#mentioned Despair of the Endless

[tiabritana]

Hob Can’t Handle The Club Right Now (isn’t that how the song goes?…)

Hob stumbles feeling a wave of dizziness come over him. He can’t remember where or when his colleagues wandered off to or where he left his keys or his coat. At this point he feels like that might be for the best as he’s absolutely boiling under the black lights of the club. The perspiration slides down his forehead into his eyes. He raises his hand, revealing a sweat-soaked circle under his arm, to his face to wipe it away. He can’t remember how long he’s been here for, but he has the niggling feeling he needs to get out soon.

The immortal sighs and looks around, searching for the bar to hopefully find some water to help his parched throat. Turning his head to the right he stops and blinks the sudden lightheadedness away. He thinks the heat might be effecting more than he thought. His gaze finally lands on a figure no one else seems to be able to see; jumping up and down on top of the bar counter and waving at him.

Hob wades unsteadily through the crowd, slowly making his way over in a daze, careful to keep his eyes locked onto her form in case she disappears. When he finally stops in front of the bar, Delirium jumps down, and stumbles slightly. Hob reaches out to steady her and distantly notes his reflexes aren’t as sharp as they usually are. She beams back at him, but her eyebrows crinkle a little a second later.

He scans her over and notes everything about her, from her wild curls, to the paint smeared all over her body, to the neon fishnets she wears, shining luminously under the black light hypnotizing him for a moment. He startles out of his hazy thoughts when Delirium cocks her head to the side almost bird like, similar to Dream, the wrinkling between her eyes becoming more pronounced the longer she stares at him. The immortal comes to the belated realization that she must’ve been talking to him, and shakes his head trying to clear the fog that has started taking over his mind.

“What?” He shouts over the music. He feels the bass beat in time to his own heart. The moving bodies around him feel suffocating all of a sudden. The way they brush against him is setting off his fight or flight instincts though he’s not sure why. He doesn’t remember having had that much to drink.

His wife’s hand on his arm brings everything to a halt. The haze clouding his mind is instantly cleared and he can make out the worry in the Endless’ mismatched gaze.

“Come on.” She says, leading him through the throng of dance club goers. Hob does his best to keep up with her, eager to escape the sudden claustrophobic feeling that’s been building up inside of him, but seems to have gone away at the first touch of Delirium’s hold on him leaving him feeling out of sorts.

She leads him to a side door and pushes it open with the hand not holding his arm. The immortal sags into the cool night air, leaning against the brick of the building as he regains his equilibrium. The Endless leans against the wall next to him, hand still on his arm, though now she’s drawing soothing shapes; colorful splashes appearing where her fingers trace.

“What the hell just happened Del?” Hob asks as he takes deep breaths. The rubbish bins off to the side sours the air just a bit, but still makes him feel better than he did in the muggy atmosphere of the club. He shivers a little as the night air cools down his clammy skin and feels the adrenaline starting to leave his system.

“Someone wanted you to experience wonderland without any white rabbits to show you the way.” She says as she places his coat around his shoulders.

Used to reality bending to this particular Endless’ whims, Hob shrugs on the coat, hearing his keys jingle inside one of his pockets. As he looks closer he notices the inside of the lining has changed colors and has been given an intricate embroidered design that he can’t quite make out in the dim alleyway light, before the meaning behind his wife’s words finally untangle in his brain enough causing him to freeze.

“What?” He asks again, eyes going wide as he turns to look at her. Her form has shifted into something he’s never seen before. The neons and paint and fishnets are replaced with a solid red color scheme. Close cropped red curls grace her head down to a red glittered army coat to red ripped jeans and red combat boots on her normally bare feet. She looks to be in that moment the living embodiment of the horsemen of war; or what he pictures Destruction might look like if he was punk and hadn’t abdicated his function. A dark curl of arousal unfurls low in his belly that he hurriedly shoves to the side. ‘Now is not the time.’ He mentally scolds himself.

The first thing Hob notices when he collects himself and she turns to look at him is that besides the change in Delirium’s appearance, she also looks older than she normally prefers. Late twenties if he had to guess. The second thing he notices is her eye color is going from green to red to blue and silver to fast for his human brain to process before settling on blue. Matching blue. The madness no longer present under her suddenly unsettling clear gaze.

Hob’s struck with a thought he rarely likes to dwell on. He knows his loves are all powerful personified concepts in unassuming human guises most of the time. And he’s grown rather fond of their inhuman traits when they present themselves, that it doesn’t really faze him anymore. But the one who shape-shifts when something goes wrong is usually Dream, and Hob has gotten used to that eldritch horror as the years passed that he finds it a comfort that his husband trust him enough to allow his otherness to be seen by him. Delirium on the other hand, is always shifting into a kaleidoscope of clothes and colors that the solid look she has on now along with the pair of blue irises in her eyes really hits home that she’s angry. And Hob’s starting to realize that that is far scarier than the nightmare Dream turns into is.

“The co-worker you tell us stories about all the time switched your drink with the nice lady who tries to figure out how many partners you have after the man in the purple shirt slipped something into it.” Her voice when she finally speaks is clear, no longer sounding like it’s on the edge of madness, but is holding back suppressed rage and is solidly bound in the here and now. Hob takes one last deep breath, no longer trying to clear the fog in his mind, but now trying to wrap his head around the fact that one of his colleagues gave him a spiked drink. Nausea claws up the back of his throat as he recalls how he’s been feeling the past while before he chanced upon his wife.

Did Martha think he knew, and knew not to drink it? Did they intentionally let him drink it? Did they purposely leave him at the table by himself? The questions buzz around his mind. The last half hour or so are still blurry. On one hand he’s glad Addie didn’t drink the laced alcohol, but the fact he did causes a sinking feeling in his gut. The immortal swallows thickly forcing the nausea back down.

He’s been around long enough to know the darker sides of humanity. His own past surges to the front of his mind for a second before he shoves the memories away. He knows the other professor doesn’t like him, and as Del mentioned he often regales his spouses with Martha stories. But he doesn’t want to think they could have purposefully orchestrated this to happen.

He straightens from his slouch and reaches out to touch the Endless’s hand. She’s still staring at him with a much to clear gaze, and he knows it must be excruciating for her. The immortal remembers Delirium telling him once that she could pull herself together enough to be coherent and for lack of a better word ‘sane’, but it came at the cost of great pain. The immortal didn’t want her to hurt herself unnecessarily for his sake. “Del, love, I’m okay now.” He gently squeezes her hand.

“But if I weren’t here you wouldn’t have been. And who knows what could have happened. I don't want you to leave like Dreamy almost did.” Her pained voice whispers the last part causing his heart to pang sharply.

Hob steps further into Delirium’s space and reaches for her other hand, grasping both in his own. He leans forward letting his forehead rest on hers realizing now what she has done for him. His wife’s function rules over madness yes, but on the flip side she also rules over sanity. She must have absorbed the drugs that were in his system. He opens his mouth to say something before he’s interrupted by the door slamming open.

A figure emerges from the shadow of the door wearing a leopard print skirt, brogues, turtleneck and blazer dangling over one shoulder. They straighten when they spot Hob and Del and takes in the intimate scene, a sneer quickly darting over their face before it smooths out.

“Isn’t she a bit too young for you Gadling?” They asks, faux concern dripping with the question. The infamous Martha.

‘We’ll speak of the devil and they will appear.’ Hob mentally tells himself. “Martha.” He greets as he straightens back up, though he doesn’t release his wife’s hands. He’s not sure he wants to get into it with his co-worker in the middle of an alleyway behind a club. Regardless if she knowingly or unknowingly tried drugging him.

Martha steps out into the light of the alleyway and lets the door slam close. The noise and music once again muffled behind thick steel. They open their mouth, probably to say another scathing comment before their jaw clicks shut with an audible sound, their eyes widening. Hob looks back down to see what caused that reaction. Delirium has drawn herself up to her full height and locks eyes onto his co-worker. The overwhelming aura surrounding her like a shroud of madness makes the hair on his arms stand up and the arousal he fought down to come crashing back. “Del-,” he tries before he’s cut off.

“Martha Jane Evans, born March 18, 1987, they/them pronouns, suffers from schizophrenia and was institutionalized for most of their childhood. Released in their late teens after showing signs of successful treatment. Highly knowledgeable in linguistics and can speak thirteen languages, but keeps mostly to themselves and lacks any real passion for life and teaching. Only accepting a university professor job to please their parents. Jealous and envious of Hob Gadling once he started working in the History department. The delusions started becoming more volatile so you decided to quit taking your medications, also blaming this on Hob. Your mental health has taken a swan dive, but instead of seeking help you delved deeper into the madness and decided everything wrong in your life right now is also Hob’s fault. You tell you if only he didn’t come, none of this would have happened. If he wasn’t here, you wouldn’t see how you’ve been wasting your life, letting it listlessly float on by while watching Hob living his to the fullest. So you came up with this idea to have a get together at this club, paid the man in purple to slip something into Hob’s drink and panicked with it was placed into the wrong one” Delirium’s words starts rushing together, gaining in speed. The coherency she has kept together for Hob’s sake cracks. Madness spiraling back into her speech as her form vibrates. Butterflies and fish pop into existence around her, swirling in colors to fast for him to name.

She releases herself from Hob’s hold and takes a step towards Martha, her form changing. Changing into how Martha perceives her in this moment after the revelation about them is spilled into the silent night. Her image shifting into two dimensional, abstract, shades of blacks shrouding her in shadows that blend into the darkness around them. The sight hurts his eyes, his rational human brain not able to perceive this level of insanity. His heart twist, and it becomes harder to look at his wife.

The world around them starts being affected. The sides of the building is melting, the ground starts growing fur. He’s not used to seeing her like this. Not in control and slipping further into her realm than he’s ever seen. Becoming a swirling vortex of angry insanity.

Martha turns, one hand clawing desperately to open the door, but his wife is faster. She instantly appears in front of them, hand outstretched and grasping her forearm. “Love.” Hob’s voice is calm as he too reaches out. His reflexes back to normal now that the drugs are gone. His hand catches hers other one again and she turns and levels him with the weight of her mad stare. Her eyes back to their mismatched hue.

“She. Hurt. You.” Comes the garbled speech. More creatures are popping into existence, mixing together forming shapes of creatures he’s never seen before.

“I know love, I know. But you need to calm down. I don’t want you hurting yourself further.” The immortal doesn’t bother sparing a glance at the shivering mess his colleague has become. Just keeps his focus on his distraught wife. He gathers her in his arms forcing the Endless to let go of the other professor. Her form shifting again, becoming more familiar as it’s wrapped in her usual prism of technicolor and mesh.

The storm around them seems to settle and reality rights itself as Delirium snuggles further into his embrace and tucks her head under Hob’s chin. He can feel wetness on his neck and feels himself struggle to get his own emotions under control. Taking a deep breath and silently counting to ten he releases it and finally lets himself look over to the door where the other professor once stood.

They’re on the ground now, rocking back and forth and their eyes stare into the darkness of the alleyway. Flinching as they see things he can’t. It seems like the crux of the storm latched onto them when Delirium lost control, madness seeking out madness.

He sighs and closes his eyes letting his forehead rest on the top of his wife’s unruly head. The Endless has stopped shaking by now. The immortal doesn’t know how long they stand like that, being soothed by each other’s presence, when the peace is shattered for a second time that night.

Addie sticks her head out, bass bumping music shattering the fragile quiet. “Oh, there you are Prof, I was wondering where you’ve gone off to.” She pauses as she takes in the scene she’s walked into. Glancing down she notices the other professor still rocking back and forth on the ground, tears are now streaming down their face and they have started to mumble incoherently. Addie looks back up raising a judgy eyebrow at the immortal who can do nothing but shrug as best he can while his arms are still wrapped around the figure of his wife.

“Another one of those mysterious spouses of yours or are you babysitting their kid sister?” Her dry tone asks. Looking down Hob notices Addie’s perception has altered Delirium’s age. Her appearance now taking on the indefinite age of maybe late teenager-early 20’s. Yelping he jerks away as the Endless blinks up at him.

“Oops!” His wife shrugs, before deciding to climb onto his back and hanging from him like a baby monkey. Hob sighs for the umpteenth time that night.

“Del, Addie- Addie, one of my wives, Delirium.” Said wife waves from her place on his back.

The immortal was hoping he could avoid this conversation, but looks like his luck has run out. He hesitantly looks back into the darkness to see if Despair is lingering close by. “Come on, this conversation is long overdue. But first, be a peach and call 999 for Martha over there. I’ve a feeling they’ll gonna need to be readmitted.”

[mystiqmemory]

Just imagined a (100th by now AU and concept btw) ALNST x DT crossover AU concept.

Hear me out-

Xanvid as Mizisua.

ROUND 5, Where Whit!Luka trying to get under David!Mizi's skin by mimicking Xander!Sua, In this essay I will— *explodes*

[thatsladyfaggottoyou]

i have a pathological need to put Despair in increasingly sapphic scenarios like picking out her fem partner's lipstick and letting her partner cut her open to bleed into the bath around them both do you understand?

[tempest-persephone]

Why is no one talking about Despair of the Endless naming Edwin her friend, to call on in the future!!!????

[aleksatia]

Imagine the six days scenario with the boys, but it turns out the mission was supposed to be done in one day, and the reader went through he'll to get out and is met with this reaction? Imagine when she finally tells the reason she was away, would they regret their actions? How would they react? Don't know if if you take requests, if you do, consider this one.

If not, I am glad I got to read this masterpiece, thank you ❤️

Thank you so much for the request — I absolutely do take them, and I really appreciate this one! ❤️

I tried so hard to keep it short, since the “Six Days” theme has already been thoroughly explored... but, well, I failed spectacularly 😅 So here’s another deep-dive into a what-if/imagine scenario — one that can be read as either an alternate branch of the original storyline or... something else entirely. I’ll let you decide 😉

I’d love to hear your thoughts if you read it — truly means the world to me!

I’ve received so many requests for continuations — especially for Xavier — and yes, his already has a full-length, dramatic follow-up (because how could I not?). This one here is more of a request-based scenario, but it can absolutely be read as its own kind of continuation. Think of it as an alternate path the story could have taken. (One day I’ll write full versions for all the boys… but for now, consider this a little taste.) Hope you enjoy — and as always, I’d love to hear what you think! 💬💔 Here are the links to the previous parts in the series, in case you want to revisit or catch up:

Original Post | Xavier's Story

CW/TW: Psychological trauma, PTSD themes, Forced isolation, Violence / combat injuries, Mentions of starvation, Emotional manipulation, Past emotional abuse, Mental breakdowns, Intense guilt / self-blame, Brief implications of suicidal ideation (in self-sacrificing context), Adult intimacy (emotionally driven, not graphic)

The Truth — What Really Happened

It was supposed to be one day.

A clean, strategic infiltration. In and out. No complications. No room for error.

But no one accounted for the Wanderer.

No one predicted that the target—some nameless, faceless shade masquerading as a rogue—would be more than just dangerous. That he'd found a way to twist Protocore into something ancient and volatile. That he would trigger a fracture in time itself.

In a single blink, the world split. You fell into it. And the loop began.

Six days for them. Six weeks for you.

You lived, died, and bled your way through the same endless day.

Again. And again. And again.

Locked in a cycle of violence, decay, and despair—while everyone else moved on without you.

You clawed your way back—half-starved, half-mad, barely remembering your name. And when you finally escaped the loop, stepped back into their world, broken and still breathing—

They were waiting.

Angry. Unforgiving. And utterly, terrifyingly unaware.

Until now. Until you tell them.

💛 Xavier

It only felt right to write Xavier’s piece after the continuation I posted earlier. The original scene stood strong on its own, but this one—this is what came next. The moment after the storm. The truth laid bare. A quiet, alternate branch of the story, or perhaps a natural consequence of the one that already unfolded. Either way—I’m glad it found its voice.

You don’t ease into it. You sit across from him in the quiet of the morning, sunlight creeping up the walls like it’s unsure of its welcome, and you tell him.

Not six days.

Six weeks.

A loop. A fracture in time. An engineered nightmare that left you bleeding against the same hours, over and over, clawing through shadow just to return to him. Alone. Lost. Dying.

Xavier doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even blink.

But something in him breaks.

Not loudly. Not violently. It’s quieter than breath. Slower than thought. His fingers slip from the edge of the cup in his hand, and it falls. Shatters against the floor with a sound so sharp it startles the silence—ceramic shards skittering like teeth across stone.

Still, he doesn’t look at you.

He stands, but not with purpose. With instinct. His body moves before his mind can catch it. He turns, walks toward the far wall like he’s searching for air, like the room is suddenly too small to hold what’s happening inside his chest.

You rise—hesitant, aching—but he lifts a hand to stop you. Not cruelly. Gently. Like he’s afraid that if you touch him, he’ll fall apart in a way he can’t recover from.

He presses his palm to the wall. Just one. The other curls into a fist at his side.

“I thought you abandoned me,” he says at last, voice raw in a way you’ve never heard from him. “And I punished you for it.”

He turns back.

And there’s nothing left of the man who told you to ask again in six days. Nothing of the controlled strategist, the ever-collected ghost of war. His jaw is clenched too tight. His eyes are glassed over with fury—but not at you.

At himself.

“I accused you. I mocked you. I dismissed what little strength you had left and threw my pain in your face like it was the only thing that mattered.”

He crosses the room again, slower now. Purposeful. His hands don’t tremble, but his voice does.

“I let you stand there, in front of me, broken... and I thought I was the one who’d suffered.”

He kneels.

Not dramatically. Not for effect.

He lowers himself before you like a man who no longer believes he has the right to stand. His gaze stays down. One hand reaches inside his coat, and when it returns, you see it:

A blade.

Polished. Ritual-cut. Ceremonial. One of the old ones—etched with language you don’t recognize. But you understand that these words mean oath, atonement, belonging.

He offers it to you in silence. Flat in his palm.

“Where I’m from,” he says, quietly, “a wound like this is paid in blood. A betrayal like mine is not survived—it is surrendered to.”

Your hands don’t move. Your breath barely does.

“If you want justice,” he whispers, “take it.”

You stare at him. The weight of the blade between you. The weight of everything.

And then—slowly, gently—you take it from his hand.

Only to let it fall.

The sound is soft this time. Barely a whisper of steel on floorboards.

Then you fall with it.

You drop to your knees in front of him, wrap your arms around his shoulders, and let your tears fall freely.

“I don’t want justice,” you breathe into the curve of his neck. “I want you.”

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t speak. Just holds you, arms banding around your waist, face pressed into your shoulder like he’s trying to memorize what survival feels like.

When he finally speaks, it’s not confession. It’s surrender.

“After what you endured… after what I made you endure alone… I don’t know what anything means anymore. Not the mission. Not the cause. Not the point.”

You pull back, just enough to see him.

His eyes are hollow with grief. But deeper still—something flickers.

“I thought I understood devotion,” he says, voice barely above a breath. “But I was wrong. What I gave you wasn’t loyalty. It wasn’t love. It was pride. Control. Fear, dressed in logic. And I used it to wound you when you were already bleeding.”

His jaw tightens. His gaze falls.

“I was cruel.”

It’s not said for effect. There’s no tremble in his voice, no self-indulgent break.

It’s simply true.

“And I’m sorry.”

The silence that follows is soft. Dense. Not empty.

You brush your fingers across his cheek, tilt his face toward yours.

“I forgive you,” you say. Steady. Clear. “Because not everything in this world is black and white. And I understand why you did what you did. I know the shape of your fear.”

Your thumb brushes beneath his eye. His breath catches.

