford?”

“And you are?”

You give your name, then blurt out, “I’m his fiancé.”

“Are you his emergency contact?”

“I should be… Tim was supposed to submit the forms a while ago,” you choke up, “but he’s been so busy, I don’t know if he…” Your voice trails off, overcome that you might not be able allowed to see Tim because of some administrative red tape.

“No worries, let me just check on that, hun,” the nurse gives you a much-appreciated smile that you’re sure could calm even the most hysterical of visitors.  These ER healthcare workers are heaven sent, you think as you patiently wait for them to finish typing.  Just then, you hear your name being called and look up to see Tim’s captain by a set of double doors waving you over.  Relieved, you bid the receptionist a hasty farewell and rush over to Captain Christine Mendoza, “Captain!  Where’s Tim?  Is he okay?”

The captain ushers you through the doors and down a hallway busy with rushing doctors and chattering patients, “He’s just come out of surgery.  The bullet got lodged in his shoulder and the impact from the shooting caused a fall that exacerbated the injury.  Luckily, the doctors got in there pretty quickly and the surgery to remove the bullet and repair the damage was pretty straight forward.  They’ll be able to tell you more – we’re almost there.”

Thanking her for the update, you round the corner to see cops littering a smaller, more private hallway, with a group crowding around a closed door - among them, Calloway. 

“Arnie!” you cry when you see him.

As soon as Detective Calloway sees you, he shouts to the surrounding cops, “Hey, make room, let her through!” and pulls you into a tight hug when you get within arms reach. 

“Are you okay?” you ask, your concern for Tim’s partner as deep as it is for your detective.  “I am, thanks to Tim,” he opens the door and indicates for you to go in, giving you a tight smile that hardly cracks his worn, distressed face, “Doctor’s in there with him.”

Closing the door, you’re barely able to stifle your gasp at the scene before you.  Tim lays unconscious on a propped-up hospital bed - various machines around him beep and whirl, monitoring his heartbeat and other vitals.  His hospital gown drapes loosely over his right shoulder when you can see a crisscross of gauze bandaging his wound; on the opposite side of his body, tubes run up his sleeve, no doubt dispensing much needed painkillers from hanging IV bags to your injured detective. 

You have to choke back a sob - he just looks so small.  

Tim, your Tim, is a powerhouse, a force to be reckoned with.  Even in the sanctuary of your shared home he exudes such a quiet strength, you’re used to him taking up a certain amount of space; Detective Tim Rockford’s colossal presence and the gravitational pull of his quality have been such a constants in your life, to see him like this nearly rocks your world off its axis.

“Mrs. Rockford?” The doctor who's been checking Tim’s bandages is now approaching; you nod, not bothering to correct his assumption.

“I’m Dr. Rabinovitch.  Happy to report that Detective Rockford came through the surgery with flying colours - we were able to remove the bullet and repair the tissue damage without any issue.  He has a few bone fractures that will require rest and a lightened activity load for the next few weeks but should otherwise heal on their own.  After that, with a little bit of physical therapy, he should be good as new.”

You exhale such a loud sigh of relief, you barely hear Dr. Rabinovitch’s resulting chuckle; he continues, “Your husband should be coming out of the anaesthesia within the hour.  He might be a little loopy when he does, which is expected.  Please tell the nurses’ station when he wakes and they'll page me.  Do you have any questions?”

Shaking your head, you thank the doctor profusely for taking such good care of your Tim, adding a request for him to kindly extend your gratitude to the rest of the surgical team.  Settling into a bedside chair to wait, you smile when here the muffled sounds of celebration coming from the hallway where Dr. Rabinovitch has just repeated the news to the waiting officers.

The adrenaline that’s been coursing through your veins since Arnie called now waning, you tuck into the somewhat uncomfortable hospital chair, curling your legs up and letting your entire body relax to the repetitive sounds from the room’s medical equipment and the steady rise and fall of Tim’s chest.

After half an hour of sitting in the same awkward position, you get up to do a turn about the room and stretch your limbs; you’re just rolling out the stiffness of your neck when you hear a dry, gravely croak:

“Shutterbug…”

“Tim!! You’re awake!” you rush to the side of his bed, ready to cry happy tears, “How are you feeling, Detective?”

“I feel… groggy.  And my shoulder feels… tight,” Tim looks down at his right shoulder with a frown, brow furrowing upon finding it wrapped in bandages beneath his hospital gown, “Oh. I was shot.”

His candour would be comical if the words themselves didn’t still make your chest tighten.  Trying to stamp down your worry, you search Tim’s handsome face, “Does it hurt?”

Detective Rockford silently contemplates his shoulder, needing a moment for his thoughts to catch up with his observations before answering, “No, it just feels weird.  I must be on a lot of drugs.”

You nod indulgently, “Do you remember what happened, baby?”

A far-off look overtakes Tim’s striking features as he attempts to recall, “We were on a raid.” He pauses, then frowns, “Mr. Pie was supposed to be there.” Unwittingly, you hold your breath, nervous for what’s to come.

“He got away,” the lines on Tim’s face deepen as they crease in concentration, frustration at the memory evident, “His guards shot at us.”  To this, you let loose a soft noise of despair, causing Tim’s countenance to relax in sympathy, “I pushed Calloway.”  Ah ha, you think, momentarily distracted, what Arnie said earlier in the hall makes sense now.

“Then… you.”

“Me?” your focus drawn back to Detective Rockford, confused.

“I saw you, Shutterbug.  When I got hit, it was like a firecracker exploded... but I didn’t feel any pain.  You appeared with a calming glow, keeping me protected and warm.  Your comforting face was the last thing I remember before everything went dark, and now here you are again, having guided me to safety.  My own personal angel.”

You don’t know how much of this is true or just the drugs talking, but you can’t help but be touched by your fiancé’s sweet words, “Oh Tim, I’m so glad you came back to me safe.”  Tenderly brushing Tim’s hair off his forehead, you remember Dr. Rabinovitch’s instructions, “I’m going to go get the doctor, okay?  I’ll be right back.”  Leaning down, you press a soft kiss to Tim’s brow and place your hand over the one he has resting on his chest, giving it reassuring squeeze.

“Oh no!!”

Starting from your detective’s sudden exclamation, you fuss over him, worried, “What’s wrong, Detective?  Does something hurt?”

“You’re… you…” Tim’s eyes are sad, his face scrunched up like he’s in pain, “you’re engaged?!?” 

Amused, you follow the line of Tim’s stare to see that he’s gawking at the ring on your left hand.  Oh goodness, he’s so high!  Holding up the offending hand, you try not to laugh, “Yes, I’m engaged.”

“Then… then, I’m too late!!  I don’t know why I thought I had a chance… you’re so beautiful and kind, of course you’re spoken for…” Tim’s hangdog expression would be downright humourous if he didn’t look quite so miserable.   Suddenly, his head snaps up, expression sharp, “Is he good to you?”

Nodding, you say softly, voice warm and emotional, “Very.”

Tim’s face falls and he looks like he might start to cry, “Good.  You only deserve the best, Shutterbug.”

“And I’ve got it,” you earnestly reassure him, “My fiancé is amazing - he treats me like a princess and makes me feel safe and loved every minute of every day.”

“Okay.” Sniffle. “He better.”  Sniff, sniff.  “If he didn’t… I would… I’m a cop!  Do you know I’m a cop?”

“Yes, Tim, I know you’re a cop,” you giggle at his drug induced, crestfallen look, “You don’t have to worry, Detective.  I’m very well taken care of.”

“Your fiancé is a lucky guy.”

“You know,” bringing your hand up to gently stroke Tim’s cheek, you run your fingers through his facial scruff, eyes full of affection as you smile at him, “I’m fairly certain that I’m the lucky one.”

Closing his eyes, Tim hums in appreciation at the soothing gesture, “Gorgeous, you can’t give me false hope like this.  I’m willing to fight your fiancé for you.”

“Tim, you’re my fiancé.”

Detective Rockford’s eyes fly open, saucer like in disbelief, “Me?”

“Yes, Tim, you,” you beam at the dramatic change in the man’s demeanor.

“I asked you to marry me?” he uses his mobile arm to point at himself, still unsure that you’ve got the right guy, “And you said yes?”

Isn’t it obvious, Silly? Tilting your head, you make sure to lock your eyes to Tim’s, “Of course, I said yes!  You’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever known, Tim – I can’t think of anything I would rather do than spend the rest of my life with you.”