“I didn’t tell you to hurt you. Or to punish you. I told you because…” You pause. Your voice thickens with truth. “Because you’re the only one I trust with all of it. The only one who would understand. Who wouldn’t fall apart under the weight of what I’ve lived through.”

You lean forward.

Kiss him. Gently. Not desperate. Not demanding.

Just there. Warm. Real. Home.

Your hands slide up to his temples, fingers massaging slow circles at his hairline, coaxing the tightness from his brow. You feel it—inch by inch—how he softens beneath your touch.

“Let it go,” you whisper. “Don’t carry this weight. Not for me.”

He exhales, shaky. Silent.

You hold him tighter.

“You are my light, Xavier. You illuminate the path. You anchor me when everything else turns to ash. And in that place—those six weeks—do you know what kept me alive?”

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of you mourning me. That’s what kept me breathing.”

He says nothing for a moment.

Just rests his forehead against yours. One hand moves to your chest, flattening over your heart like he’s grounding himself with your pulse.

Then—softly, firmly, as if carving the words into stone:

“You will never carry pain alone again. Not while I draw breath.”

No grand vow. No poetry.

Just fact.

And somehow—that’s what makes it a promise.

💗 Rafayel

The morning sun slips in like melted gold, tracing the edge of the sheets, catching the soft arch of your cheekbone. You lie half-curled beneath the covers, his T-shirt clinging to your body like second skin.

And in that sacred hush before the world stirs—you speak.

Not because he demands it. Not because you owe it.

But because somewhere between the echo of his heartbeat and the way his arms wrapped around you like the only anchor you had left—you remembered how to breathe.

You tell him.

About the mission. The Wanderer. The fracture in time.

About the loop.

How six days for him were six weeks for you.

How you woke up every day inside the same nightmare. How you died. How you clawed your way back. Alone. Over and over.

And when you fall silent, your voice scraped raw from remembering—he still doesn’t speak.

He just looks at you.

Like the sun never rose until he saw your face again.

His hand brushes your cheek, feather-light. His voice—when it comes—is almost a whisper.

“Are you ready to share the rest?”

You blink. “The rest?”

“The weight of it,” he says. “Not the facts. Not the fight. The dark. The ache. The part that still won’t let you sleep.”

His voice is gentle. Too gentle for a man like him. It trembles with caution, as if even asking is a violation.

You hesitate. The memories flicker like shadows across your mind—distorted, aching, sharp.

“No,” you answer truthfully. “Maybe not ever.”

His gaze doesn’t falter.

He nods once. No protest. No press.

Then his voice, lighter this time—almost a whisper:

“Then I’ll just have to help you forget.”

And he does.

He lifts you carefully, as if your body might shatter beneath his hands. You expect the weight of a blanket, but instead—he wraps you in something else entirely.

A covering like seafoam. It feels like nothing you’ve ever touched—gossamer, weightless, but cool and smooth against your skin. A whisper of silk and tide.

“It's from home,” he murmurs, adjusting it carefully over your shoulders. “Woven from the ocean’s first breath. They say it keeps sorrow out.”

Then—he scoops you up like you weigh nothing. Carries you to the kitchen with quiet reverence, as if this moment is sacred.

He sets you down on the marble countertop and kisses your knee.

Then he starts making coffee.

He hums as he moves—something aimless and tuneless and purely him. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the scent of roasted beans and vanilla settle around you.

And then—

“So,” he says casually, not looking up, “a cat broke into the studio last night.”

You blink. “A cat?”

He nods solemnly. “Orange. Loud. Looked like he owned the place. Knocked over three canvases and nearly drank my turpentine.”

You raise a brow. “And naturally, you assumed this was my doing.”

“Who else would weaponize cuteness to such chaotic effect?”

You laugh—quiet but real. “I’m not that cruel.”

“No,” he agrees, turning to face you with a soft smile. “But I do suspect you’re still hoping I’ll change my mind about cats.”

You sip your coffee. “I might be.”

Later, the bath is warm, the water laced with something lavender and soft. He sits behind you, your back pressed to his chest, his arms a steady weight around your ribs.

His fingers move slowly—massaging your shoulders, your forearms, your palms, like he’s trying to erase every echo of pain from your body with touch alone.

You both talk, but nothing heavy. Just stories. Old memories. Little things. The shape of the moon that night. The smell of burnt sugar in his favorite gallery. How he once mistook a mannequin for a person and apologized to it for five minutes.

You laugh again, softer this time. And it makes something in him melt.

He wraps you in the softest robe he can find. Carries you again—this time to the bedroom. The ocean glows outside, waves catching the last of the sun like pearls tossed across the horizon.

But he doesn’t stop there.

“Come,” he says, offering a hand. “Tea. Sunset. Company far superior to mine.”

You smile. Follow.

And when you step onto the veranda—there it is.

A small white basket. A red ribbon.

And inside—

A snow-colored kitten, curled like a pearl in a nest, blinking up at you with impossibly blue eyes.

You freeze.

Turn to him, wide-eyed.

He shrugs, just slightly. Nervous. Like he’s bracing himself for mockery. For rejection.

You blink again. “You—Raf, you hate cats.”

He exhales through his nose. “I fear them. Different thing.”

Your eyes shimmer.

He moves toward you slowly, hands lifted in surrender.

“I wanted to make you smile,” he says simply. “That’s all. Just—smile. Like you used to. Before I—” He swallows.

He crouches down before you. One hand comes up to gently stroke the kitten. The other finds your knee.

His eyes lift to yours—and there’s no performance left in him now. Just Rafayel. Just the man beneath the glitter.

“I was so awful to you.”

You open your mouth, but he shakes his head.

“Don’t say it wasn’t that bad. I know what I am when I’m scared. I threw wine over grief and laughter over longing because I didn’t know what else to do. I ruined canvases with your name on my tongue and strangers in my house, and the whole time—I just wanted you to walk through that door.”

His fingers tighten on your leg.

“And when you did—when you came back—I was so full of rage at the idea you’d left me, that I didn’t even ask if you were okay.”

He breathes. One hand comes up, presses lightly to your ankle.

“I don’t know if I deserve this. Any of it. You. The right to hold your hand. To be the one who touches you when you’re tired. Who makes you laugh. Who paints your name into the ocean.”

You slide your fingers into his curls, threading gently through the soft waves.

And he stills. Like he’s afraid to move.

You whisper, “I never wanted perfect. I wanted you.”

He exhales.

“I swear,” he says, softly now, firmly, “on every color I’ve ever touched—never again. I’ll never put my pride above your heart. I’ll never leave you alone in the dark I made.”

Then—he leans forward. Presses his forehead to your knee.

The kitten meows softly, curling into the basket.

And finally—you smile.

Because this?

This is home.

💙 Zayne

You expected something.

A tremor. A breath. A word. Anything.

Instead, Zayne listened. Like a doctor reviewing a chart. Like a man auditing loss.

He didn’t speak when you finished. He simply nodded—once—and turned away, reaching for the drawer by the bedside as though the moment hadn’t cracked the very floor beneath his feet.

His hands, always precise, always godlike in their stillness, carried a faint tremble now. Just at the edges. So minor you might’ve doubted your own eyes, if you didn’t know how obsessively exact they always were.

“I asked,” he said, adjusting a monitor. His voice was quiet. Neutral. Not for you—for himself. “I asked if you’d caught a cold.”

He finished adjusting the drip, typed something into the tablet. Still no eye contact. Still no softness in his voice. But the line of his shoulders was off. A degree too low. A breath too far from centered.

Then—he turned back to you.

His gaze met yours at last. And though his voice didn’t change, the words did.

“I would like to conduct a full diagnostic. Neurological, cellular, metabolic.” A pause. Then softer, with exquisite restraint: “Please allow me.”

You hesitated—not because you doubted him, but because you recognized the plea underneath the logic. He wasn’t doing this for the data. Not really.

You nodded.

And he breathed again.

He worked in silence. Gentle. Thorough. Every sensor placed with hands that barely touched your skin. Each test executed with a reverence that spoke more than words ever could. He treated you like something sacred—something already broken that could not, must not, fracture further.

When sleep finally came, it swallowed you whole.

And when you opened your eyes again—the world was still. Dim. The sterile light of early morning filtered through the blinds.

Zayne sat in the chair beside your bed. Unmoved.

He hadn’t changed clothes.

The same shirt. The same faint stain near the cuff from yesterday’s blood draw. One elbow rested on the arm of the chair, his fingers curved over his mouth, gaze lost in some calculation too heavy for paper.

When he noticed you stir, his posture didn’t shift. But his eyes warmed—just barely. Just enough.

“I cancelled my procedures for the week,” he said simply. “Transferred patients to colleagues. For now, my only case is you.”

You blinked, silent. Then your gaze drifted down, to the low table by the bedside.

There, lined with the kind of hesitant care that comes from someone unused to gifts, sat a modest row of familiar things. A bouquet of white jasmine, fresh and fragrant. Two of your favorite candies in delicate wrappers. And—absurdly, heartbreakingly—three new plush toys, small and soft and so clearly chosen by someone who’d spent an agonizing amount of time in the gift shop second-guessing every decision.

Your heart folded inward.

“Am I dying?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

He didn’t smile.

But his voice, when it came, was soft and absolute.

“I won’t allow that.”

A long silence passed.

Then you shifted—carefully, your muscles aching—and reached for him.

“Come here,” you murmured.

For a moment, he hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because some part of him still didn’t believe he deserved the invitation. But he came. And when he lay beside you on the narrow couch, his body held a tension that didn’t ease until your head rested on his shoulder.

He stayed still. Let you move first. Let you curl against him the way you needed. His hand hovered over your back, uncertain, until you nudged it gently into place.

Only then did he hold you.

Not tightly.

Not desperately.

But with the kind of quiet conviction that said he would stay as long as it took.

You felt his breath in your hair before you heard his voice.

“I don’t pray,” he said, low, clinical as ever. “I believe in medicine. In numbers. In protocols.”

A pause. His fingers brushed your spine, feather-light.

“But if you hadn’t come back... I would’ve made an exception.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Because some things, even with Zayne, are understood in silence.

And in that silence, held against the rhythm of his heartbeat, you felt it clearly: you were no longer his patient.

You were his entire world.

❤️ Sylus

For a moment after you speak, the room holds its breath. So does he.

Sylus doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t demand proof or press for detail. He simply stands there, stone-still, with your words unraveling him from the inside out. The way you say it—quiet, unshaking, without accusation—is somehow worse than if you’d screamed.

His gaze drifts over you then, and you feel the moment the veil lifts.

It’s in his eyes first—how they widen, flicker, and fixate. He takes in the shadows beneath yours, the pallor of your skin, the hollowness in your cheeks. His breath catches when he sees how your clothes hang looser than before. How your hands tremble faintly, barely perceptible unless one knows you too well.

And Sylus knows you.

His chest rises once, sharp and shallow. Then he moves.

Not fast. Not sudden.

But with purpose.

The next second, he’s in front of you, reaching—his fingers brush your jaw, feather-light, as if afraid that even the weight of his touch might bruise. He doesn’t speak as he leads you gently—gently, from a man whose hands have broken bones—into the nearest chair. One knee hits the ground beside you. He opens your jacket with slow precision, not to expose, but to check. To see. To know.

“You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, voice rough and uneven, like gravel sliding beneath steel. His fingers glide down your arm, finding the sharp edges of bone where softness used to be. “Why didn’t I see it sooner?”

You try to speak, but he shakes his head, already rising.

He moves through the room like a storm with no wind—silent, but charged. Opens drawers. Pulls out clean clothes, a blanket, a glass of water. Then he’s back at your side, crouching again, one arm draped over your lap like a bridge between his fury and your exhaustion.

His hand wraps gently around your ankle, thumb pressing lightly against the bone there as he stares at it like it personally accuses him.

“I told them to take you.” His voice is lower now. Hoarse. “Told them to scare you. Make a point.”

He looks up at you. And for once, his face is completely unguarded.

“I hit you.”

It wasn’t hard. It wasn’t brutal. Not for someone like him.

But it was enough.

His voice falters, only slightly.

“And then I said I wouldn’t look for you.”

He exhales, and it’s not a breath—it’s a confession.

“That was the worst one, wasn’t it?” he asks. “Out of all of it. That’s the one that stayed.”

Your silence says enough.

And something in him breaks again—quietly, like a structure folding inward with no one left to hold it up. His forehead presses lightly to your knee, his arm tightening around your thigh. You feel him breathe you in, like scent alone might bring you back from the half-place you escaped.

“I should’ve known the second I touched you that something was wrong. I should’ve seen it on your face.” His voice cracks, just once. “But I was so angry. So fucking angry I couldn’t feel anything but the space where you weren’t.”

He pulls back. Looks at you again—slowly, steadily. And something inside him hardens, not with rage, but resolution.

“You’re not lifting a hand again. Not for food. Not for water. Not for anything. I don’t care how long it takes. I don’t care what it costs. You’re going to rest, and I’m going to fix this—you—with my own hands, piece by piece.”

And when he stands, it’s not the usual slow menace or calculated power.

It’s reverent.

He lifts you—not like someone injured. Like something sacred. And when he carries you out of the room, wrapped in warmth and silence, there is no doubt in your mind:

Sylus will not let go again.

Not even if time itself tries to take you.

💜 Caleb

You aren’t even halfway through when it hits him.

Not like a punch. Not like a wound.

Like an organ failing.

He blinks once. Twice. And then nothing. No movement. No breath. Just silence.

Then, quietly—almost absently—he mutters, “I’ll resign.”

You look up, startled, and the absurdity punches out of you in a short, cracked laugh.

It’s the wrong moment. Too sharp, too bitter. But it slices through the tension like a scalpel.

And still—he doesn't move.

His hands press against the table, white-knuckled. Not to steady himself—he isn’t swaying. He’s rigid. Locked. Like something in him has calcified to hold him upright.

“I’m not fit to lead,” he says, voice flat, low, scorched. “Not when I see betrayal in the only person I’ve ever trusted.”

Whatever breath of amusement you had left dissolves instantly.

“I didn’t just fail as someone who was supposed to protect you,” he adds. “I failed as your—” He stops. Chokes it down. His jaw clenches so hard you can hear the sound of his teeth grinding. “As your Caleb.”

And then—he moves.

Quick, purposeful. Gone in a flash. You hear the kettle filling, the sharp click of a drawer, the dull thud of something fragile hitting the counter too hard. The way he clutches at control would be laughable if it weren’t so violent.

Then the bathwater starts.

Hot. Too hot. He’s not measuring anything. Just pouring. He throws open the cabinet, snatches towels, drops one, curses.

When he returns—his phone is in hand. “I’ll call Dr. Navik. I want a full neurocardiac scan, and we need to rule out—”

He stops. Mid-sentence. Thumb poised over the screen.

You don’t say a word. You just watch as something slows in him. As if time, for once, is merciful.

He lowers the phone. Turns toward you.

His voice—when it comes—isn't clipped or cold or distant. It's frighteningly gentle.

“Pip-squeak.”

He kneels before you, as if he’s afraid standing over you might shatter what little is left between you.

When he reaches out, it’s so slow. So reverent. The back of his fingers graze your cheekbone, barely there. Not because he doubts you—but because he doubts himself.

“How do you actually feel?” he whispers. “Not what I can fix. Not what the scans will say. Just you.”

You breathe. Only once. It shakes.

“Like roadkill,” you murmur. Then softer, almost smiling: “A hot bath wouldn’t hurt. And sleep. Maybe a week of it.”

Your faint attempt at a smile breaks him.

Not loudly. Not outwardly. He doesn’t cry. But something in his face folds in on itself, like it’s suddenly too heavy to wear. He draws a slow, trembling breath.

“I accused you,” he says, and now his voice is wrong. Hoarse. Quiet. Dismantled. “I accused you of being with someone else. After you went through six weeks of hell.”

You try to speak. He doesn’t let you.

“I thought you left me,” he says, and this time his voice cracks—just barely, but it’s there. A faultline in steel. His eyes are on the floor now, unfocused, as if he’s speaking to ghosts.

“I believed you would.”

His breath falters, like the truth is costing him oxygen.

“That it made sense. That I wasn’t enough.”

A pause. His throat works hard around the next words.

“Or worse—too much.”

His hand curls into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white. Not from anger. From restraint. From the effort not to collapse under the weight of everything he’s never said.

“That you’d finally find someone who doesn’t smother you with love that borders on obsession.”

He shifts, like his own skin is too tight. His jaw clenches. His eyes squeeze shut for half a second before he forces them open again, forces himself to keep looking at you—even if it kills him.

“Someone who wouldn’t try to chain you close,” he whispers, “just because he’s too selfish to breathe without you.”

He looks at you now—really looks—and the devastation in his gaze is endless.

His voice breaks on the last word.

“Someone who wasn’t… me.”

And for a moment, he’s not a soldier. Not a leader. Not even a man.

He’s just Caleb. That boy who loved you before he had language for it. And who never stopped. Even when it ruined him.

His hands curl into fists against his knees.

“I interrogated you. Like a stranger. Like a traitor. And all the while you were trapped—alone, dying, fighting—and I was worried about your silence in my bed.”

A breath. And another. Like he’s drowning in air.

“I loved you before I even knew what that word meant,” he whispers. “I carried it for years, swallowed it, starved it. I told myself it was wrong. Forbidden. And the moment I finally had you—really had you—I destroyed it with my own hands.”

He doesn’t look at you. Not until your fingers find his.

Then he shudders. And looks up.

“You always forgave me,” he says, voice breaking now. “Even when I didn’t deserve it. But this time… if you don’t. If you can’t…”

His hand trembles in yours.

“…I’ll understand.”

You shake your head. Just once.

And in that second—he folds into you, arms curling around your waist, forehead pressed to your stomach like a prayer he doesn’t believe he deserves to say out loud.

When he finally carries you to the bath, it’s not in silence. He keeps murmuring things—small things, promises, broken confessions, names only he calls you. He doesn’t try to be strong. He only tries to be there.

And when you’re finally in bed again, drowsy and warm, you find him already beside you. Fully clothed, facing the ceiling, his hand resting on the sheets between you like a lifeline.

You whisper his name.

He turns his head, eyes dim in the dark.

You reach for him, and he comes to you instantly, without hesitation. He lies down beside you, and when you press your head to his chest, he exhales like it’s the first real breath he’s taken in years.

His hand strokes your hair once.

And then, quiet—so quiet it almost isn’t real—

“I’ll never be the same.”

You don’t respond.

Because you both know it’s true.

And because you both know he doesn’t want to be.

[saintobio]

THE COLONEL'S KEEPER.

in a war-torn world where survival is a privilege, you never expected to become the object of a feared colonel’s obsession. but as whispers of his lost love haunt your every moment and bullets become the least of your worries, you realize that falling for him might be the most dangerous battle of all.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. heavy angst, smut, historical au, 18+

➤ tags. colonel!caleb, nurse!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, war times, unrequited love, profanity, violence, loveless sex, explicit smut, mentions of sexual assault (not from caleb), obsession, possessiveness, jealousy, injuries, blood, killings, morally gray dynamics, death. themes contain material that are heavy and disturbing—reader discretion is strongly advised.

➤ notes. 8.3k wc. divider by thecutestgrotto. this is heavily inspired by my other gojo fic s.o.s and the manhwa my beloved oppressor :) couldn’t stop thinking about this au for caleb that i had to just write it :’D reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!

➤ next. 002 the colonel’s saint | colonel caleb playlist

The world above was long dead. Ruins of cities stood as monuments to a past civilization, swallowed by the aftermath of World War VI. Beneath the surface, buried in a labyrinth of steel and stone, was where the remaining humanity clung to survival. Here, Colonel Caleb was both a savior and a nightmare—a man whose presence alone sent shivers down the spines of even the most battle-hardened soldiers.