Detective Rockford’s rugged features melt into a dreamy expression, “You’re really going to be my wife?”

“And proud of it,” you declare with gusto.

“Huh!” He grins to himself, dopey and in awe, “Well, good for me!”

Leaning in and laying a sweet kiss to Tim’s waiting lips, you grin against his growing smile, “Good for me, too.  I’m going to get the doctor now.  And let your friends know you’re awake – half the precinct is lined up in the hall waiting for some good news.  I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

“Well send them in, baby!  If they want good news, I’ve got it: my dream girl said 'yes'!”

Laughing, you head towards the door; just as you’re turning the knob you hear, “Mrs. Rockford?” and spin back around to see what Tim might need.

“Okay, wow, I was just testing it out but I LOVE IT!”

“I think I’m going to ask the Dr. Rabinovitch how long it’ll take for this anaesthesia to wear off,” you giggle, “I’ll be right back, baby.”

“Come back to me safe, Shutterbug.”

“Nothing could keep me from you, Detective.  I love you,” you blow Tim a kiss that he clumsily tries to catch, grasping his left hand wildly in the air before clutching it to his chest and laying back against his pillow, happy, “I love you more.”

Still chuckling to yourself, you head out into the hospital corridor to let the waiting cops know that Detective Timothy Rockford is going to be just fine.

A follow-up entitled 'Nice and Slow', taking place during Tim's recovery, has been written for @baronessvonglitter's Noun-iversary creative challenge and will be posted in June (oh! That's next week, where has the time gone??) for Adriana's Tumblr anniversary 🥳🥳!

Tagging a few people who have enjoyed Timmy and Shutterbug's stories in the past (thank you!): @milla-frenchy @lillaydee @sunnytuliptime @kulekehe @nandan11

@inept-the-magnificent @aurorawritestoescape @sawymredfox @harriedandharassed @greenwitchfromthewoods

@tuquoquebrute @vie-is-punk @misstokyo7love

[toxicanonymity]

Hole on the Wall

PAIRING: Tommy Miller x fem reader | Tommy Masterlist

LENGTH: 900 Words | GIRTH: A lot

SUMMARY: Badly craving cock after your last visit to Dr. Joel Miller, You set out to get what you want.

WARNINGS: (dubcon via) drinking heavily, degradation, promiscuity (pos), objectification, unsafe semi-public piv smut, creampie, anxiety, breeding energy, ogling Tommy's belly

Thicc Tommy fam: @iamasaddie @tommysversion @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape @tateypots @winterhawkgf @mysterialee @umnitsa @worhols @slutsoutgutsout @cosmickid-inmotion

Cc: Bad Doc Fam: @mabelmiller @professionalpromqueen @libre-sol #🍰 anon.

After Dr. Joel Miller fucked you, he was on your mind constantly. *It* was on your mind. Shy to go back without medical pretext, you took care of yourself frequently... but it wasn't enough.

You needed a dick so bad, you let your former situationship fuck you. But you knew he couldn't fill you up the way Dr. Miller could. The effort was even sadder than you imagined. You had come down with something, and the only prescription was Dr. Miller's cock.

You went to the Tipsy Bison one night, craving the touch of a man. You wore a short skirt and sexy boots over your bare legs. After a few minutes at the bar, you set your sights on a thick man with freckles and a killer smile. His dark hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and he was wearing jeans as tight as Dr. Miller's… they looked even tighter, if that was possible, but it might have been the effect of the stranger's beer gut.

There was something sexy about the way he wore the weight. Like he just couldn't help himself. Like he was packed full, tight as a drum, clothes straining to contain his indulgence. He patted it after a long gulp, then used both hands to lift it and said “whew,” then adjusted his belt.

Once he caught you looking, he shamelessly looked back. He kept offering to buy you a drink until you accepted. He ran his hand up your thigh as you talked. And drank.

And you ended up wasted with him finger blasting you on the bar stool. He brought you all the way to the edge, then chuckled. “Please,” you wined.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he agreed and corralled you into a dark corner. He kissed on your neck and felt your breasts and with the cover of dark, you dared to grope at his jeans. The girth made you moan out loud. Seconds later, you had your hand shoved down the man's jeans, fumbling to pull his cock out.