But he was not just any soldier—he was the fleet’s best fighter pilot, a legend in the skies before the war even forced them underground. Even now, when the remnants of humanity relied on aerial supremacy to hold off their enemies, Caleb was the one they turned to. The one who led the most dangerous missions, who never failed, who returned even when others didn’t. 

You have loved him for as long as you could remember.

You were a humble nurse, stitching together broken bodies, whispering soft reassurances to the wounded. Your duty was simple yet relentless, saving as many lives as you could with the limited resources and skill at your disposal. You weren’t the best, nor did you claim to be, but you were one of the few who refused to surrender to despair, even as the war bled your world dry. While others faltered under the gravity of endless suffering, you endured. And after a year of tending to fallen soldiers and civilians, you remained steadfast. You were the only one among your female colleagues who hadn’t lost herself to the horrors of war.

That was how you met him. 

Caleb was the fleet’s toughest and most formidable leader. He was unyielding and merciless to those who dared cross him. Even with his own people, he remained strict, and his resolve never wavered even in the face of devastating losses. But the night he staggered into the private ward, wounded and bleeding out, you were the first to reach him. You ensured he was cared for, your hands steady as you fought to keep him alive. 

“You’ll make it through the night, sir.” You could still remember the desperation in your voice as you tightened the tourniquet around his broken arm, fighting to stop the bleeding. “I’ll make sure of it.”

He lay there, teeth clenched, body tense with pain, every breath labored. “If I die, I die.” 

“No!” you shot back, your grip firm with determination. “Not tonight. You will live. We’re rooting for you, sir. The people need you.”

They said falling in love during wartime was a surefire path to heartbreak. Yet, meeting Caleb, seeing beyond his striking exterior, and loving him despite the battles—both on the field and within—was a fight you willingly embraced. You surrendered yourself to him without hesitation, and in return, the hardened soldier who was weary from war found solace in you. He called you the prettiest nurse in the ward, but to him, you were far more than that. You were the one thing he never saw coming. 

You were the apple of his eyes. 

But, of course, the other nurses didn’t take kindly to that. They resented how you had unknowingly ruined their chances with him, and even more so, how an undeniable favoritism began to surface. While they were left to sleep in rusty bunk beds, you were the one Caleb brought to his private quarters, where the sheets were soft, the air was warm, and food was abundant.

It was easy for them to judge. After all, rumors spread like wildfire about the nurse who shared the colonel’s bed. The gossip wasn’t confined to just the nurses; it reached the soldiers who eyed you whenever you passed, their gazes lingering with knowing smirks as if fantasizing what their colonel saw at night. Even the older civilians bore disapproving glances whenever they saw you. Their silent verdict was clear as day. You were seen as a woman who had traded her virtue for privilege. A harlot draped in a white uniform. A disgrace hiding behind the pretense of care.

You weren’t sure if Caleb knew about it, but it was impossible not to. He simply didn’t care because he had an entire nation to think about. Clearing your name was the least of his concerns. And you knew it. After two years of serving as a war nurse, when night fell, you were simply the woman Caleb claimed as his. A common-law partner, nothing more. He never made promises, never told you that you were the only one in his heart. Because you weren’t. That space belonged to another—the woman he had truly loved. The woman he had lost to war.

His wife.

You tried. You tried to live with the ghost between you, tried to endure the way his fingers sometimes trembled against your skin, as if remembering someone else. You tried to pretend that when he held you, it was because he wanted you, not because he needed something to numb the ache inside him.

But love, when unreciprocated, was a slow and agonizing death. 

And all you could do was live with it for as long as you were with him.

Because one day, you knew he could love you the same. And one day, when the war ends, you would be in his arms, building your life together with your kids playing freely and no longer living in fear. 

For now, you had to endure what came your way. There are no saints in war times, and patience was a virtue at times like these. 

The sharp scent of antiseptic filled your nose as you moved swiftly through the underground ward, checking pulses, changing dressings, and murmuring reassurances to the wounded who groaned in pain one after another. It was just another day in the relentless cycle of war, patching up soldiers only to send them back out to die.

Then you heard him.

Colonel Caleb’s commanding voice felt like an alarm to everyone in the ward as he strode down the hall, flanked by his army of men. You weren’t even looking, but you could picture the way they walked, with Caleb at the front, exuding effortless authority, and the others keeping pace just slightly behind him.

“The turbine failed mid-air,” one of his officers reported. “Preliminary analysis suggests a mechanical fault. Possibly a lubrication issue in the main rotor bearings.”

“Or sabotage,” another interjected grimly.

Caleb didn’t slow his steps. “Has the wreckage been recovered?”

“Scouts are en route, sir. We should have an assessment within the hour.”

“Too late,” Caleb muttered. “If they hit us now, we’ll have one less bird in the sky. Reassign Squadron Echo to cover the eastern perimeter. Deploy anti-air artillery in sector four, and keep the missile launchers primed.”

“Yes, sir.”

Just then, a distant explosion rumbled aboveground, rattling the dim lights overhead. You even had to hold onto one of the cabinet doors to steady yourself. A fighter jet had gone down.

“Damn it.” One of the officers pulled out a small tablet, scanning over the mission logs. “Pilot’s confirmed dead. They’re already moving in on the wreckage. We need reinforcements at the north trench.”

Caleb barely hesitated. “Send Private Halloway to the front lines.”

“Roger that.”

His words were sharp and clinical. No emotion. Just another name spoken into a void, another body to be thrown into the fray. 

Your hands stilled over a soldier’s bandages. Halloway. You recognized that name.

The same Halloway who had leaned a little too close when you handed him his rations. The one who had brushed a stray lock of hair from your face and smirked, murmuring something about how the battlefield could use more beauty like yours. The kind of beauty that he fantasized at night. 

And now he was being sent to die.

A strange thrill coiled in your stomach. Caleb had heard about it. Or he might even have seen. It was a foolish and delusional thought, dangerous even, but you clung to the fact that this was surely his way of claiming you.

As his group passed, your pulse quickened. You turned slightly, letting your gaze linger on him. Tall. Unshaken. Unreachable. This was your man. He was yours and you were his. 

You smiled as soon as he saw you, just a little, as if sharing a secret only the two of you understood.

But Caleb didn’t stop. He simply looked away. His eyes remained fixed ahead, his expression unreadable, and in a matter of seconds, he was gone. Nothing more than the cold air that he often carried. 

~~

Steam curled in the dimly lit room as you stepped out of the shower, water forming in rivulets against your skin. The underground base was always cold, but in Caleb’s quarters, the warmth always stayed. Not just because he had his own luxury of a fireplace, but because the warmth also included faint traces of him in the air, in the sheets, and in the ghost of his presence.

Not that it mattered. You were just emotional because he hadn’t been here in three days.

Sighing, you wrapped a towel around yourself, already resigning to another night alone. But just as you reached for your comb, the door swung open with a slow and deliberate creak.

You froze.

Caleb stood in the doorway, his uniform dusted with dirt and gunpowder. His sleeves were rolled up, veins prominent on his forearms and tension coiling in his stance. His gaze flicked over your damp skin, bare shoulders, the towel barely clinging to your body.

You let a small smile play on your lips. “You finally remembered where your bed is?” you teased, stepping closer. “I was starting to think you found another.”

He didn’t respond. Just shut the door behind him with a quiet click.

And the thick, suffocating silence stretched as he began removing his shoes. You took this moment to clear your throat. “I heard about Halloway,” you murmured, tilting your head. “People are saying you sent him to a death sentence.” A pause, then a knowing smile. “Did you do that for me?”

The shift was instant. And it wasn’t what you pictured in your head. 

Before you could react, Caleb was in front of you, his body pressing you back until your spine hit the cold wall. His hand gripped your jaw firmly, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes. They were dark, smoldering, and unreadable. This was the version of Caleb that everyone was afraid of. 

“You worried ‘bout him?” His voice had a dangerous edge lacing each word.

While you, your breath hitched, fingers curling into the towel. “N-No.” 

“You think I didn’t hear?” His grip on your jaw tightened just enough to make you gasp. “The way he talked to you? The way you smiled at him? Handsome guy, isn’t he?”

You denied everything he was saying. You knew one of his officers had been feeding him information, but they seemed twisted to make you out as someone you weren’t. Were they trying to turn him against you? “No, darling. That’s not true. In fact, I can’t even stand him.” 

His lips curled, but there was no humor in it. “I have eyes and ears everywhere, Y/N.” He leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek. “And if I catch you entertaining anyone else again, I won’t just send them to die.”

A shiver ran down your spine—fear, thrill, or perhaps something darker twisting deep inside you. His warning did what it was supposed to do: to scare the hell out of you. But the most dangerous part was how much you enjoyed it all. 

And then, before you could even form a response, he pushed you towards the bed. 

By the time you looked back at him in surprise, he was already unbuttoning his shirt, looking at you merely as an object of his desire. “Strip off,” he growled, face rigid as ever. “The past few days were damn stressful. Been thinkin’ of you naked all day.” 

And so, your nightly duties began. Caleb demanded his reward, and you were too foolishly in love that you surrendered to him without hesitation. 

Because as unhinged as his obsession seemed, it ignited something deep within you. The thought of Caleb claiming you as his prize, something he craved at the end of each brutal day, sent the most passionate fire through your veins. That the same man who barely spared you a glance in daylight was the one who burned with desperation to have you all to himself at nighttime.

“I missed you,” you whispered as you slowly unraveled your bare body in front of him, dropping the damp towel on the floor. Not once did you break eye contact, and it was the sexiest thing you had ever experienced in your life.

As for him, he had already rid himself of his clothes. They were a pile on the floor, discarded lazily as he pinned you down. First, he went for your lips. Completely devouring, savoring your taste, and dominating every inch of your mouth. The moment his tongue connected with yours, he deepened the kiss—a little too rough, too desperate that you could barely breathe. 

“M-My love,” you gasped, the only time he allowed you to catch your breath was when he was positioning himself between your legs. And then he crashed his lips onto yours once more, enjoying how you moaned against his lips, exchanging warm breaths as he explored your mouth. The kiss was so intense that you barely noticed the feeling of his hardened member pressing against your leg. It felt huge and hard as a rock, a clear sign that he had been wanting a good release for the past few days. And you? You were crazy about it. You had seen his member plenty of times before, but nothing excited you more than feeling it inside. 

That wasn’t his agenda for now, though. He took his sweet time trailing kisses along your collarbone, leaving purple marks around your neck, before he feasted on the same breast he had been kneading for more than a minute. You could feel your back arching as your body naturally responded to his touch, with your own hand guiding him to massage your other mound. He nibbled on the nipple, sucking and licking around the nub, then moving to give the other the same amount of attention. 

He was like a hungry beast that hadn’t eaten for weeks. With the way he squeezed your tits together and running his tongue along the cleavage, you could already feel yourself dripping down there. 

“C-Caleb.”

“Hm?” He didn’t pull away. Instead, he crawled down, spreading your legs apart, and eyeing the swollen lips that he was about to demolish. “Wet already?” 

You nodded, looking down at him and watching as he pressed his fingers along the slit, sliding and circling his digits on your entrance. “Mmh—that’s…” 

“Be patient now,” he mocked, “Aren’t you so needy?” 

That was true, but how could you help it? How could you not want him inside if you could see him stroking his pulsing cock while he was using his other hand to play with your clit? Just when you thought you couldn’t go crazier, he eventually sucked his digits to taste your slick, then he returned them back to your entrance, only this time, entering without warning. 

“A-Aah!”

His fingers alone could make your legs shake, and whatever he was reaching for inside you was making you weaker by the second. You were a moaning mess under him, hands clenching on his sheets for dear life as he fingered your cunt like there was no tomorrow. It was only a matter of seconds until you disintegrated in front of him—your legs trembling as your fluid released itself in a series of squirts. 

Embarrassed as you may be, it was what Caleb wanted to see. 

And he didn’t let you rest before he was already positioning his crotch on your face, his hand holding his cock in place as he slapped his swollen tip against your lips. “My turn,” he spoke in a low voice, smirking as you wrapped your shaky hand around his shaft and let your tongue swirl around his bulging pink head. You could taste the precum on his tip, licking every corner and every ridge under, from his balls back to his tip before you swallowed him entirely. 

“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, pulling your hair as you bobbed your head on his cock, enveloping the warm walls of your mouth around his member as if you were milking him of his cum. Your eyes welled with tears as you fought the urge to gag despite feeling the tip of his cock repeatedly hitting your throat. Each and every moan he released made you more determined to please him, to be called a good girl, to be wanted. 

You could feel it. With how his cock was twitching inside your mouth, he was about to explode. But he didn’t let it happen. Everything happened in a span of a second when he pulled his member from your mouth before opening your core and slamming his cock into your pussy. 

His thick, hard cock stretched you open without mercy. And he didn’t slow down or savor the time. He was ramming into you, hands holding your hips in place while your tits bounced wildly. Caleb’s sweat was starting to trickle along his toned upper body, his abs now glistening as he continued to pound into you endlessly. 

“I’d fuck you everyday like this if I can,” he grunted, each word came out raspy. “You like that?” 

“Y-Yes! A-Aaah!” You struggled to form coherent words as he hit your sweetest spot at each hard thrust. “C-Caleb.” 

The walls were thin. But surely, the colonel’s private quarters would have some sort of soundproofing, otherwise it would be embarrassing how loud the skin-slapping and squelching noises you two were making. It didn’t help that you were practically screaming as Caleb started increasing his speed as he chased his climax. Your walls were clenching around his girth, milking him of his load that he soon spurted inside of you. 

You were in a battle of catching each other’s breaths as he pulled out, watching his cum seep out of your cunt before he plopped on the bed next to you. 

“Take the pill as soon as you wake up,” he ordered, laying on his back as he closed his eyes. His chest rose up and down as he eventually caught his breath. 

But you remained a ragdoll beside him, your lower body still twitching from the intense orgasm and muscle memory. “O-Okay.” 

The night was supposed to end romantically. It was supposed to be you and him cuddling and declaring your love for each other, but the thought of him only using your body to relieve himself was torture to your mind. You convinced yourself it meant something more, something deeper. 

But the hard truth was, you were only there to fill the silence.

You traced lazy circles over his bare chest, your voice soft yet full of devotion. “I’m all yours, Caleb. Only yours.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “I know.”

~~

The next morning, the bed beside you was cold.

You reached out instinctively, your fingers brushing against the empty sheets where Caleb should have been. But there was nothing—no warmth, no lingering presence, just the stark reality that he hadn’t even stayed.

But you told yourself you just had to get used to it and that Caleb would come wanting you again at night. Like he always did. And so, biting back the hollow ache in your chest, you forced yourself up, got dressed, and headed to the mess hall for breakfast. 

The moment you stepped in, you felt it.

Eyes. Watching. Judging.

The low murmurs didn’t stop as you walked past the rows of civilians, soldiers, and nurses, pretending not to notice the whispers that followed you. You kept your chin up and sat down with your tray, forcing yourself to eat the stale bread despite the tightness in your throat.

You had no illusions about what they were saying. They all thought they knew what you were or what you did. Caleb’s woman. His plaything. And after last night, they had even more reason to talk.

But you had work to do.

By midday, you were back in the ward, slipping into your role as if nothing had changed. Patients needed tending to, and you weren’t about to let their petty gossip stop you.

At least there was something to occupy yourself with. They brought in a new soldier to the base, barely back from the front lines if you could add. His face was gaunt, sunken with pain, sweat beading on his forehead as he lay on the cot. His leg was in ruins—shattered bones, torn muscle, the kind of injury that didn’t fully heal in wartime. 

You approached him carefully, offering a calm, practiced smile. “I’m here to help—”

His reaction was instant. It was as though you were the trigger to a ticking time bomb. His eyes, bloodshot and wild, snapped to you, and before you could blink, his hands already shot out, grabbing at you with a strength you didn’t expect.

“You—!” he snarled, his fingers digging into your arms, nails raking against your skin as he yanked you forward. “You whore—you whore!”

You gasped, struggling against his grip, but he was fueled by pain and rage, his voice hoarse with accusation. “Ow! P-Please!” 

“You ruin men like us! You—you—get innocent soldiers sent to die!” His nails scratched at your cheek, his grip tightening as he shook you. “You’re the reason Halloway’s gone—!”

The words hit like a slap, but before he could do more, hands were on him. And on you. Other soldiers rushed in, prying him off you, restraining him as he thrashed against the cot. 

“Stand down, soldier!” one barked.

You stumbled back, breath coming fast, your skin stinging where he had just scratched you.

But the worst part wasn’t the pain.

It was the way the nurses across the ward just watched. Their gazes were cold, as if saying you deserved it. Not a single one had moved to help.

You couldn’t understand the hostility. Couldn’t fathom why people looked at you with such disdain. If it had been another woman in your place, would they have treated her the same? All you had done was love a man—nothing more, nothing less. You weren’t trying to hurt anyone. You simply fell in love.

But as you locked yourself in the bathroom, staring at your reflection while washing the bloody scratches from your cheek, that was when the realization struck.

They didn’t respect you because Caleb never had.

Not once had he claimed you in public, never shown his affection where others could see. He had never treated you like someone worth honoring, never given you the respect you deserved. And if the leader of this war-torn world didn’t respect you—why would anyone else?

The thought alone made your eyes well with tears, but you quickly washed them away. No. You refused to doubt. He loves me. He’d even kill for me.

A sudden knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. You opened it hesitantly, only to find Simone standing there. The only female soldier with a rank high enough to command real respect. At first, you assumed she was just waiting for the restroom, but the way she looked at you said otherwise.

“You got a minute?” she asked, her tone cool and unreadable.

You hesitated before nodding. “Yeah… sure.”

~~

The storage room was cold and dimly lit by the single flickering bulb overhead. Dust clung to the forgotten crates, and the faint scent of metal and oil lingered in the air. Hardly anyone came here as it was a place for old supplies and broken equipment, not whispered conversations.

And yet, here you were, in the only room without surveillance. 

Simone leaned against one of the crates, arms crossed as he narrowed her eyes at you. “You need to end things with Caleb.”

You stiffened instantly. “Excuse me?” 

She sighed, rubbing her temples as if she had already anticipated your reaction. “This thing between you and him, you know it isn’t healthy. Not for you. Not for him.”

You scoffed. Who does she think she is? “You don’t know anything about us.”

“I know more than you think,” she shot back. “I know what kind of man Caleb is. What he’s become.”

You folded your arms, defensive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. All I know is that he cares about me.”

“Cares about you?” Simone let out a humorless chuckle. “Do you even know what he’s done? How many men he’s killed just for looking at you?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out.

“Five soldiers. And counting,” she continued coldly. “Some he sent straight to the gas chambers. Others? He had them tortured in ways I wouldn’t even wish on our enemies. And all because they made the mistake of mentioning how beautiful you are.”

You felt the blood drain from your face. “B-But that’s because he wants to protect me. That’s just how he loves.”

Simone watched you carefully before she sighed again, her voice softening this time. “This isn’t love, Y/N. You don’t know Caleb… I don’t even know if he’s capable of loving again.”

What does she mean?

“He wasn’t always like this,” she continued, almost nostalgic as if he had seen another version of Caleb that you hadn’t. “Before the war. Before his wife died. He was kind. Gentle. A man who knew the difference between power and cruelty.” She hesitated, then admitted, “She was my colleague. And my friend. Caleb’s childhood sweetheart, his true love, and his whole life. He loved her sincerely, so much so that he was fighting to make the world better for her. Not destroy it. But seeing him right now, she would’ve hated what he’s become.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides. Everything she had just mentioned shot a bullet straight to your heart, but you refused to let it kill you. You refused, denied. No! 

“You can’t replace her,” Simone added, her words cutting through you like a knife. “No matter how much you try. So I suggest you leave him before it destroys you.”

~~

The door to Caleb’s private quarters slammed open as you stormed inside, your blood boiling, your mind a haze of rage and betrayal. You couldn’t stop Simone’s words from echoing in your head even if you tried hard enough. You can’t replace her. She’s his true love. His whole life. 

“No.” Adamantly did you shake your head. “Stop.” 

He loved her sincerely. And still does. 

Your breath came in ragged gasps as you yanked at the blankets, overturned chairs, kicked over the table. The frustration inside you was begging to be released, and destruction was the only thing that made sense. How could you get extremely jealous over a dead person? You laughed in your head. She was dead. She was gone. Good for her. But despite the constant reminder to yourself that the woman you were jealous of didn’t exist anymore, you knew that you could never erase the fact that you would still never amount to her. And you hated it. You hated her! 

In your rage, you didn’t even realize you had grabbed one of his jackets from the pile of discarded uniforms until something tumbled out of the pocket.

A necklace.

It landed with a soft metallic clink against the floor. It was a simple chain, worn with age, with two wedding bands strung together. Your stomach twisted as you picked it up, seeing the engraving was delicate but unmistakable. It had Caleb’s name and hers.

Your hands trembled.

She was still here. She had never left. Not in his heart, not in his mind. He carried her with him, even now, even after all the ways he had made you believe you were his.

Something inside you snapped, as though you were a madwoman who had finally lost her sanity. Like Caleb always said, that ‘there are no saints in wartimes’. So, what was stopping you from going all out? She needed to be destroyed. She needed to be forgotten. In your desperation to search for more pieces of her, you lurched toward his drawers, pulling them open and shoving things aside. Your promise to never touch his things? Forgotten.

That was when you saw a wooden box, hidden beneath neatly folded uniforms.

You yanked it out, prying it open with shaking hands—only to find it stuffed with letters. Some yellowed with time, others crisp as if he had reread them over and over. Her handwriting. Her words. Her love, immortalized in ink.

My Dearest Caleb, If I close my eyes, I can still see you standing on the shoreline, hands in your pockets, pretending you’re not waiting for me. But I always knew. You were never good at hiding how much you loved me. Are you eating well? Have you been sleeping? I know you’ll lie if I ask you in person, but in a letter, you can’t hide from me. And I worry, darling. I always do. I miss the way you hold me before you leave. I miss the way you kiss my hair, thinking I don’t notice how long you linger there. I miss the way you look at me like I’m the only thing in this world worth coming back to. Sometimes I wonder… do you know how much I love you? Do you feel it, even when we’re apart? I hope you do. I hope it’s enough to keep you warm when the nights are cold, to keep you safe when danger is near. Come back to me soon, my love. The house is too quiet without you. And when you do, I’ll be right here, waiting. Just like always. Forever yours, Your wife

A strangled sob tore from your throat.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t. You just couldn’t. 

Through hot tears and reckless fury, you grabbed the box and flung it into the fireplace without regard. All her letters spilled out, each and every one of them catching flame within seconds. And you didn’t hesitate to throw the necklace soon after, letting it vanish into the fire with a dull shimmer.

You stood there, watching the flames devour every trace of her. Of them.

“You’re gone,” you let out a mirthless laugh, wiping the tears that followed after. “You’re gone! Leave him alone!” 

Your entire body trembled at the thought, your chest undulating in heavy breaths. Then, as if realizing what you had done, you collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly at the fire.

The anger was gone.

Replaced by the terrifying thought of what Caleb would do when he came home. 

~~

The FY-26 cut through the sky like a phantom with its sleek titanium frame reflecting the nautical glow of the setting sun. It was the most powerful fighter jet in the fleet; faster, deadlier, a mechanical beast designed for war. And only one person from the DAA was given the honor to pilot it. 

Caleb gripped the throttle, voice steady as he spoke into his comms. “Specter-01 to Specter-02, enemy reconnaissance spotted at 2 o’clock, altitude 15,000 feet. Adjust trajectory and prepare for engagement.”

“Copy that, Specter-01,” came the reply of his fellow fighter pilot. “Visual confirmed. Awaiting further orders.”

Caleb’s gaze flicked to the horizon, where a lone aircraft hovered in the distance. He could hear the chatter of enemy comms scrambling to react, but for a moment, his focus drifted.

Below him, a small, crescent-shaped island came into view. His grip on the controls instantly tightened.

He knew this place.

The memory surfaced like a ghost from another life—of a time when war wasn’t all he knew. When he had taken her here, flying low so she could see the crystalline waves shimmering under the sun. He had told her to look down, to read the words he had carved into the sand earlier in the day.

"Will you marry me?"

He could still hear her laughter, the way it had crackled through the radio before she screamed yes over the comms, her excitement drowning out all other noise. His adorable pipsqueak. Her beautiful smile, her sparkling eyes… 

Caleb exhaled sharply, forcing himself back into the present. “I miss you, my love.”

That was a lifetime ago. She was a lifetime ago.

His eyes darkened as he thought of his new reality—you. You weren’t her. Not in the way you spoke, the way you carried yourself, the way you looked at him with that foolish devotion. But maybe… maybe he should stop pretending that it mattered.

Maybe he should just settle with what he had left.

You were still there waiting for him. A woman who, despite all odds, loved him with reckless abandon. The same woman who cried on the night he was on his deathbed, doing everything in her might to make sure he lived. And though he could never give you what he once gave another, he knew you’d still smile, even just from the smallest things.

A glance. A touch. A mere kiss from him, and your entire world lit up.

His hands flexed against the controls.

“Specter-02, engage the target. I’m circling back to base.”

Because tonight, maybe he’d give you something to smile about.

~~

The moment Caleb stepped into his quarters, he could tell something was wrong.

The air alone was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, an unusual warmth persisting as dying embers crackled weakly in the fireplace. His gaze swept over the room—furniture askew, drawers flung open, papers and personal belongings scattered across the floor. His gut twisted. It was like a crime scene. Like something vital had been gutted from this space.

Then, his eyes landed on you.

Curled up on the floor, body trembling, and your arms wrapped around yourself like a feeble shield. Your shoulders shook through stifled sobs, but the moment your tear-streaked face lifted to meet his gaze, everything inside him snapped.

His heart slammed against his ribs, a foreign pressure crushing his chest as his vision tunneled straight to the fireplace.

No. No, no, no, no!

It was as if his vision blurred, as if there was a deafening ringing overtaking his ears as he stormed forward, shoving past the mess to get to the source of his rage. The flames had long since died, leaving behind nothing but fragile wisps of ash. But even in its destruction, he recognized what it used to be.

Burned letters.

A melted necklace, the twisted remains of two rings fused together.

The last pieces of her.

His wife.

His breath left him in a sharp, ragged exhale, his lungs refusing to pull in air as scorching rage flooded every nerve in his body.

“You,” he seethed. Your name didn’t even make it past his lips. The word was a knife, laced with something lethal, something beyond fury. His boots pounded against the wooden floor as he closed the distance between you, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles went white. “I’d fucking kill you! What the fuck have you done?!”

You flinched, your body recoiling as if his voice had physically struck you. “Caleb—”

“Shut up!” His hand shot out, gripping your arm down to the bone, yanking you up with enough force that your legs nearly gave out beneath you. “Do you have any fucking idea what you just did?” 

“I—I didn’t mean to… I wasn’t thinking straight—” you choked out, shaking your head frantically, eyes wide with panic.

“Didn’t mean to?” He let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound so devoid of warmth it sent chills down your spine. Before you could react, he was already shoving you back against the nearest wall, his arms caging you in, his breath hot with rage as it fanned against your skin. His eyes were cold, piercing, murderous, menacing.

“You burned her letters, our rings,” he said, each syllable aiming to intimidate you. “Destroyed the only damn thing I had left of her! And for what?!”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as you tried to shake your head, tried to explain, but your throat was too tight, your breath too uneven. Caleb’s gaze alone was enough to make your entire body tremble. But you had to try. “I was hurt, Caleb,” you finally sobbed, the words tumbling out like a plea. “I—I just wanted you to forget her. I wanted you to see me!” 

“Forget her?” His jaw clenched. His grip tightened on your wrist, the pressure just shy of bruising. “You think you could ever replace her? You think you have any fuckin’ right to want anything from me? That you could be anything more than a pathetic substitute?”

The words sliced through you like a blade, carving through every delusion you had ever let yourself believe.

Yet… you had nothing left to lose.

“I love you,” you whispered, broken, desperate. “Caleb, I love you… Please. I’ll be everything you need. I’ll offer everything I have and more. Just… just forget about her.”

For a terrifying second, you thought he might actually hit you.

But then, just as fast as it came, he wrenched himself away from you, staggering back as though you were the thing poisoning him. It hurt. It hurt like hell to see the way he rid himself of you as he ran a hand through his hair, his fingers itching to wreck you. 

“...Caleb.” 

“...I’m sorry, Caleb.” 

“...I love you, Caleb.”

No matter how desperately you fought to win his heart, his voice remained eerily calm when he finally spoke.

“Get the hell out of my sight.”

You stood frozen, barely able to process the words. “B-But—”

“I said GET THE FUCK OUT!” His roar thundered through the room, rattling your entire being like an insect in a heavy storm. 

You swallowed down the sob threatening to rise up your throat, willing yourself to move—to breathe—as you staggered toward the door. Your fingers curled around the handle, and for a split second, you let yourself hope for him to stop you. To say something. Anything.

But all he did was stare at you with a gaze so cold, so hollow, it made your heart cave in on itself.

And then, his final words were more merciless than you thought. 

“You wanna play with fire?” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll throw you out into the front lines soon enough. See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”

A strangled gasp left your lips, your vision blurring with fresh tears.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t think.

And for the first time since you met him, you realized that no matter how much love you poured into him, Caleb had none left to give.

~~

He stayed true to his words. 

The front lines were nothing short of hell. Explosions tore through the sky, painting it in hues of orange and black. The ground trembled beneath relentless bombardments, screams of the wounded and dying mixing with the fusillade of gunfire. It was chaos. It was pure, unfiltered war.

And you were in the heart of it.

Thrown into the battlefield as nothing more than a discarded afterthought, yet you worked tirelessly, tending to the broken, the dying, the ones who begged for mercy even when there was nothing left to give. Blood soaked your uniform, stained your hands, and for the first time since you had arrived at this forsaken place, you realized Caleb was never coming to rescue you. That this wasn’t as simple as temporary punishment where he could rescue you back to the base the moment he saw that you had already paid for your sins. 

You had been foolish to think otherwise. Because the punishment was greater than the crime. 

Day after day, you watched the planes soar overhead, wondering if one of them carried him. If maybe, just maybe, he’d glance down and remember you. That he’d order someone to retrieve you, to take you home.

But no one came.

Not even him.

And just when you thought it couldn’t get worse—the enemy arrived.

You barely had time to react before the camp was raided, soldiers storming in with brutal efficiency. Screams filled the air—nurses, wounded soldiers, no one was spared. You tried to run, but hands—so many hands—gripped you, dragging you with them.

“No, please!” you sobbed, thrashing, digging your heels into the dirt. “Someone, help me!”

But the only response was the harsh, guttural laughter of the men dragging you away. You didn’t understand their language, but you understood them. The way their dark, hungry eyes lusted over your trembling form. The mocking smiles curling their lips. The way they spoke to each other, like you weren’t even human.

Like you were property.

One of them cupped your chin, tilting your face up with a sickening grin. “She’ll do nicely,” he murmured in a thick accent. 

Another joined in on the amusement. “A fitting pastime for the long nights ahead.”

A fresh wave of panic crashed over you, bile rising in your throat as you began to foresee your fate in their hands. Your fate as the enemy’s new plaything. 

“No—NO!” you shrieked, thrashing harder, your nails clawing at their arms. “Caleb! S-Someone, please!”

But no one came.

No one ever came.

That was when your real nightmare began.

They dragged you to their camp, a place so desolate, so devoid of mercy, that it made your previous suffering look like a fleeting dream. There was no hope here. No salvation.

Just pain.

The foreign army passed you from one to the next like you were nothing more than a worn-out relic of war. Their touch was greedy, using your body at their convenience, their grip bruising as they took what they wanted. They stripped you off everything; clothes, dignity, sanity. Sanity. Where is God in all of this?

Your mind drifted, escaping to anywhere else but there. You imagined a different life, a different fate. But the pain kept pulling you back. The jeers, the mocking laughter, the cruel hands that touched every inch of your skin reminding you over and over again that there was no escaping this. You felt dirty, felt disgusted of your own flesh, felt sick that you had to wake up each day living for only one and one purpose alone. 

You stopped counting the days.

Stopped screaming when they came for you.

You had nothing left.

Their cruelty settled deep within your bones, your spirit breaking piece by piece until all that remained was a hollow shell of who you used to be.

And the worst part?

He never came.

Caleb, the man who once whispered possessive threats in your ear, who swore no one else could have you, who claimed you as his prize—had abandoned you to this.

It was almost laughable. Truly spectacular. 

As you lay on the cold, your body too battered to move, you allowed yourself to accept the truth.

He never loved you.

He never would.

~~

Before you were a war nurse, you once interned as a nurse at Akso Hospital. Life was peaceful then. Even as whispers of an impending world war grew louder, there was an unshaken belief that your nation was too powerful to fall. No one dared to wage war on the strongest nation in the world. 

That was the world you knew—quiet, bathed in golden light. You stood in the familiar white halls of the medical facility, the place where it all began. Where you trained. Where you dreamed of making a difference.

Dr. Zayne stood before you, his crisp uniform as pristine as ever, his silver-rimmed glasses reflecting the medical abstract he had on hand. He had always been composed and steady. A true professional that you looked up to. He was the best cardiac surgeon there was, and everyone in the same field dreamed of working with him. Of becoming like him.

“You're ready for this,” he said, adjusting his gloves. “The war will test you, but your hands—” he reached out, taking yours in his own, running his thumb across your palm—“were meant to heal.”

You gripped his hands a little tighter. “What if I can’t save everyone?”

He thought for a moment before letting out a quiet sigh. “You won’t,” he agreed. “But you will save someone. And that will always matter.”

You felt your chest tighten. “Thank you for being a good mentor, Dr. Zayne. I hope to see you again someday.” 

The golden light around him began to fade, his figure growing distant, hazy, slipping through your fingers.

“Good luck, Y/N.”

It was the chilling air that woke you up from your dream. The icy breeze seeped into your bones, deeper than any wound, any bruise, any violation. Every inch of you ached, skin marred with purple and black, lips split and dry. Your body was no longer your own. It was something broken, something discarded.

You barely had the strength to keep your eyes open and every breath was a struggle as your ribs protested with each inhale. The faint scent of blood and sweat lingered around you, suffocating you. Killing you.

Somewhere in the distance, you heard voices—a noise.

A sharp crack split through the air, followed by a scream—short, cut off, wet. Then another. And another.

Gunfire.

Shouting.

The heavy thud of bodies hitting the ground.

You tried to move, but your limbs wouldn’t obey. The exhaustion of everything they had done to you pinned you down. Your pulse was sluggish, your vision swimming, but you could hear it—him. And the distinct roar of his rage. Perhaps it was your hallucination. After all, you had already lost your mind from this war. 

But one of the soldiers outside, his voice barely rising before it was cut off—a sickening gurgle of a sound, as if something sharp had torn straight through his throat. Gunfire erupted in rapid succession, followed by panicked shouts, orders barked in a language you barely understood, only for them to be silenced just as quickly. A storm was tearing through the camp. A massacre.

Then, the door was kicked open. A figure stood in the doorway, silhouetted against the moonlight.

You held your breath. 

The familiar combat boots. The bloodied gloves. The cold, murderous gleam of his eyes.

Caleb.

Your lips parted—half in disbelief, half in something uglier. Because now, after everything, after you had finally accepted that he was gone, he was here. His gaze was fixed on you, and something in his features cracked as he took in your state. Bruises. Cuts. The torn remains of your uniform that barely covered your violated body. His fingers twitched over the trigger of his gun.

Slowly, he took a step forward. And when he finally reached you, he knelt, his bloodstained hands brushing against your trembling form as if to confirm that you were real.

Why? Why now, Caleb?

You let out a broken sob, your body giving out as you collapsed into him, while his arms wrapped around you, holding you tightly and desperately.

It was for the first time since meeting him where he genuinely, unselfishly took you in his arms with fragile care. “I’m sorry. I’m here. I’m here now. I’ve killed every single one of ‘em for you,” he said in a tone so affectionate you almost wondered if it was a dream. “I’ll take you home. No one’s gonna touch you ever again. I promise.”

The irony, however, presented itself the moment Caleb touched you. Because rather than feeling a sense of relief in his own way of apologizing, a deep, all-consuming dread wrapped around your bones instead.

Because this wasn’t salvation. This wasn’t a rescue. This was a return to a different kind of prison.

Your battered body trembled in his grip as his presence, something you once ached for, now loomed over you like a cruel joke. You thought being here—being dragged through hell, used, and discarded—was the worst fate imaginable.

But, no.

The true horror was returning to Caleb.

Because you knew now. You finally understood. There was no future for you. Not in his arms. Not in this world. And the look in his eyes, that dangerous, unhinged gleam that he would never let you go. You were only going to submit yourself to a never ending cycle. Of pain. Of being unloved.

So before he could react, before he could drag you back into the nightmare of his possessive grasp, your trembling fingers wrapped around his gun.

His own gun. His own weapon.

For the first time, his cold, calculating gaze faltered, widening in shock as you tore it from his holster with the last of your strength. “Y/N—”

The barrel was already pressed to your temple. His hands lunged for you, fast, too fast—

BANG!

The world stilled.

Your body swayed before a slow, almost gentle descent to the ground. Caleb caught you before you could hit the dirt, but warm blood seeped between his fingers. His hands, the same hands that had killed and destroyed, now shook as they cradled you. “No! NOOO! Y/N!”

But it was too late.

You smiled with your red-stained lips. “You deserve to live a life where the women you love—” you coughed, blood bubbling at the edges of your lips as you said your last words, “leave you.”

[kukinkrim]

no demon is good enough for my sister!

saja boys x jinu's sister!reader (separate)

note: this prompt was sent via ask o(^o^)o i roughly translated it to english so i apologize if i got your request wrong TT

hell was a cruel, lonely place to be.

it wasn’t the the searing flames that littered across their lands, or the constant screams of souls in despair, or even the endless, crushing weight of torment.

no, it was the emptiness that got you. the kind that wrapped itself around your soul and whispered that you’re all alone. that no one in the surface remembers who you are and you are chained down in the pits of hell with broken memories to live by.

there was no sun in hell. no sky. the only thing that could come close to a sun is gwi-ma, a literal ball of flame, sitting on his throne as he relishes in the suffering of his people.

you forget who you were after a while.

perhaps, your brain hotwired itself in order to cope. maybe, the past was just too painful to be remembered.

that's when jinu found you.

he wasn’t much to look at back then—just another unfortunate thing that got too close to the sun—but he saw you.

you, this little scrap of a soul, barely hanging on, barely even remembering your own name. he didn’t ask why you were there as he knelt, took your hand, and said, “you don’t have to be alone anymore.”

maybe, you reminded him of his sister from his past life and wanted a chance at redemption. to do good now after abandoning his family for power.

no matter the reasons, though, you were grateful. you are jinu's sister now. not by blood, of course, but by choice.

no one in the mortal realm knew jinu had a sister; not even his members who spemt their days in hell with him. to be fair they just never cared enough to look for friends when they were literally suffering down there.

jinu didn’t go out of his way to hide it. it just never came up. in the chaos of their idol schedules, gwi-ma, not dying—the fact that he had someone to protect just didn’t get mentioned.

no secrets were bound to stay secrets. the members found out eventually, and it's taking every fiber in his being not to tear his hair from his scalp.

no demons are good enough for his little sister!

romance.

it started with flowers.

true to his name, romance was a romantic. he kept giving you flowers of various kinds. different shades of color now decorated your room. he would hand them to you with that usual smirk, winking like a walking cliché.

you didn’t expect him to say “i like you,” ome day, when he gives you a bouquet of red roses this time.

you really didn’t expect to like him back as much as you did.

and you definitely didn’t expect jinu to catch the two of you kissing behind the rehearsal room.