He hiked up your thigh, pinned you to the wall with his belly, and thrust at you, sloppily prodding at your soaked panties, until you reached down and pulled them to the side.

His stomach nearly crushed you against the wall. “Fuck, get in there,” he commanded his cock, panting with the effort. “C’mon, Tommy,” he said to himself, then he found the angle to breach your dripping hole. “Fuck yeah,” he said, plunging further into you. “Yeah, just like that,” he breathed. “Mmm.” He grunted and cursed as he buried his cock in you, leaving you with shallow breaths, cunt packed as tight as his jeans. The steady grind of his heft against your front wound you up again, then made you snap. You came on his cock, and he gushed, “Oh, good girl, yeah.”

Fucking you through it, he said, “Oh, fuck, been thinkin’ bout this all day.” His thrusts became more powerful, “Findin’---oh, fuck—findin’ a hole for this load–fuuuuuck.”

He bottomed out and pulsed in your womb, making your chest and face go cold with a rush of sobriety. Jesus, what were you doing?

“Oh, God,” he sighed as he emptied his balls in you. "

His eyes closed and his face became peaceful. Then, when he opened his eyes, slid is dick out of you, and remembered you were a person, he saw the look of sobriety on your face.

“Oh, uh,” he leaned forward with his hand on the wall and chuckled, and the notes of beer on his breath wafted into your face. He took his hand off the wall to tuck his cock away.

“You good?” He asked, then sucked in his belly to button his pants.

“MILLER,” the bartender called over, the name making your breath hitch. “Don't skip out on me.”

Tommy saluted in response.

“Miller?” You asked.

“Dr. Tommy Miller,” he saluted, at you this time.

Your eyes went wide. “Doctor?”

“Veterinarian,” he said. “Mostly breedin’ these days... Horses.” He tugged your skirt down and added, “Mostly,” before placing his hand on the wall again with a smile.

Then it hit you. You knew him, you just hadn't recognized him with the ponytail and weight and lack of flannel shirt. But sure enough, it was Tommy Miller. He used to be on the council. He and Joel didn't look much alike to you, so you hadn't put two and two together.

But the way they moved, the way they walked, the way they wore their jeans: no doubt they were brothers.

You called Dr. Joel Miller that night.

Left a slurred message about needing to come in. When you woke up the next morning, the need between your legs was somehow more desperate than ever. You were already halfway to the finish line with your hand between your legs.

And you just had to give yourself 20 seconds of attention, just enough time for Dr. Joel Miller to stick his cock in you and cum.

Then, when you came, a wave of shame hit you as you remembered calling Dr. Miller. You were hoping you had dreamed it. All of it.

[daintiedevotion]

How about yandere badblood yautja with a reader that wants nothing more but to kill him. But the yautja is enjoying it.

Marked by the Beast

*DNI THOSE UNDER 18+THE EASILY DISTURBED*

STATUS: REQUESTS OPEN, BLOG ACTIVE!

LAST UPDATED: 30/05/2025!

LINKS: pinned post (rules). Predator M.list!

|

Fandom: Predator / Yautja

Pairing: Male Bad Blood Yautja (OC: Vek’tar) x Gender-Neutral Human Reader

POV: Second person

Warnings: Yandere behavior, captivity, obsession, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, psychological tension, dubcon overtones (non-explicit), light smut build-up, refusal, possessiveness, and themes of alien fixation

You don’t know how long you’ve been gone from Earth.

The ship doesn’t have windows—only dark glass that filters out the burning stars. Time here moves like thick syrup. Long silences. Strange noises in the walls. Your reflection rippling in still water every time you stare too long. You’ve lost track of everything except him.

Vek’tar.

The creature who stole you from your planet, your people, your freedom.

He calls himself hunter without chains. Exiled from his clan for some crime you can’t name, some dishonor too twisted even for his savage kind. When you met him, he was bloodied and half-wild, ripping through your world like a wounded god. And then… he saw you.

You should’ve died.

Instead, he claimed you.

Not as prey.

As his.

He keeps you like a jewel in a metal cage.

The room is cold. Too clean. Everything white and chrome and strange. A basin carved into the floor where you bathe. A bed you barely sleep in. Weapons you aren’t allowed to touch.