“WHAT?!”

you both jumped three feet apart. a hand sheepishly covering your mouth as you avoided eye contact with your brother.

“This is an INSULT to MY HONOR!” jinu shouted, clutching his head like the scandal physically wounded him. in fact, he wants to gouge out his eyes and wipe that shit-eating grin off of his bandmate's lips. “you—you kissed her?! WITH THAT FILTHY LIPS OF YOURS?”

“okay, wow,” romance blinked, trying not to laugh, yet still offended. “excuse you, i brush five times a day. that's atleast four times more than abby.”

“she’s my sister, you filthy no-good casanova demon!”

you tugged at your brother's sleeves, feeling a bit embarassed at his outburst now. romance didn't seem to mind, though, but you do. "jinu, please. we were just—”

instead of listening, the man only pulls you in a protective hug, smooshing your face against his hoodie. “no! no just! you want to court my sister? FINE. but you’re going to do it the right way. with letters. with dowries. with a goat sacrifice, like in the old days—”

“where the hell am i getting a goat!?”

"and then-" he emphasizes, glaring at romance. "and then i'd think about letting you hold her hand."

abby.

dating abby felt like dating a very energetic puppy.

he brought you snacks, took you on chaotic dates, and liked to make you laugh until your stomach hurt. on contrary to popular beliefs (cough his members cough) he was actually a very smart guy with great emotional intelligence.

abby absolutely adored you, following you around like a personal guard dog.

then he kissed you, one day, while in the middle of a grocery store run.

jinu was, somehow, also there. the single yogurt he was holding pops in his hand, fruit-glavored goo dripping down to the floor.

the silence was deafening.

"uh," abby blinks. "clean up in aisle three...?"

jinu doesn't seem to find it funny as he starts to sprint from the other end of the aisle towards where you both were.

“ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!”

abby panicked, flustered judging by the way his cheeks erupted into flames in an instant. “i didn’t mean to—it just—it was spontaneous show of affection!”

“you kissed her in public?! with tongue?!"

“not that much tongue!”

you were garnering attention from other shoppers at this point so you ended up covering your face in embarassment. "guys please, there was no tongue! let's leave!"

“THIS IS AN OUTRAGE.”

when you both got home, jinu was quick to drag abby in another room. maybe they talked? but abby gets throigh the door like a lost little puppy, staring at you with wide, pleading eyes.

jinu only ushers him out before you could speak. "i'll only allow pink holding. i see you putting that dirty lips anywhere near my sister and i'll stitch it close!"

mystery.

it was always subtle with mystery.

a brush of your hand. hanging out more than you usually do with other members. mystery was alot... more normal, so to speak, when it comes to you. he actually–actually, speaks. and smiles.

mystery didn't outright confessed though.

you didn’t even realize you were dating until he justnwhispered “mine” in your ear one day and kissed your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world.

you were flustered.

he wasn’t.

and jinu is on the doorframe, combusting.

“you let mystery–MYSTERY of all people date you?” jinu looks at you in disbelief as he points an accusatory finger at his bandmate. mystery only shrugs in return, not at all offended. “he doesn’t even talk in full sentences! how do you know his intentions?!”

"my intentions are passionate and pure," the said boy replies.

you swooned, clasping your hands together as you smiled. "see? that’s romantic.” jinu wishes he could just strangle that demon boy's neck here and now for brainwashing his little sister.

“THAT IS WHAT ALL SERIAL KILLERS SAY.”

"if it's any consolation, jinu, i’d never harm her. but i would harm for her.”

“see?” you glanced at jinu, smiling wide as if your boyfriend didn't just say the most insane thing ever. "he's romantic!"

“YOU’RE ALL INSANE.”

baby.

baby didn’t mean to fall for you.

he didn’t mean to let it happen. you were a kind soul. the kind of soul he was supposed to destroy, not hold in his arms like it was precious. he didn't think he deserve it, honestly.

and also, he'd rather not date his bandmate's sister. mostly because of how exhaisting it would be to go through all that protective brother thing, but he ended up falling for you anyway, despite his earlier statement.

one night, you fell asleep on his shoulder on the couch.

that's literally it.

then came the moment jinu walked into the living room and saw you curled up next to baby, asleep, his arm wrapped securely around you.

he was absolutely livid.

“you're deadmeat,” jinu muttered while he stalks towards his bandmate with his ryes glarimg through his soul.

“dude—” baby tried to pull away, but arms that were wrapped around hid torso orevented him from doing so. it would've been cute how you wouldn't let go if hr wasn't about to die by the hands of your brother.

“do you even know what it means to be in a relationship?! you can’t just—just snuggle your way into someone’s life!”

“she fell asleep—what was i supposed to do?” baby looked at him in disbelief.

jinu only gripped the back part of the couch as the fabric wrinkled under his sharp nails. "does a pillow not exist?!"

you were woken up abruptly when a pair of arms tugged you back, the air knocking out of your lungs. suddenly, you were not beside baby anymore but in the arms of your older brother who held you in a protective stance. “NO SLEEPING TOGETHER! GET MARRIED FIRST!”

"dude, we were just sleeping. what–"

"negative points for you!"

"WHAT–"

[arilevenatz]

Ateez as dark entities

Pairing: ot8!Ateez x reader

Genre: Dark shit

Warnings: dark and twisted themes, yandere themes, damn I suck at writing warnings, please lmk what I can add here

Synopsis: Ateez as dark entities who are obsessed with you. How would that go? (I would be writing this in the third perspective)

Masterlist

Hongjoong: The Puppeteer

A sinister mastermind who controls people’s actions like marionettes, manipulating reality with strings of fate. His words weave deception, pulling the world into his chaotic play.

He saw her in a crowd, but unlike the others, she wasn’t swayed by his unseen strings. Her free will intrigued him, an anomaly in his perfectly controlled world. He watched her for days, testing how much influence he had over her actions. When he realized she resisted, his obsession grew. He needed to break her, to weave her into his masterpiece—his perfect marionette.

At first, she wouldn’t even realize she was being controlled. Hongjoong would make subtle changes—her thoughts, her actions, her choices—until everything she did led her straight back to him.

Her friends would start acting differently, nudging her toward him. Strangers would mention his name as if he was always meant to be in her life. It was a web of manipulation, and she was tangled in it before she even knew.

The moment she tried to break away, she’d feel it—the invisible strings tightening around her wrists. She’d find herself going back to him, no matter how much she resisted. Even when she thought she was making her own choices, they all led back to Hongjoong.

By the time she realized she had never truly been free, it was too late. She was already a puppet in his hands.

Hongjoong wouldn’t resort to mindless violence. No, his punishments would be calculated—surgical.

A single flick of his fingers, and her limbs would move without her consent, forced into painful contortions. She’d feel the strain in her muscles, the stretch of her tendons beyond what they were meant to endure. But he wouldn’t let her break. Not yet.

“I don’t like hurting you,” he’d say, watching as she trembled under his control. “But if you insist on disobeying, I will teach you.”

And just when she thought she’d collapse from the pain, he’d release her—only to hold her close, stroking her hair as she whimpered. “See? If you just behave, you won’t have to suffer.”

Seonghwa: The Phantom Monarch

A cursed ruler who lingers between life and death, draped in shadows and whispering forgotten prophecies. His touch brings both solace and despair, a ghostly presence haunting his own kingdom.

She entered the ruins of his long-forgotten kingdom, unaware of the ghostly presence watching her. When she touched his throne, a flicker of warmth pulsed through his cold existence for the first time in centuries. He had been a ruler without a queen, a soul without purpose. Now, he had one. If she could make him feel, then she belonged to him.

Seonghwa’s trap was patience. He didn’t chase—he lured. Whenever she left a place, she’d feel his presence lingering behind, just out of sight.

She’d hear his voice in the wind, see his reflection in darkened windows. He became an inescapable part of her world, an unseen force watching her every move.

Then, one night, the world would shift. She’d wake up in a place that looked like her home but wasn’t. The furniture was the same, the air smelled familiar, but the sky outside was an endless void. The door wouldn’t open, the windows showed nothing but darkness.

She’d turn—and there he’d be, standing in the doorway. “You wandered too far,” he’d say, tilting his head. “Now, you can never leave.”

Seonghwa wouldn’t strike her. He wouldn’t even touch her.

But he’d make her feel like she was dying.

He’d whisper a few words, and suddenly, the air would vanish from her lungs. No oxygen, no relief—just the slow, creeping suffocation of her own body betraying her. He’d watch her fall to her knees, eyes wide in terror, clutching at her throat as she silently begged for mercy.

Only when she was on the verge of unconsciousness would he allow her to breathe again. He’d catch her before she hit the floor, his voice a soothing lullaby.

“I hate doing this,” he’d murmur, wiping away the tears streaking her face. “But you need to understand. You are mine.”

Yunho: The Hollow Jester

A deceivingly cheerful trickster whose laughter hides an empty soul. He thrives on others’ misery, playing twisted games that always end in despair, his mask concealing a haunting void

She laughed. It was a sound so genuine, so full of life—something he lacked. He saw her in the reflection of a shattered mirror, a place where only twisted souls should exist. But she was untouched, pure. He had to change that. He wanted to see how long she could keep that smile once she stepped into his world of madness.

Yunho would make her question reality itself. It would start small—objects moving from where she left them, voices whispering from places they shouldn’t be.

She’d see glimpses of him in mirrors, but when she turned around, he wouldn’t be there. He wanted to break her mind before he claimed her.

Then, one day, she’d wake up in a world that wasn’t hers. The people around her would wear empty smiles, their laughter hollow and unsettling. No matter where she ran, she’d always end up back at the same place—a grand, eerie carnival with no exit.

And at the center of it all, sitting on his throne of illusions, was Yunho, grinning as he held out his hand. “Welcome home.”

Yunho would turn it into a game—a cruel, endless game.

She’d wake up in a room she didn’t recognize, doors stretching in every direction. “If you can find the real exit,” his voice would echo from nowhere, “I’ll let you go.”

Desperation would push her to run, to fling open door after door, but each one led somewhere worse—a room full of mirrors reflecting her worst fears, a hallway that stretched infinitely, a pit of darkness with no end. The sound of his laughter would follow her, amused and patient.

Finally, when she was broken, exhausted, curled in a corner with silent tears, he’d crouch beside her, brushing her hair back. “See?” he’d whisper. “You’re always safest when you stay with me.”

Yeosang: The Watcher in the Mirror

An entity that exists within reflections, observing silently and waiting for the right moment to step into reality. Those who meet his gaze feel their deepest fears manifest before them.

She looked into the mirror, and he looked back. Unlike the others, she didn’t turn away in fear. She stared, as if searching for something. That was the first time someone acknowledged his existence without terror. He had been watching her long before she noticed him, but now, she had seen him. And once you see the Watcher, he never lets you go.

Yeosang never had to chase her—she was the one who kept looking for him. Every time she passed a reflective surface, his eyes were there, watching.

She should have stopped looking, should have turned away. But she didn’t. Curiosity turned into obsession, and that was his trap.

One day, she’d reach out to touch the glass, and it wouldn’t be solid anymore. Instead of her reflection, it would be his hand reaching back. A single pull, and she’d fall through, tumbling into his world—a place made of endless reflections, where only he could find the way out. But there was no escape.

“You searched for me,” he’d whisper, his lips brushing against her ear. “Now, you’ll never stop seeing me.”

Yeosang would make her lose herself.

The first cut would be shallow—a single line down her palm, bleeding just enough to stain the floor. But the reflection in the mirror? It would be so much worse.

In the glass, she’d see herself covered in wounds, skin marred by deep, jagged gashes. Her breath would hitch—was it real? She’d feel no pain, but the sight alone would break her, make her wonder if her body was even her own anymore.

“Which version of you do you think is real?” Yeosang would ask, voice soft, cruel. “The one standing here? Or the one who’s already been ruined?”

By the time he was done, she wouldn’t be sure if she was whole anymore.

San: The Wrathborn Beast

A relentless, cursed creature with uncontainable fury, lurking in the darkness and striking with unmatched ferocity. His hunger for vengeance keeps him shackled in eternal torment.

She was the first to step into his cage without trembling. His rage had driven everyone away, but she stood there, eyes locked with his, unafraid. He hated it at first—the way she didn’t cower. But then, he realized something. If she could stand before a monster without fear, then she was strong enough to endure him. He didn’t want to be alone anymore, and she was the only one worthy of staying.

San knew she was drawn to him despite the danger. He let her think she had control, that she could leave whenever she wanted. But every time she walked away, something inside her ached. She craved the thrill, the way his presence sent a shiver down her spine.

That was his trap—making her believe she chose him when, in reality, he had chosen her from the start.

The day she finally tried to leave for good, he didn’t stop her. Instead, he let her feel the emptiness, the unbearable absence of him. And when she inevitably returned, desperate for the chaos only he could give, he was waiting.

“You walked into the lion’s den, little lamb,” he murmured, arms caging her in. “You should’ve known you’d never walk out.”

San wouldn’t hold back. He wouldn’t lie to himself about what he was doing.

When he was angry, when she had truly pushed him too far, his grip would be punishing. His fingers would dig into her skin hard enough to bruise, his voice low with fury.

“You want to run? Fine. Let’s see how far you can crawl.”

A single shove would send her to the floor, and he wouldn’t help her up. Instead, he’d watch as she struggled, as she realized how weak she was compared to him.

And when she finally gave up, when she curled up at his feet, he’d sigh—exhausted, but satisfied.

“Don’t make me do this again,” he’d whisper, pulling her into his arms despite her flinching. “I don’t like hurting you. But I won’t let you leave me either.”

Mingi: The Nightmare Poet

A being whose words shape reality, crafting dreams that turn into horrifying nightmares. His voice echoes in the minds of those who hear him, driving them to madness.

She dreamed of him before they ever met. His words had slipped into her mind, shaping her thoughts, her fears, her desires. He whispered stories in the dead of night, and she listened. When she finally saw him in the waking world, there was no shock—only recognition. She had belonged to him from the first nightmare, and now, he was here to claim her.

Mingi’s trap was set long before she ever met him. He had been in her dreams for weeks, whispering poetry laced with shadows, planting fears only he could soothe.

Every night, she dreamed of him. Every morning, she woke up with the lingering echo of his voice in her mind. She should have been afraid, but she wasn’t. She was drawn to him, to the way his words made her feel like she belonged in his world of nightmares.

Then, one night, she wouldn’t wake up. She’d open her eyes to find herself in a realm made of her own fears, with Mingi standing at its center.

“You kept listening,” he’d say, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “And now, you’ll never wake up without me.”

Mingi’s cruelty would be subtle—a slow, creeping thing.

She’d wake up with her memories altered. One moment, she’d remember everything—the pain, the fear, the desperate attempt to run. The next? She’d remember nothing but warmth, love, the softest touch.

Which was real? Which was a lie?

She’d claw at her own skin, desperate to remember what was true. And Mingi would watch, amused, patient.

“You’re overthinking,” he’d coo, pulling her hands away so she couldn’t hurt herself further. “Just trust me. I’ll tell you what’s real.”

And by the time he was done, she wouldn’t even realize she had ever wanted to leave.

Wooyoung: The Siren of Shadows

A deadly seducer whose beauty and charm lure souls into eternal darkness. His whispers are irresistible, drawing victims into an abyss from which they can never escape.

She heard his voice first, a soft melody in the dark. It called to her, leading her deeper into the unknown. He watched her hesitate, but her curiosity won. When she finally laid eyes on him, she was already too far gone. He smiled. She had walked willingly into his grasp, and now, he would never let her leave.

Wooyoung’s voice was her downfall. It was everywhere—in the music she listened to, in the whispered words she thought were her own thoughts.

He sang her name in the wind, in the rustling of leaves, in the quiet hum of the night. The more she listened, the more she needed to hear him. That was his trap—addiction.

By the time she realized she was bound to his melody, she was already too deep. His voice was the only thing that felt real.

And when he finally stood before her, holding out his hand, she didn’t resist. “You’ve already fallen,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear. “Now, let me pull you under.”

Wooyoung wouldn’t need to use force. Love itself would become her prison.

He’d kiss her through the pain. His lips would trail over bruises he had left, his fingers tracing over the bite marks he had carved into her skin.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he’d whisper against her lips, voice trembling with emotion. “But you keep forcing me to.”

And the worst part? He’d be so gentle afterward. He’d hold her in his arms, press kisses to every wound, wipe away her tears with shaking hands. Guilty. Apologetic.

But he’d do it again. And again.

Until she stopped trying to fight it.

Jongho: The Titan of Ruin

A monstrous force of destruction, his strength shatters worlds. He is an unstoppable force, cursed to bring devastation wherever he treads, his very existence a harbinger of doom.

He found her in the aftermath of destruction—standing amidst ruin, untouched by the chaos he created. She should have run. She should have feared him. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached out, as if daring to touch the force that could crush her in an instant. He had never hesitated in destruction, but for the first time, he held back. If she was unafraid of his power, then she was the only one worthy of standing beside him.

Jongho didn’t need tricks or illusions—his trap was raw, undeniable power. He was a force of nature, and she was the only one who dared to stand before him.

He let her believe she could handle him, that she could walk away whenever she wished. He admired her stubbornness, but he knew the truth—she was already his.

When the time came, he didn’t give her a choice. The ground beneath her feet would shatter, the walls around her would crumble. There would be no escape, no safety. And when she turned to him, the only solid thing amidst the chaos, he’d hold out his hand.

“The world is too fragile for you,” he’d murmur. “Stay with me. I’ll make sure nothing ever takes you away.”

Jongho wouldn’t need tricks or illusions. He would simply remind her of who was stronger.

The moment he caught her, he’d pull her against his chest, his grip firm—unbreakable. “Are you done?” he’d ask, voice calm, but with an edge that sent shivers down her spine.

And when she refused to answer, when she still clung to the last scraps of defiance, he’d hold her tighter. Until she gasped for air, until she realized there was no winning against him.

Only then would he let go, letting her crumble to her knees. “Next time,” he’d murmur, crouching beside her, “I won’t be so gentle.”

But she knew there wouldn’t be a next time. Because now, whenever she even thought about running… she’d remember the feeling of his arms caging her in, and she’d know—

She’d never escape him.

[buckyseternaldoll]

Every Time We Almost

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x fem!Reader

Summary: Every time you almost had a moment—life got in the way. Night shifts, missions, exhaustion, missed calls and missed chances. But tonight, the universe finally gave you the time. And Bucky? He’s not wasting a second of it.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), established relationship, mutual yearning, emotional smut, edging, mutual masturbation, oral (f receiving), deep sex, squirting, use of pet names, no mentions of y/n, tender aftercare

Word Count: 10,443

You felt like a walking corpse—bones aching, mind foggy, soul stretched too thin. It had been four endless months of night shifts, and each day blurred into the next with brutal monotony. The company you worked for had sunk into a deep pit of understaffing, and you were the one paying the price in blood and sleep. Officially, your hours were supposed to be 10p.m. to 6a.m.—neat on paper, a lie in practice. Most mornings you found yourself still slouched under cold fluorescent lights by 10a.m., eyes raw from screen glare, hunched in your cramped little cubicle that smelled of burnt coffee and recycled despair.

Your life had become a cycle of numb survival: work → home → crash into sleep → shove some microwaveable meals for breakfast-lunch-dinner in a go → drag your ass back to work. Again. Again. Again.

You couldn’t even remember the last time you felt Bucky’s skin on yours.

He’d either be gone before you woke, pulled into another mission, or he’d come home to find you asleep, tangled in sheets soaked with sweat and stress, your face pressed into a pillow with his shirt on and your heart off somewhere else.

And it hurt. God, it hurt. Not just the ache between your thighs, though that was growing unbearable, but the ache behind your ribs. You missed him in every way it was possible to miss someone—physically, mentally, spiritually. Sex wasn’t just a release with Bucky. It was communion. It was coming home.

Only Bucky could touch you like that. Every thrust he gave, every graze of his calloused fingertips down your body, every whispered “you’re mine, sweetheart” like a promise etched into your bones. No man had ever fucked you like he worshipped you—until him. And you? You’d always felt like Bucky Barnes was made not for war, not for the world, but just for you. That metal arm of his was softest when it was wrapped around your throat, when his breath trembled against your ear and he told you how good you made him feel.

But none of that mattered if you never saw each other.

You blinked up at the digital wall clock across the open-plan graveyard of cubicles. 3:43a.m.. Still two hours to go, at least. You rolled your sore shoulders, and your phone buzzed.

Ding.

You glanced down and saw his name. The kind of relief that hit your chest like a shot of morphine. You opened the message.

Room feels so empty without you, doll.

Your lips twitched into a faint smile before it fell again. The image that followed sucker punched you. Bucky, shirtless, laid out across your side of the bed. His metal arm sprawled where your body should’ve been, head tilted slightly, eyes tired. His face wasn’t pouty or playful—it was raw with loneliness.

God, you wanted to climb through the screen and into his arms.

You snapped a quick photo of your cluttered desk, several empty paper cups, scribbled Post-it notes, and your own drained face in the background. Then you typed:

Missed you so much too, baby.

Too fucked with job, instead of being fucked hard by you 🥺

You knew exactly what that would do to him. Maybe it was cruel, maybe it was a little desperate, but at this point? You were crawling with need. Sex had always been more than just physical with Bucky—it was your way of escaping the weight of the world. Of being held, taken, undone. Of existing.

Your phone lit up again—not with a message this time, but a call.

You didn’t even get a chance to say hello before you heard his voice—low, husky, wrecked.

“Love, you can’t do that to me,” he growled, voice tight like he was fighting the urge to unzip and get started with just your voice in his ear.

You laughed under your breath, dragging a palm down your face. “Heyyyy. I’m dying too, just so you know.”

“Leaving late today?” he asked, barely veiled hope in his tone.

“I’ll be home by seven. Maybe sooner if my team doesn’t collapse without me.”

“Good. I’ll fuck you well,” he said, dead serious—not as a tease, but like a man starved. Like a man who had imagined every second of it, over and over in your absence.

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

“We’ll see about that,” you managed to reply, voice a little breathless despite yourself.

You ended the call with exaggerated kissy sounds—the kind he always called ridiculous but secretly adored. You could almost hear the way he smiled on the other end.

Cheesy. Cringe. But who the hell cared? He was yours. You were his. You just needed the universe to give you a damn break so you could finally prove it again.

—

The commute back home was electric. Despite being crammed into the Metro with the usual morning rush—bleary-eyed office workers, students scrolling through their phones, and half-awake baristas clutching coffee cups—none of it touched you. Not the noise, not the crowd, not even the stale air that always seemed to hang heavy in the train car. None of it mattered.

Not when you were finally on your way back to him.

Your body ached with exhaustion. You’d been up all night again, running on fumes and vending machine coffee. But your skin buzzed beneath your clothes, alive with anticipation. Every jostle and bump only made your thighs press together tighter. You could already feel him—could almost smell that warm mix of cedar and spice he always wore when he was home, the one that clung to the pillows on his side of the bed. You didn’t care how tired you were. You needed him more than rest.

Bucky.

You could see him in your mind—that thick, unruly dark hair, steel-blue eyes locked on you like a man starved. That body was built like a Greek statue, all raw strength wrapped in soft intimacy. The way his arms—one unrelenting and cold, the other warm and callused—always knew how to hold you just right. Not too careful. Never too rough. Always like you were his favorite thing to come home to.

You spotted him before you even reached the corner. There he was—leaning against a streetlamp a few blocks from your apartment, dressed in that faded henley that fit him like a second skin. The soft gold of the rising sun spilled down over the rooftops, casting everything in a glow that turned his metal arm to molten chrome. His eyes caught yours across the street, and his whole body seemed to relax.

Your legs moved without thinking.

You nearly launched into his arms. Bucky caught you effortlessly, spinning you just slightly before anchoring you to his chest. His breath hitched against your hair, face burying into the spot just behind your ear as he inhaled like he was trying to breathe you in completely.

“You smell like coffee and nuts,” he murmured, voice low and thick with affection.

You laughed into his neck. “You smell like sin and bed. Not fair.”

“You’re not getting sleep first,” he said, arms tightening around you. “No way in hell.”

Even the short walk back to your apartment felt too long. The second the door clicked shut behind you, you were on him—grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, dragging his mouth to yours. The kiss hit fast and messy, all teeth and need, mouths crashing together with the desperation of two people on the edge.

Bucky kissed like he hadn’t had oxygen in weeks. His tongue slid against yours, exploring with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how you liked it. His hands—one callused and warm, the other cool and smooth—cradled your face with reverence. You groaned when his palm slid down to your waist, tugging you forward so you could grind against the thick bulge already straining against his jeans.

You yanked his shirt up and over his head, revealing the chest you’d dreamed about every damn night you’d worked overtime. Your hands skimmed down over those perfect pecs, brushing over the faint trail of hair that led below his waistband. Every inch of him radiated heat. And God, did you want to melt into it.

You tore your own shirt off without hesitation. The soft cotton fluttered to the floor, quickly followed by your bra—which Bucky unhooked with practiced ease. He took a step back to look at you, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, chest rising and falling with something just short of restraint.

“Still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he muttered.

You wiggled out of your slacks, kicking them aside until you stood there in just a thin pair of lace panties that left almost nothing to the imagination.

Bucky’s eyes raked over you with the kind of hunger that made your thighs clench. “Come here,” he murmured, voice rough with need as he reached for your hand.

You let him take it, and with one gentle tug, he was guiding you through the soft-lit hallway toward the bedroom—backs brushing walls, lips reconnecting in hot, frantic bursts. The hardwood creaked beneath your steps, sunlight already spilling in through half-open blinds, striping the walls with golden warmth.

By the time you reached the bedroom, your skin was humming. The warm morning light bathed everything in a soft, honeyed glow—the kind that made everything feel slower, thicker, heavier with tension.

You stepped into the sunbeam that fell across the floor, feeling it heat your bare skin as Bucky stopped to admire the view. His gaze devoured you, hungry and reverent all at once. He looked like he might fall to his knees.

Instead, you placed your palms gently on his chest and gave him a soft push. He let himself fall backward onto the bed with a slight bounce, propped up on his elbows, gaze locked on your body like he hadn’t touched you in years—like he’d been dreaming of this exact moment every night since your bodies last met.

You climbed onto his lap, straddling him slowly, the heat of your soaked panties pressing down onto the thick outline of his cock. Bucky groaned low in his throat, hands gripping your hips as you began to move—grinding against him in slow, deliberate circles.

“Shit, baby—” he hissed, voice already thick with lust. “You tryna kill me?”

You leaned down, brushing your lips over his jaw, your breath hot against his skin. “You promised to fuck me well.”

“And I will,” he growled, voice dark and husky, “but you’re the one torturing me right now.”

You pulled back just enough to reach for his jeans. He didn’t even hesitate—unzipping them with one hand and shoving them down just far enough to free himself. His cock sprung out, flushed and heavy, thick with need.

Your mouth went dry.

The fabric of your panties dragged over his length as you rocked down harder. Bucky’s head dropped back with a deep, raw moan that made your toes curl. You grabbed at his chest, needing to anchor yourself as you ground down on him again, letting your clit ride the pressure.

“You feel that?” he rasped, hands clutching your thighs. “That’s what you do to me, sweetheart. Just seeing you walk toward me this morning? I was fucking gone.”

You bent close, lips brushing against his ear. “You gonna let me ride you, Sergeant?”

His eyes met yours—burning, stormy, aching.

“I’m yours, doll,” he whispered. “Take what you need.”

But just as you rocked your hips to sink down on him, his hands gripped your thighs—firm, yet gentle—and stopped your movement.

“Not like this,” he murmured, voice low and breathless. “Not when you’re this tired.”

Before you could argue, Bucky flipped you onto your back with one smooth, effortless motion. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, the golden morning light striping across your chest as your body stretched out beneath him. His metal hand slid up your torso with reverence, cool fingertips tracing the curve of your waist, over your ribs, until he cupped one breast in his palm.

You gasped when his lips found your breast, warm and soft as they closed around the sensitive peak. He lavished attention on it first with a languid swirl of his tongue, teasing the stiffening bud in slow, luxurious circles that made your stomach tighten. His stubble scraped faintly against your skin, a delicious contrast to the wet heat of his mouth. Then came the suction—gentle at first, then firmer, drawing more of you into his mouth until you were writhing beneath him, desperate for more. Your back arched into him involuntarily, offering more of yourself, and your fingers clutched at the thick muscle of his shoulders. You could feel the tension there, the restraint he was holding onto by a thread. When his teeth grazed your nipple just enough to sting and soothe all at once, a helpless moan tore from your throat—needy, wrecked, aching for everything he hadn’t been able to give you until now.

And still, he wasn’t done.

While his mouth continued its slow worship, his hand—warm, steady, reverent—slid down the curve of your waist, over your hip, until his fingers found the soaked lace between your thighs. He groaned into your skin at the feeling of how ready you were for him, his metal arm holding you anchored while the other slipped beneath the fabric, finding your slick folds with aching precision.

“Jesus, baby…” he breathed against your breast, voice rough with need and something deeper—a kind of awe. “You’re soaked.”

Two fingers parted you gently, stroking through the heat, slow and exploratory, like he wanted to reacquaint himself with every inch of you. His thumb teased lazy circles over your clit, light and maddening, while his fingers dipped lower, collecting your wetness. Every stroke sent sparks rippling through your core, making your thighs tremble and your hands grip tighter around his shoulders, his hair, anything you could reach. Your hips lifted off the bed in small, greedy motions, chasing friction, aching for release.

But Bucky didn’t speed up.

He watched you with storm-dark eyes, lips slick and parted, like the sight of your body trembling under his touch was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. Like he’d waited a lifetime for this moment—and would wait a thousand more just to feel you again.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and ragged with need. “You’re dripping… all for me?”

You whimpered, your breath shallow and uneven, too breathless to form words. Your legs instinctively spread wider, opening yourself to his touch, craving more of that perfect, relentless pressure that only he knew how to give. His fingers moved with deliberate, teasing strokes—each glide and curl sending shivers spiraling through your core, unraveling your thoughts and making your eyes flutter closed as waves of pleasure crashed over you.

Your body writhed beneath him, hips rolling subtly in time with his touch, your senses drowning in the heady mix of heat and longing.

But then…

The moans that had spilled so freely started to soften, growing more ragged and distant, like a fading song. Your fingers loosened their grip on the muscles of his shoulders, no longer clutching, just resting. Your chest rose and fell unevenly as your breath hitched—not from ecstasy, but from the insistent pull of exhaustion wrapping around you like a weighted blanket.

Bucky’s fingers stilled. He lifted his head just enough to look down at you, his gaze darkening with a mixture of concern and something softer, more vulnerable.

Your eyes fluttered open, searching—but already growing heavy again. Lips parted slightly, cheeks flushed with warmth, but your body was giving in, surrendering not to the fiery release he was coaxing, but to the crushing weight of weariness.

“Hey…” he whispered, voice thick with both amusement and tenderness. “Hey, doll…”

You murmured something incoherent—a lazy protest caught somewhere between a moan and a sigh—but you didn’t resist. You couldn’t.

“Shit,” Bucky exhaled, pressing a lingering kiss just below your collarbone, his breath warm against your skin. “You’re really running on empty, huh?”

He didn’t pull away or stop touching you immediately. Instead, his fingers slowed to gentle strokes, softening their pressure like a lullaby played just for you. His metal hand caressed your inner thigh in light, teasing brushes, while the other cradled your breast with the same care and reverence as a sacred treasure—as if making up for every missed moment, every night apart.

Slowly, your breathing deepened, evened out. The tension that had clenched your muscles melted away. Your eyelids fell shut fully, your lips relaxed into a soft pout.

You were asleep.

Right there beneath him. Skin still flushed and glistening with sweat, your hair splayed messily on the pillow, lips still swollen from his kisses, your heart fluttering in a quiet rhythm against his chest.

Bucky’s own chest tightened with an ache—a mix of protectiveness, longing, and pure love.

He pressed one last tender kiss over your heart, then shifted carefully to lie beside you. Pulling the covers up over your cooling skin, his metal arm curved protectively around your waist, the other reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face.

You stirred slightly, nestling instinctively into the warmth of his embrace.

“Missed you too, sweetheart,” he whispered against your temple, voice thick with emotion. “We’ll finish this… when you’re ready.”

—

Bucky had always been understanding—deeply, achingly patient—when it came to how demanding your job was. As much as he fought wars and hunted ghosts across continents, he’d be the first to admit he could never survive what you did day in and day out. Stuck in a windowless cubicle for hours on end, chipping away at endless spreadsheets under flickering fluorescent lights, eating rushed meals that barely counted as nourishment. That kind of mental strain? That quiet, relentless burnout? It was a different kind of battlefield—and he had mad respect for you because of it.

Still, no amount of respect could stop the way his heart sank when your body gave out during intimacy. The moment you’d fallen asleep beneath him, all heat and softness and unspoken need, Bucky just… paused. His cock was swollen and aching, twitching between his thighs from the intensity of being so close to you, from the scent of your skin and the little moans you let out before exhaustion stole them away. But instead of frustration, he let the moment melt into tenderness. He let himself soften, gently curled around your body, spooning you like you were something sacred. His arm—warm and solid—wrapped protectively around your waist. Even half-hard, even denied, you were always his priority.

Because you being happy, rested, safe… that was what made him happy.

Besides, there would always be next time.

At least, there should have been.

But the universe seemed hellbent on keeping your bodies—and your souls—apart.

The “next time” never came.

Not when Bucky was yanked out of bed by a middle-of-the-night mission alert and flown straight to Tokyo for an intel recovery op. Not when, after three weeks apart and Bucky finally stepping through the door desperate to get his hands on you, your phone rang with an “urgent” call from your manager, begging you to cover a shift for someone who’d decided to disappear into thin air. You worked through the night, again. Alone. Again.

And just when you thought you’d catch a break—a day both of you had planned to be yours, blocked on calendars, circled in red, a goddamn sacred day of nothing but you and him—Bucky got pulled again. Crisis in D.C. this time. Another world-ending mess. Another emergency caused by what he bitterly referred to as the big three—“Gandalf, E.T., and a couple of robots with superiority complexes,” he’d muttered bitterly into your voicemail, his voice already laced with regret.

It was like the universe had a personal vendetta against letting you and Bucky fuck.

As if it couldn’t bear to witness the kind of heat and love the two of you shared—like it was jealous. Like it was afraid.

And Bucky?

He was hanging on by a thread.

His patience—which had once seemed unshakable—was eroding like cliffs in a storm. He was running on fumes. Every time someone so much as said your name, he twitched. He could get hard from a photo of you. From your shampoo left in the shower. From the echo of your voice in a goddamn voice memo. It wasn’t just lust—it was hunger. The kind that felt bone-deep and unquenchable.

He didn’t just want you.

He needed you.

So that night, just a few hours before your shift, when you were dragging your feet around the kitchen, rubbing at your temples with tired eyes and a half-drunk cup of coffee—Bucky stopped you.

“Call in sick,” he said, voice low but steady.

You blinked at him over your mug. “You know I can’t do that,” you replied, already imagining the fallout—your manager interrogating you with that patronizing tone you hated. “He won’t approve it. He won’t even approve a vacation request if I submit it six months early.”

“He always says the same shit, doesn’t he?” Bucky murmured, stepping closer. “‘You’re the pillar. The team can’t run without you.’ Right?”

You nodded, sighing.

Bucky took your hands in his, gently but firmly. His thumbs brushed across your knuckles, the softest of touches, but they sent heat crawling up your arms. His voice dropped lower, tinged with quiet desperation.

“But doll… I’ve been patient. So fucking patient.”

You glanced at him—and there it was. That pout. That gorgeous, sulking pout that made your thighs clench on instinct. The one he rarely showed unless he was feeling particularly denied. You usually had to bribe that pout out of him—with your mouth, your fingers, your whole damn soul.

“Everyone else on your team calls in sick whenever they want. Why the hell can’t you?”

He wasn’t wrong.

You had been pulling double shifts left and right, covering for coworkers who never got questioned or guilt-tripped. And what did you get in return? A pounding headache and an untouched man standing in front of you looking like he might break if he didn’t get to touch you properly.

“Okay, okay,” you finally sighed, your lips twitching into a small smile. “You win, baby.”

The relief that washed over Bucky’s face was instant. His shoulders dropped. A rare grin split his face—wide, boyish, radiant.

You walked off to the living room, phone in hand, and delivered your best fake cough—even added a raspy throat and a groggy “I think I caught something last night.” After a few minutes of coaxing and the longest sigh you’d ever heard from your manager, the leave was reluctantly granted.

You didn’t wait.

You turned off your phone completely and tossed it onto the coffee table.

No interruptions. Not tonight.

Not when you turned around and saw Bucky standing there shirtless, wearing only a pair of grey boxer briefs—the tent in the fabric thick and unmistakable, straining toward you like it had a mind of its own.

“Oh, doll,” he smirked, taking slow, heavy steps toward you. “You don’t even know how fucked you are.”

Your breath caught. Heart skipping. Pulse pulsing low and deep in your belly.

A shiver rolled through you. “Well,” you whispered, licking your lips as your eyes flicked down to his cock, “I do know I’m gonna be fucked. By you.”

And the way Bucky’s jaw clenched, the way his fingers twitched like he was seconds from tearing your clothes off, told you—

You weren’t going to work tonight.

You were going to be wrecked.

—

Bucky lunged toward you with a hunger that crackled in the air, every movement of his body sharp with intention. You stumbled back in breathless anticipation until your spine met the wall, a gasp slipping from your lips—only to be swallowed whole by his kiss. His mouth claimed yours with a feverish urgency, plush lips moving over yours like he hadn’t tasted you in years. His flesh hand cradled your jaw, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as if memorizing your shape, while his metal arm slid down your back—each notch of vibranium ridges cool and smooth against your heated skin.

You felt the playful tug at your shoulder as his fingers hooked under the delicate strap of your nightgown, dragging it down slowly, deliberately. The whisper of fabric slipping along your arm sent a fresh wave of goosebumps rising in its wake. You’d gone to sleep without a bra—as usual—so the thin material had already clung to your curves, teasing him with the outline of your breasts. But now, with the straps halfway down your arms and your nipples pebbled tight against the fabric, there was no teasing left. Just need.