You used to scream at him. Now you just simmer.

Even now, as you scrub your skin raw in the basin, you feel his presence. You always do before he enters. Like a static charge. A subtle shift in the air. Your body knows before your mind can catch up.

The door hisses open.

He’s too large for the space, always. Dreadlocks brushing the ceiling, shoulders hunched, armored body carved in dark, brutal lines. Blood still streaks his claws. Not yours, this time.

He crouches near the basin like a mountain waiting to collapse.

“Still strong,” he growls, low in his throat. “Still fire in you.”

You don’t respond. You’re too tired.

He places a fresh cut of meat beside the basin. Seasoned. Cooked—somehow he learned what you liked. A few herbs you didn’t expect he could even smell.

“Eat,” he says again.

You spit in the water instead.

He doesn’t flinch. His mandibles twitch, amused.

“You still bite,” he says, reaching forward, slow, with one clawed finger.

You flinch away.

He retracts his hand like he’s handling something precious. Or explosive.

You’ve tried to kill him.

Six times now, maybe seven. Once with a broken chair leg. Once with a shard of tempered glass. Once with your bare hands wrapped around his throat, screaming until your voice shattered.

He never punished you.

He liked it.

“Such fight,” he whispered once, dragging a claw down your cheek. “Even caged. Even cornered.”

You don’t know what’s worse—his obsession, or his affection.

He never takes you by force. Not yet.

But he watches you. Stalks your every breath with those molten gold eyes. Offers gifts: food, pelts, strange trinkets that smell of stars and bone. He learns your routines. Memorizes your pulse. Tells you in guttural whispers that you belong to him.

And sometimes, in the dark, when you lie in bed, your mind drifts to his touch.

You hate yourself for that.

Tonight, he speaks again.

“You fear being small,” he says.

You freeze. He’s never said that before.

“That your flesh is not enough,” he continues, voice low, curling around your spine like smoke. “That your strength is hidden too deep inside.”

You turn to glare at him. “What the fuck do you know about it?”

He tilts his head. “I know you.”

His hand brushes your arm. Warm. Heavy. You don’t pull away fast enough.

“You burn too bright for your skin,” he says. “You were not born wrong. Only caged in weak flesh.”

You hate that he’s close to something real.

You hate that it makes your throat tight.

He moves toward you.

Still crouching. Still slow.

His claws trail from your shoulder to your jaw. Then down your chest. Not rough. Not cruel. Just there.

He leans in until his mandibles graze your ear.

“Let me honor your fire,” he murmurs. “Let me mate.”

You freeze.

The air is too hot. Or too cold. You can’t feel your hands. The basin water ripples around your legs like it’s breathing.

He’s pressing closer. His mouth at your throat. His hands sliding across you, skin wet from the basin tub. Reverent. Possessive.

You don’t say yes.

You don’t say no.

You just go still.

He lifts you slightly by the hips, the cold air hitting your skin as he sat you on the rim above the water, cradling you like something sacred, and you feel the tremble in his muscles—restraint. This moment has lived in his mind for days. Maybe weeks.

His breath rasps against your neck. His voice thick.

“I will not break you,” he says. “I will show you the shape of worship.”

And just as his fingers begin to tug at you—

“No.���

The word is small.

But final.

He freezes.

And then—

He stops.

Withdraws.

Not violently. Not disappointed. Just… observant. Curious. Like a scientist watching an unstable element change form.

He looks at you for a long moment, then slowly steps back.

You don’t know what he’s thinking.

He turns. Walks out.

The door hisses shut behind him.

Now, you sit alone in the basin.

The water has gone still again.

You scrub harder. Rubbing his scent off your skin until it burns. Your throat tightens, but you don’t cry. You’ve learned to save that for later. For when you’re curled up and alone and he’s out hunting something that doesn’t scream like you do.

You think about escape.

Again.

You plan. You dissect the ship’s layout, the alien tech, the way he locks the doors with sound, not keys. You’ve mapped the halls in your mind. You know where the airlocks are. Where the ship breathes.

But nothing ever works.

He’s always watching. Always listening. And when you make a move, he just… blocks it. Without anger. Without punishment. As if it’s a game he’s enjoying.

Like he’s proud of you.

You curl your arms around your knees.

“I’ll never be yours,” you whisper into the steam.

But even as you say it, you remember the feel of his hand at your throat. How your body responded without your consent. How scared you are—not of him, but of yourself.

Of what loneliness can make you crave.

Still, you hold on to something.

You’ll find a way. You’ll bleed for it if you have to. But you will not become a pet. Or a mate. Or a trophy.

He may orbit you like a sun drunk on gravity—but you’re not a planet.

You’re a comet.

Burning.

Leaving scars.

And one day, you’ll break free.

Somewhere in the ship, Vek’tar speaks your name in his native tongue—an echo down metal corridors. You don’t answer. You just watch the water.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

A/N: If there is more content wanted from Vek’tar, I’m wondering if what kind of crime I should put in his background to cause his exile

[miracleocean]

☞ GRUMPY NIGHT ______________

( i have vision of JAson has a bulk body )

☞ After the long night of hell, the door swing open frustratedly with Jason’s body standing intimately. You flinched when he threw himself on the couch with a loud groan.

☞ All he NEEDs is rest and quiet, yet you still nag him about how the day is while patching up his wounds. He annoyed the touch from you, the soft touch or soft voice like a fly. It’s annoying.

“Can you stfu?”

“Excuse me?”

“I need to rest alone”

“But I just want to help”

“Do you know word ‘alone’?”

You know, he said out of his tiredness. He doesn't mean to. You want to be an understanding partner, but it doesn't mean you don’t a feeling. You are hurt and upset at his unwanted attitude.

“Fine”

You close the aid kits and push to him angrily, storm out from the room. He’s laying there with finally peace. He let out a a heavy sigh that he doesn’t know he held it. There is nothing better than rest alone. Jason thinks so.

Because Jason is resting on our bedroom, and you are angry at him right now. The couch is not the best choice nor the worst. Except those blood stains he left. Strangely, your size fits on the couch comfortably. Maybe it’s not that bad you think with your heavy eyelids.

Your dream is wide.

There is dreamless sleep before a big ass red bear in front of you. You and the bear are standing in the boxing ring with bear hands. there is no fucking way you gonna alive before the heartbeat. It's crushing you into a breathless hug.

"Ah!"

You left out a squeaky voice from the weird nightmare. your forehead is sweating. you still feel breathless and hot from it. Before you looked down what the hell was on you.

"Jason?"

The big man who x3 of your size stays quiet, but you know he doesn't sleep yet. His hands rest on your waist, and his face bury in your neck. Pull you closer so you can hear his heartbeat.

It might look cute, but it's too crowded, too hot, and uncomfortable to be trapped under the 196 pounds, trust.

You called him a few times before he left a grumpy noise.

"What?"

"Can you get off? It's too hot."

"Put banket away then."

"You're on top of it."

"..."

"..."

"Can you get ou--"

"No."

Your face frowned at his words before anything got worse. He kissed on your forehead, which stunned you from unusual softness.

Moment of silence. Before you break it.

"What's wrong with you?"

He knows you asked about his action at night. Jason isn't sure if his words have enough weight to learn you. He wants to say he is sorry, that he didn't mean to, hiw much it is empty, he needs his spoon back. But he is man of his pride.

"The bed is cold." What an ass excuse.

"Put the banket on then."

Jason pulled his head up and frowned at you like a spoiled cat before you chuckled at the sight.

"Come back to bed."

"You said you want to rest alone."

"You know I didn't mean to. You act dramatic."

You grasp with your hand on your chest. "Excuse me?"

"Excuse you. Now come back to bed."

You pout all the way the red eyed man carries you back to the room. He tries to kiss your pout away, but it doesn't work.

"Need a snack?" You looked at him with death eyes. He left a defens heavy sigh. Jason knows exactly what he needs to do.

"I'm sorry." You raise an eyebrow. "The bed isn't cold without you and... and I can't sleep without my pillow. Okay?" You are looking out of the man anxiety before revealing a smile that is relieved in his chest. "Much better."

Jason lays you on the bed again now that he is hugging you without complaining.

"Goodnight, love."

"Goodnight, pup."

i have future plan about angst but i good at fluffy tho. maybe i will do Bruce(s) next maybe 3P? (i actually don't care LOL)