Your moans filled the space between you like music, breathy cries of “Bucky—Bucky!” that made his cock twitch in his boxers. His lips left yours and began a trail downward—featherlight kisses pressed to your jaw, then the column of your throat, then your collarbone—until he reached the swell of your breasts. He paused there, kneeling slightly, his breath ghosting over your sensitive skin as his eyes darkened with awe.

“So fucking big,” he groaned, voice thick and rough with arousal as he finally tugged the nightgown down over your chest. The cool air kissed your bare skin, nipples straining as they were fully revealed to him. His hands—one warm and rough, the other impossibly smooth and chilled—cupped your breasts with reverence. Even then, his palms could barely contain them. He squeezed gently, watching your body arch under his touch, and then leaned in, burying his face between them with a groan of pure worship.

You whimpered, your fingers threading through his hair as his hot breath ghosted over your skin. The stubble on his jaw scratched deliciously against your softness, the contrast enough to make your knees tremble. He alternated between trailing his tongue across the sensitive skin and planting hot, wet kisses between the curves, each one leaving a spark that ignited down your spine.

And when his mouth latched around one of your nipples, swirling his tongue in slow, agonizing circles before gently grazing it with his teeth—you cried out, hips bucking instinctively. Your cunt pulsed, already slick and throbbing from nothing but his mouth and the weight of his attention. He groaned around your breast, the vibrations shooting straight to your core.

His metal hand slid lower, cool fingers grazing the outer swell of your thigh, before moving inward—inch by torturous inch. The contrast of temperature sent a full-body shiver through you, your thighs parting on instinct to welcome him in. His touch neared the heat of your center, hovering just above your soaked folds. You felt him smirk against your skin as he realized just how wet you were for him.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” Bucky murmured, voice thick and muffled against your skin as his mouth lingered between the swells of your breasts. His tongue dragged lower, slow and deliberate, each kiss following a path down the center of your stomach like a man savoring every inch of his favorite meal. “You’re dripping already?” he growled, his voice rough with arousal and amusement.

You barely had a chance to answer before his metal hand slipped between your thighs, fingers grazing your inner seam. You jolted with a gasp at the contact—cool vibranium sliding against your flushed, overheated skin—and he chuckled softly, wicked and knowing.

“Oh, fuck—yeah, look at that,” he muttered as he teased the damp fabric clinging to your center. He let his fingers run along your soaked slit through the thin nightgown, slow enough to feel everything but not nearly enough to satisfy. “You hear that, baby?” He emphasized the motion with a long drag up your folds, and the wet, obscene sound of it filled the air. Squelch. Loud. Shameless.

You whimpered, your legs twitching as your hips bucked into his hand. He didn’t give you what you wanted—of course he didn’t. Bucky was always like this when he was this needy. Needy for you, but maddeningly patient. Teasing until you cried.

“Dripping all for me, doll?” he purred, dark lashes flicking up to meet your eyes as he pressed the flat of his vibranium fingers against your cunt. “God, you’re soaked. So fucking wet—just from my mouth on your tits? That’s all it takes?”

Your cheeks flamed, and your thighs tried to close around his wrist, but he was too strong, too solid, holding you open like a plaything. His lips pressed kisses across your lower belly now, right above where you throbbed most, but he still didn’t move the damn nightgown. Still didn’t touch you bare.

“You need it that bad, huh?” he smirked, voice low and sinful. His fingers rubbed a slow, taunting circle over your clothed clit. “Need my cock? Or my tongue first? Or you want both—want me to ruin this little pussy so good you forget your name?”

“Bucky,” you moaned, high and breathless, clinging to his shoulders like he was the only thing keeping you standing. Your body trembled with tension, every nerve ending poised right at the edge.

“Shhh,” he cooed, nuzzling against your mound through the fabric. “You’ll get it, love. I’m gonna make a mess of you. Gonna take my time. Taste you, fuck you, love you so good your coworkers won’t know how to look you in the eye tomorrow.”

You whimpered again, the teasing pressure making your thighs quake.

“Fuck, I’ve missed this. Missed how you melt for me. Missed this needy little cunt.” He finally dragged the nightgown upward, slow and torturous, baring the slick, swollen heat of your pussy to the cool air. His eyes darkened as he stared. “Jesus, sweetheart… you’re glistening. It’s like your pussy’s begging.”

Then, slowly—so goddamn slowly—he leaned forward, breath ghosting across your soaked folds as his tongue barely touched your clit. A flick. A taste.

You nearly collapsed.

“Mm,” he groaned, lips wet and glistening. “Yeah. That’s mine.”

And he devoured you after that.

His mouth latched onto you with slow, maddening precision, tongue working soft circles that made your knees buckle. The wall behind you caught your weight, your fingers tangled in his thick hair as Bucky ate like a man chasing salvation. The wet sounds between your legs were obscene, each lick and suck echoing through the room like music only the two of you could understand.

Your thighs trembled around his head, and he held them open with his metal hand, keeping you wide for him—pinned in place with no escape. The coolness of vibranium against the feverish heat of your skin was dizzying. You could feel the pads of his fingers denting into your thighs, grounding you as your pleasure built fast and overwhelming.

“Fuck, sweetheart…” he mumbled against your soaked folds, the rasp of his voice vibrating against your clit, sending a bolt of pleasure straight through your spine. “So fucking wet.”

He paused, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, tasting you again. His breath hitched like he was addicted.

“All this mess for me?” His mouth curled into a wicked grin, wet lips brushing the inside of your thigh. “Fucking missed my cock that bad, didn’t you?”

You whimpered, head falling back against the wall, hips twitching toward his mouth. But he wasn’t in a rush. No—Bucky Barnes had patience when it came to teasing you, even when his own cock was straining against his boxers like it might tear through the fabric.

“Your cunt’s been left alone too long, huh?” Bucky growled, his breath hot as it rolled against your inner thigh. His nose nudged along your skin, slow, deliberate, savoring the way your muscles jumped under the heat of him. “Dripping like a fucking faucet. Look at this mess, baby.”

The teasing edge in his voice was dark, smug—but it was laced with something else too. Frustration. Hunger. Months of pent-up need straining behind every word.

“I’ve been patient,” he rasped, mouth brushing dangerously close to your soaked folds. “Too fucking patient.”

You whimpered, legs trembling around his shoulders. His metal hand splayed wide across your thigh to keep you still, and his eyes flicked up—dark steel-blue, wild with restraint. “You come home, barely standing… and I watch you crawl into bed like you’re gonna disappear,” he muttered. “Sleeping next to me, but out cold before I can even touch you.”

His voice dropped lower. Rougher. “You think I haven’t noticed how you twitch in your sleep? How your thighs rub together like you’re dreaming about me?”

You gasped, head falling back against the wall, body flushed with heat from shame, want, and the sheer intimacy of his words.

“You think I don’t see how soaked the sheets get?” His tongue finally swiped up your folds, slow and fucking thorough. He groaned deep in his chest. “This sweet pussy’s been crying for it, hasn’t it?”

“Y-Yes—God, yes,” you stammered, your hands fisting in his hair, desperate.

“Say it,” he growled, dragging his tongue back down with maddening slowness. “Tell me how long it’s been. How bad you need it.”

“Too long,” you breathed. “Been so empty, Bucky. I—I miss you. Miss this. I can’t—please—”

“That’s it,” he hummed, mouth curling into a wicked smirk as he kissed the inside of your thigh. “You’re fucking starving for it.”

And then he devoured you.

Tongue hot and relentless, lips sealing around your clit like he’d been dreaming of this. The way he licked—deep, then light, alternating between flicks and long sucks—felt like a rhythm your body remembered better than your own name. Your thighs squeezed around his head and he let them, groaning against your cunt like he wanted to drown in it.

The cold of his vibranium hand contrasted so cruelly with the fire of his mouth, gripping your hip firm while his other hand slid up to press low over your belly—anchoring you, reminding you he owned every inch of your pleasure.

You were spiraling fast, hips twitching, mouth slack as the moans tumbled out.

And then—

He stopped.

“Fuck!” you sobbed, your head hitting the wall as your legs trembled. Your cunt pulsed, empty, begging. “Please—Bucky. Don’t stop—please—”

He rose slowly, lips wet with you, eyes burning.

“Not yet, doll,” he said low, breathless with control. “You’ve been working yourself half to death, haven’t had a second to feel good… I’m not letting you come easy.”

And before you could catch your breath, he grabbed your thighs, hoisted you up like you weighed nothing, and carried you to the bed.

You were panting in his arms, shaking, soaked and swollen with denied pleasure.

He laid you down carefully, reverently, but the heat in his gaze never cooled. He hovered over you, eyes dark with all the times he’d had to turn away, all the moments he’d been tempted to wake you but didn’t.

“You think this is torture now, sweetheart?” he whispered, leaning in to brush his nose against yours. “You haven’t seen what I’ll do to make up for lost time.”

—

Your hands gripped his broad, powerful shoulders, steady and commanding as you flipped him over, sending him to lie beneath you on the bed. Bucky’s blue eyes widened with surprise, but the spark of pleasure lighting in them made you grin.

“Oh, Bucky, honey,” you whispered low and slow, your lips brushing against his ear, the soft bite on his earlobe sending a shiver through him. “You underestimated my thirst.”

Your hand moved deliberately, curling over the heavy bulge straining against his boxer briefs. You squeezed—once, twice—with expert precision, alternating between a feather-light touch and a crushing grip. The subtle hiss that escaped his throat was music to your ears. You were pulling him closer to the edge, but never letting him fall over. Not yet.

His hips twitched, desperate for friction, wanting to grind against you, to bury himself inside your wet heat. But you held him back, your fingers moving slowly, torturously slow along his cock. The gentle pressure of your hand, the soft glide of your palm, the maddening friction of fabric rubbing against skin—it was teasing him mercilessly. The slow rhythm was nothing like the frantic hunger you both felt inside, but the sight of you hovering over him—breathless, flushed, breasts heaving—was everything.

“Fuck, doll,” Bucky whimpered, hips lifting, begging for contact. You tightened your grip in response, slowing your strokes even more, like you were painting every inch of his cock with your touch. The frustration was thick in the room, almost tangible.

“Want me?” you purred, sliding your hips down just enough that the wet heat of your cunt nearly grazed his aching length. The slick, needy wetness left a slick trail on his boxers. His breath hitched, low and ragged.

“Yes, doll,” he groaned, eyes dark and shimmering with raw lust. “Fucking want it.”

You pulled away every time he tried to bridge the gap, leaving him wanting, craving. His blue eyes traced your curves, glowing with desire and something deeper—need, frustration, love. You saw how his hands squeezed your breasts possessively, the way he wanted to claim every inch of you. But you weren’t done playing.

Your lips left a path of fire as you trailed kisses from his cheeks down his jawline, imprinting faint hickeys that bloomed like whispered promises. You flicked your tongue along his stubbled skin, delighting in his low growls of pleasure. His chest rose and fell under your touch—broad, sculpted, a perfect canvas for your nails that left delicate, demanding scratches. Marks that said you were his. Forever.

Your hand slipped to the waistband of his boxers, fingers curling as you slowly slid the fabric down just enough to free the thick, swollen length inside. The sudden rush of cold air made him shudder, his cock twitching with desperate anticipation.

You kissed a slow, teasing path down his toned stomach, deliberately avoiding his erection, dragging the tension tighter. You breathed warm air across his inner thighs, the heat contrasting deliciously with the cool skin, making him shiver. His cock twitched again at the sensation.

Then, with deliberate slowness, you flicked your tongue up along the smooth curve of his heavy balls, tasting the salty sweetness, the faint musk that was uniquely his. His hips jerked involuntarily, a groan vibrating deep in his chest as you circled the swollen head of his cock with your tongue.

“Goddamn, baby,” Bucky gasped, fingers tangling in your hair as he tried to pull you closer.

You smiled against him, voice sultry, teasing. “Gotta be patient, Daddy,” you murmured, your tongue flicking over the sensitive tip again. “Want my mouth? My pussy?” You paused, the edge of a playful smirk curling your lips. “Gotta use your words, Daddy.”

His gaze locked on yours—dark, desperate, burning with need. The tension between you was thick, a slow-burning fire. Every nerve ending was alive, every breath a ragged whisper of want. And yet, with that maddening patience, you held him back—teasing, tempting, making him beg.

His hands tightened in your hair, pulling you closer as his hips shifted, aching for more. You felt the full weight of his need beneath you—the heat radiating off his skin, the pulse of his cock so close to your lips. The taste of him already lingered sweet and sharp on your tongue, a promise of what was to come.

You lowered your mouth, trailing slow, lingering kisses down the length of his shaft, your breath hot and heavy as your lips brushed against the sensitive skin. The rough texture of his stubble grazed your cheek as you nestled your face deeper, your tongue flicking lightly over the swollen tip. A low groan escaped from deep in his chest, vibrating through you like a current of fire.

Your hands slid to his hips, fingers tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath warm skin, steadying yourself as you took him further. The thickness of him filled your mouth, the slick wetness a delicious contrast against the roughness of his skin and the softness of your lips. You swirled your tongue around him, slow and deliberate, savoring every inch.

Bucky’s breath hitched, ragged and uneven, his fingers tangling in your hair with urgent, desperate need. You could feel the tension building in his body, every muscle coiled tight like a spring ready to snap. But you stayed steady, controlling the pace, pushing him closer to the edge and then pulling back just enough to keep him teetering on the brink—denying him that sweet release.

Your eyes met his, dark with hunger and worship, and you smiled softly around him. The wet sounds of your mouth—slick, sucking, humming with pleasure—filled the room, mingling with his low, guttural groans.

“You taste so good, baby,” you whispered against him, your tongue flicking over the sensitive underside of his cock. “So fucking perfect.”

His hips jerked involuntarily, pressing harder into your mouth as if to drown out the torture of restraint. You tightened your lips just enough to drive him wild, letting the friction build slowly, deliciously. The taste of him—salted and sweet—flooded your senses, igniting a fierce, aching hunger deep inside you.

Your hands roamed his body, tracing the hard planes of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingers. The rise and fall of his breath was a rhythm you could lose yourself in, the raw need in his eyes a tether pulling you closer, deeper.

But just as he teetered on the edge—the sharp inhale, the tightening muscles—you pulled back, lips glistening, eyes full of promise and power.

“Not yet, Bucky,” you whispered, voice thick with control and desire. “Not until I say.”

He groaned, a mix of frustration and desperate need, but obediently let himself be denied, burning with want for what was still to come.

You stood, sliding your hands along his trembling body, the delicious tension crackling between you like a live wire.

The night was far from over.

Bucky’s eyes followed your every move—hooded, reverent, dark with unspent need. He looked wrecked already, sweat-slicked and breathless, his cock flushed and leaking against his abdomen, twitching with each pulse of frustration you left him in. The sight alone made your thighs clench.

You climbed over him again, slow and deliberate, every shift of your body a promise. His breath hitched when your bare thighs straddled his hips and your cunt brushed against the underside of his cock, spreading your slick across his skin like a seal of possession.

“Fuck,” he hissed, every muscle in his stomach tightening under you. His hands flew to your hips, fingers digging into your flesh. “Don’t play with me, baby. You’re gonna kill me.”

“Oh, no,” you breathed against his lips, grinding your hips just enough to feel his cock slide through your wetness again. “I’m just bringing you back to life.”

Your mouths met in a kiss that was more heat than oxygen—deep, consuming, desperate. You moaned into his mouth as his tongue found yours, tasting the wreckage of your teasing, the hunger barely reined in. Your hands tangled in his hair, nails scraping lightly along his scalp, while your hips rolled forward in slow, heavy circles. You rocked against him, his cock trapped between your folds, drenched in your slick and dragging right against your clit with every grind.

Bucky groaned, the sound broken and hoarse. “Jesus fucking Christ, sweetheart—”

“I missed you,” you whispered into the kiss. “So much.”

He groaned again, forehead falling against yours, jaw tight as he fought for control. But he didn’t stop you. He let you ride the length of him like that, grinding your wet heat against his cock, using him. His metal hand cupped the back of your head, the other splayed across your lower back, pressing you closer like he needed you fused to him.

Then he pulled back, just slightly, enough to look down and watch the way your slick coated his cock. “Look at this mess,” he rasped. “You’re so fucking wet—so fucking hungry for me.”

“And you?” you asked breathlessly, slowing your grind until his cock twitched in frustration. “Still holding on?”

Bucky smirked through the flush in his cheeks. “Barely.”

You reached between you both, your hand curling around his length. He shuddered under your touch. “Then let me help.”

His hands dropped to your thighs as you lifted your hips and scooted back slightly, resting between his legs. You began stroking him with slow, deliberate movements, your thumb swiping over the slick head, gathering the precum to lube your strokes. His groan shook the mattress.

But you didn’t stop there.

You slid your free hand between your own thighs, fingertips finding your aching clit. You moaned softly as your hips rocked into your hand, matching the rhythm of your strokes on him.

Bucky watched, completely transfixed, jaw slack, eyes wide with raw, primal awe.

“Jesus,” he whispered, voice breaking. “You’re touching yourself… while you’re touching me…”

You leaned forward, brushing your nose along his jaw, lips ghosting over the shell of his ear. “Wanna come like this?” you purred. “Watching each other fall apart?”

“Fuck—fuck yes.”

Your hand tightened around him slightly as you picked up the pace, and Bucky’s hips stuttered up into your palm. His hand joined yours on your clit, guiding your fingers, pressing you harder where he knew you liked it best.

“Right there, baby,” he breathed. “You feel that? Let me see you come. Let me see that pretty face when you fall apart.”

The fire built fast—too fast. The teasing, the denial, the weeks of longing—it all surged together like a tidal wave. Your breath came in shallow pants as your body curled forward, thighs shaking, your hand faltering on his cock as your climax started to take over.

But Bucky—

Bucky stopped you.

His hands gripped your waist and held you steady as he slid out from under you in a flash of strength and sheer willpower. You gasped, dazed and twitching, your orgasm teetering right at the edge, ripped away with the precision of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

“No,” he rasped, kissing the inside of your thigh. “You don’t get to come yet.”

“Bucky—!”

“I told you,” he said, voice low, hot with warning. “You’ve waited months. You can wait a little longer.”

Then he kissed you, deep and possessive, as if he could pour every aching second of his need straight into your mouth.

And when he finally laid you back against the sheets again, your body still trembling with unsatisfied need, you knew—he was going to make you earn every last second of release.

—

You didn’t realize you were trembling until Bucky cupped your face again, grounding you with the rough warmth of his palm—one flesh, one metal, both equally tender.

“You okay?” he whispered, even now—especially now—checking in. His voice was hoarse, almost ragged with restraint, but his eyes… his eyes were steady. Blue like deep ocean storms, filled with everything he hadn’t yet said and everything you already knew.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, breath catching, your forehead resting against his. “More than okay. I just…”

“I know,” he murmured, brushing a soft kiss to the edge of your lips like sealing a promise. His other hand curled beneath your thigh, lifting it gently, reverently, and then the other followed until both legs rested over his strong shoulders.

The shift was slow, intimate. His broad frame hovered above you, bracing his weight on his forearms as he stared down like he was seeing you for the first time. Like you were something sacred.

“Been thinking about this for months,” Bucky breathed, his nose brushing along your cheek, lips at your jaw. “Not just the sex, doll. You. The way you sound when I’m inside you. The way you feel. The way your body fucking welcomes me home.”

Your breath hitched—sharp, broken—because God, it felt like that. Like being filled by him was the only way to feel whole again.

Your body was already trembling, aching open for him, so soaked and sensitive that just the heavy weight of his cock dragging along your folds had you gasping. He groaned low, eyes fluttering shut as he felt the wet glide, his tip nudging against your clit just enough to make your hips jerk.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth. “Still so fucking wet, baby. Look at this—this mess for me. You were fucking made for me, weren’t you?”

Your thighs tensed over his shoulders, muscles flexing as your whole body answered for you. “I missed you,” you choked out, voice shaking, hands clinging to his arms like lifelines. “I missed you so much, Bucky. It hurt.”

His hand slid between you, steady and sure, guiding himself to your entrance with aching precision. And then—slowly, achingly—he began to push in.

You both gasped.

The stretch was everything. Too much. Just right. Every thick inch of him split you open like the first time, your body arching off the mattress, legs quivering, head tilting back as a raw moan escaped your lips.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he growled, the sound pure gravel in his throat. “You feel like fucking heaven. Warm. Tight. Mine.”

He didn’t rush. He moved like he was learning you again—every ridge, every pulse, every wet clench of your walls trying to keep him in. It was more than pleasure. It was possession. Worship.

When he finally bottomed out, hips flush against yours, you both stilled—just breathing each other in, hearts pounding in sync, the air thick with everything that had built up between you.

He lowered his forehead to yours again, eyes fluttering shut, and whispered, “I thought about this every day. Every goddamn day I wasn’t home. You weren't home.”

“I felt it,” you murmured, tears slipping sideways from the corners of your eyes as your hands tangled in his hair. “I felt you missing me. I felt it in my bones.”

He kissed you again—deeper now, wetter, full of tongue and breath and everything he couldn’t say. And then he rolled his hips.

Slow.

Deep.

A grind more than a thrust, his cock dragging along every soaked inch of you, hitting a spot inside that made your breath hitch and your back arch helplessly.

You gasped his name—Bucky—like a prayer, like a plea. He swallowed it with a groan and moved again, the next thrust just as slow, just as deliberate.

Your legs trembled over his shoulders. Your cunt pulsed around him, soaked and desperate, like your body was trying to memorize this stretch, this pressure, this perfect fit. He kissed the inside of your calf, still holding your thighs wide.

No late calls, no missions, no fucking excuses,” he whispered, his lips brushing your calf. “Just you and me tonight, doll. Been waiting too long for this.”

You cupped his jaw with both hands, your thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, grounding yourself in the look on his face—raw, reverent, vulnerable.

“I love you,” you breathed, eyes locking with his.

He froze for half a second—just a blink—but the emotion that slammed into his expression made your chest ache.

His mouth found yours again, and the kiss that followed was slow, messy, consuming.

“I love you too,” he whispered against your lips. “So fuckin’ much. You feel that?” He rolled his hips again, deeper, harder, and the pleasure cracked like lightning through your spine. “That’s how much.”

Now he began to move with more purpose. Still not fast—but steady. Deep. Thorough. Like he wasn’t just fucking you. He was pouring himself into you, filling every void he’d left behind, every ache, every inch of loneliness you’d both felt while apart.

You moaned with every drag of him, your body fluttering around his length, more wet sounds echoing from the rhythm of your hips meeting his. Your walls clung to him, sucked him in, like you were afraid he’d vanish again.

He pressed harder. “I’m here, baby,” he groaned. “Right here. I’m not leaving. You’ve got me.”

And for the first time in months, your body truly believed it.

—

He began to move again—still slow, still deep—but with more purpose now. More reverence. His strokes hit just right, the drag and pressure delicious, every thrust pressing pleasure and comfort into your deepest ache.

You weren’t just being fucked.

You were being loved.

And every sound he pulled from you—the gasps, the sobbed whimpers of his name—only fed the fire building behind his eyes. His hands never stopped roaming—one anchoring beneath your thigh, the other stroking up your waist, brushing under your breast before fanning out over your ribs like he needed to feel your heart pounding.

“God, baby…” he whispered like it hurt, the words catching in his throat as he bottomed out again, lingering in the heat of you. “You’re everything. Fuck, I didn’t know how much I needed this. Needed you.”

His voice cracked and your eyes flew open to find him already staring at you—blue irises shining, brows drawn tight, like he was afraid he’d fall apart if you looked away.

“You got me through it,” he murmured, his hips still rolling slow and deep, drawing every inch from your trembling body. “All the long nights, the silence, the damn empty bed. You were the only thing I held onto.”

You cupped his face with both hands, barely able to breathe past the emotion sitting heavy in your chest. “I never stopped waiting,” you whispered, your voice breaking with it. “Didn’t matter how tired I was—how much I missed you—I just kept telling myself we’d find our way back.”

Bucky groaned, forehead dropping to yours as he thrust deeper, as if to make that promise physical. “We’re here,” he said, lips brushing yours, voice wrecked. “I’m here, doll. I’ve got you now.”

Your fingers threaded into his hair, pulling him into a kiss so deep it felt like you were breathing him in. His rhythm stuttered—just for a second—like the emotion finally overwhelmed him too. You felt his body shake, his chest trembling against yours with the weight of it all.

“I can feel you,” you choked out, tears slipping free. “Everywhere. Inside me… all around me. It’s too much.”

“It’s not enough,” he countered, burying himself to the hilt with a desperate groan. “I want all of it. All of you. You understand me, sweetheart? I need you like I need air.”

Your walls fluttered around him, so sensitive, so close. The pressure had been building all night, every kiss, every tease, every whispered need between bodies that had gone too long without each other. And now it swelled between you like a tide, rising with every thrust.

Your moans turned to cries, breath hitching as your nails clawed at his back, as your thighs flexed around his shoulders. Your whole body was pulling him deeper, tighter—yours in every way.

Bucky was unraveling. You could see it in his clenched jaw, the sweat glistening on his neck, the way his hands trembled as they held you steady. But still, he held on. For you. With you.

Your climax crept up like a firestorm, slow then all at once. Your whole body went taut beneath him, your cries raw and desperate. “Bucky—I’m—!”

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” he panted, locking his gaze with yours. “Let go for me.”

And you did. Your body shattered around him, muscles tightening, cunt fluttering in tight, greedy pulses as you came with a sob of his name. Bucky groaned deep in his chest, his own hips stuttering as he followed—spilling inside you with a shudder, burying himself to the hilt as he came hard, breathing ragged against your mouth.

But it didn’t stop there.

He didn’t pull out.

Didn’t leave you empty.

He just held you.

Still inside. Still hard.

Still wanting more.

Your body trembled, oversensitive and spent, but when he pulled back to look at you—sweat-slicked hair clinging to his brow, chest heaving, eyes still dark and wild—you knew it wasn’t over. Not yet.

“Again,” he growled, and before you could catch your breath, he flipped you gently, dragging your hips up until your back arched and your ass pressed into his thighs. You moaned when you felt his cock still thick, still hard, nudging your entrance again—still leaking inside you, but ready.

“Bucky—fuck, I can’t—” you whimpered, breathless, but your body was already grinding back against him, eager, slick, greedy for more.

“Yes, you can,” he whispered, his hand sliding beneath your belly, pressing you back onto him as he slid in again. “You’re taking me so good, baby. Can feel you clenching around me—fuck, you’re still so wet.”

This time, the pace changed—deeper, harder, more desperate. You rocked together, bodies soaked with sweat, your whimpers turning into cries. Bucky grabbed your hair, kissed your spine, and whispered broken praises into your skin.

And when he angled just right—grinding into that spot that made your vision white out—you screamed. Your second climax ripped through you like a tidal wave, and this time, you squirted. Your body convulsed, gushing around him, soaking both of you in a hot, messy flood of release.

Bucky groaned like a man possessed. “Jesus, doll—fucking squirting for me—look at you—fuck!”

He pulled out only to flip you onto your back again, panting like a beast. His cock was glistening, flushed and twitching, and he grabbed it with one hand, stroking it slow and steady as he hovered over you, looking drunk on the sight of you—shaking, spent, soaked, eyes glassy with pleasure.

“One more,” he rasped. “Just one more, baby. I wanna see you fall apart again.”

You nodded, lips trembling, unable to form words. And Bucky pushed into you again, groaning as he filled you once more.

The third round was slower—no less intense, but reverent. Like a final hymn. Your body responded instantly, gripping him like a vice, cunt fluttering uncontrollably from the overstimulation.

Tears slid from your eyes, overwhelmed, trembling, unraveling with each deep thrust. Bucky kissed them away, whispering again, his voice raw, cracking.

“I missed you so fucking much, doll. Been dreaming of this… You feel like fucking home.”

When you came that third time, your body jerked violently, cunt pulsing and squirting again with a broken cry. You clenched so tight around him that Bucky came right after—moaning your name like a prayer, emptying inside you with a ragged breath and a soft curse.

Then, finally… stillness.

His body collapsed against yours, not crushing—just full of heat and strength and satisfaction. You both breathed like you’d just come back from war.

He didn’t pull out. Not yet.

You laid like that for a while—intertwined, sweaty, wrecked and safe.

Eventually, Bucky shifted, gently withdrawing with a soft kiss to your temple. You whimpered at the emptiness.

“I know, baby,” he murmured. “I know.”

He stood briefly, grabbing a warm towel, and cleaned you up with gentle, reverent touches. Every kiss was soft now. Every word’s a balm.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, settling beside you again, pulling you into his arms.

You nodded, eyes heavy, still trembling.

“Yeah. Just… full. In every way.”

Bucky smiled against your hair, holding you tighter.

“Good,” Bucky murmured, voice warm and rough against your temple. “’Cause I’m not letting you go again. Not after that.”

You gave a soft little laugh, lazy and warm, curling into his chest. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, strong and grounding, each beat a lullaby in your ear.

“I wouldn’t let you,” you whispered, voice thick with sleep, fingers brushing faintly along the curve of his ribs. “Not even if I tried.”

The room was quiet, save for the slowing pace of your joined breaths and the distant hum of city noise through the cracked window. But within these four walls, it was just the two of you. No night shifts. No missions. No missed moments.

Just him. Just you. Finally.

Bucky exhaled slowly, still brushing his fingers gently through your hair, and shifted just enough to draw the blankets over both of you. His other arm remained snug around your waist, metal fingertips trailing light circles against your spine—soothing, grounding, loving.

“You were amazing, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing the crown of your head, the edge of your forehead, the corner of your temple. “Fucking blew my mind. But more than that… I missed you. So damn much.”

Your lips curled in a smile against his chest, but you didn’t answer. Your breathing had slowed, long and even now, body soft and pliant in his arms. You’d slipped under, wrapped in the warmth of his voice and the safety of his embrace.

Bucky smiled against your hair, holding you even closer.

He knew how hard you’d been working. How you’d dragged yourself through those long night shifts, stretched your days past the point of exhaustion, trying to be everything to everyone. He knew how many intimate moments you’d both had to forfeit in the name of duty and responsibility.

But tonight? Tonight, he got you back.

He’d felt every tear, every tremble, every shiver of release as something sacred. He’d read the fatigue in your eyes, and the love burning through it. He knew it wasn’t just your body that needed him—it was your soul. And you had his, utterly.

“You’re calling out tomorrow,” he mumbled sleepily against your hair, tightening his arms around you as if that would seal the decision. “Tell them you’ve been taken hostage by your overprotective boyfriend.”

You made a tiny, sleepy noise against his chest, halfway between a laugh and a hum, already halfway into dreams. Your leg hooked over his hip, one hand pressed to his sternum as if to keep him there, even in sleep.

“I’ll make you breakfast,” Bucky added, lips brushing your temple. “Then we’re staying in bed. All day. You need rest. And I need… you.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to.

He felt the way your body melted into his—safe, sated, loved. Your breathing deepened again, warm and soft against his skin.

Bucky stayed awake a while longer, just watching you sleep.

And as your chest rose and fell against him, as your fingers twitched with dreams and your face relaxed into the most peaceful expression he’d seen in weeks, he whispered, more to himself than anything:

“Not letting a single day go by like that again, doll. Not when I get to love you like this.”

Then, finally, he let his eyes close too—his arms never leaving you.

Wrapped in warmth. Wrapped in love.

And this time, nothing was missing.

[starsofang]

CALL OF THE SEA / PART SEVENTEEN

pirate poly!141 x f!reader tw: NSFW, MDNI, violence, degrading, mentions of death/blood, dove is called some nasty words, please heed warnings for this chapter masterlist a/n: girlbossed a little too hard and finished the chapter a day early. posting this after my 14 hour shift with nothing but hope and dreams. this chapter is a long one, i think the longest one so far, so have fun :p

When a group of unhinged pirates invade your small village, you're whisked away from your peaceful home and thrown on to a voyage out at sea. Forced to obtain a new role as their medic, you have no choice but to accept your fate as you join their forces and aid them in their treacherous travels.

Up close, Graves was even more sinister than imagined. It was as if you were living in your own nightmare come to life, with beady eyes crinkling back at you as a curled smile stretched over his face. Adorned in all black from head to toe, with the only spouts of color being the mess of dark blonde atop his head, nearly covered by the old, leather pirate hat.

His skin was deathly pale, a feat you knew to be from his reaping sins. To take a life in return for a piece of his—a soul bind.

If he weren’t such a sick man, you’d dare say he’d been handsome, if it weren’t for the look of rotting to the core. His personality did no justice, something cocky and mighty. He knew exactly how to play his game, and he played it well.

In your turmoil, you dared to wonder if all of this was indeed another nightmare. Perhaps you were still asleep, stuck in an endless loop until Soap or Gaz awoke you as they always did; but with a sharp pinch on your thigh beneath the thin covers of Price’s bedspread, the world remained at ease.

This one wouldn’t be easy to get out of.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Graves mused, smile so wide you worried the corners would crack and bleed. You wished you could see him writhe like a helpless roach beneath your shoe. “Why the long face?”

“How—” You swallowed, fisting the sheets. “How are you here?”

Graves stood straight, glancing around the room. He pretended to ponder, holding his arms up to shrug. “I let myself in.”

Your eyes followed his every move as he slowly stepped throughout Price’s quarters, taking it in. You sat as still as a statue, completely frozen in place. The sound of his heavy boots along the wood floors rang alarm bells.

The air in the room fell icy cold, rising goosebumps on your skin. There was that frigid chill that felt as if you’d just stepped into a slaughterhouse, a hint of decay tickling your nostrils.

This was the feel of death you’d always felt, lingering behind you, watching. He’d always been there, even if only in your mind.

“Where is the Captain?” you asked, attempting to make your voice firm. Show no weakness—it was the very thing you’d been taught since your first day on the ship. You hoped Price would be proud that you remembered.

Graves’ eyebrows raised and while his smile remained, it only seemed to glimmer with excitement when the question was asked, as if you asked a dog if he wanted a bone.

“He truly has you on a leash,” he snickered, finding something amusing in all of it. “You’re like their little bitch, aren’t you?”

Your blood ran hot at the demeaning nature his words brought, but you knew better. They were for show, something to make him appear taller. If you fell for it, you’d only be digging a deeper grave for yourself.

“No,” you muttered, eyes narrowing. “I am a pirate, just as them.”

Graves barked out a laugh, one that made your ears bleed. It was meant to deplete your confidence, poisoned with arrogance.

“Is that right?” he asked with a shit-eating grin. “A pirate, are you?”

Graves stalked towards you, agonizingly slow, stopping when his knees bumped the side of the cot. He leaned down so his face was level with yours, empty eyes peering deep within your soul. His breath reeked of death and despair, nearly knocking you unconscious.

“I’d like to test that.”

His icy hand wrapped around your bicep, hauling you out of the bed. With a yelp, you stumbled to your feet, bare of their shoes. The world beneath your soles felt foreign now, ever since Soap had given you your gift and you’d never take them off unless you were falling asleep.

The grip was tight, causing your heartbeat to thump through your muscles angrily. Your skin under his hand paled from the sheer force.

Graves tugged you along as you fought to resist him, squirming and attempting to plant your feet to the floor. Without the help of your shoes compared to his unruly strength, your fight was deemed useless. He continued dragging you, so much so you could feel little splinters begin to dig into your soles and invoke dull pangs of pain.

Fear filled your body from head to toe, your heart pounding against your rib cage. A lump filled your throat, coated with anxiety. Your mind filled with millions of thoughts, smothering any confidence you previously had and replacing it with the idea of death.

Was this where all would end? Your crew was one of the most feared among the seas, a healthy bounty placed over their heads. But there would always be one person above, and that person was Graves.

Every kick, bump, resist was fruitless as Graves hauled you to the door. What lay beyond it terrified you, images of your men dead flashing before your eyes.

Coated in their own bloodbaths, bodies laid limp amongst the floors of their own homes, sprawled out as if they meant nothing. Oh, you couldn’t bear it. You’d have to go, too—you’d have nothing left.

When Graves opened the door, you weren’t sure if the sight was any better.

It was dark, the moon only a sliver in the sky, granting no room for light. A single lantern was all that was left to cast orange shadows, its fire flickering in a dance for a way out.

Your crew was lined shoulder to shoulder, on their knees in a submissive front, hands bound with thick rope behind their backs. Graves’ men, his Shadows, held the barrel of their guns to each of their heads.

Though the sight was an improvement from what you initially prepared yourself for, it was far from good. It was bordering those images, a glimpse into what could be a massacre.

The moment you were out of Price’s quarters, Graves let go of you, shoving you. You lost your balance, tumbling to your side, your head slamming into the deck. Pain blossomed under your skull and you hissed in pain.

“Dove?” you heard one of them call out. Your head spun, making it hard to figure out who it was.

A heavy blow landed on your side where you lay, and you wheezed, Graves’ boot unexpected. It kept you in place, applying pressure to guarantee you wouldn’t try to flee and fight back.

“Get the fuck off of her,” Price growled. You could recognize it, filled with a burning venom that dared to kill anyone that was in its crossfire. “This has nothin’ to do with her.”

“It’s all to do with her,” Graves spat, digging the toe of his boot into your rib cage. His previous cockiness had melted away, revealing his boiling rage. “Isn’t that right, dove?”

Graves lifted his boot, granting you a brief moment of relief before it slammed back down. It knocked the air right out of your lungs, leaving you croaking out a plea to stop.

You coiled in on yourself, curling into a ball in attempts to lessen the damage. It did nothing to stop his boot from weighing on your side. The pain felt like nothing you’d experienced before, and you were sure you felt a bone crunch.

“Dove,” Gaz called out, frantic. He tried leaning forward to get a glimpse of your face, to search for your eyes, but the barrel of the gun only pressed deeper into the back of his skull in warning. “Dove, it’s okay. Just listen to my voice, alright? I’m right here.”

Your eyes were widened with fear, chest heaving to catch the breaths that were stolen from you. You couldn’t move, frozen in place, even as Gaz called out for you with the threat of a bullet through his head.

“I don’t know what you’re plannin’, Graves,” Price snarled, “but this is between us.”

Graves laughed diabolically, throwing his head back. It only made everything much more tense.

“Isn’t she apart of you now?” Graves humored, cocking his head. His fingers drummed along the gun in its holster on his hip. “If I’m not mistaken, she’s a pirate. I believe those were your words, Price.”

The realization that Graves knew had you going cold. The closer he got, the stronger the connection became.

“What the hell is it ye want?” Soap asked through gritted teeth. His eyes were darting back and forth between your crumpled form and Graves. “S’always somethin’ with ye, aye?”

Graves eyed Soap, a glint in his gaze. There was something unfamiliar in it, as if he held a personal grudge towards the man in question.

“There is something I want,” Graves agreed, letting out a dramatic sigh. He tapped at the gun once again, staring up at the sky in thought. “I think dove here knows exactly what that is.”

Graves dug his boot once again, peering down at you as if you were scum. You couldn’t stop the small whimper from the agony drumming in your side.

“Go on, dove,” Graves taunted, grinning. “Tell them.”

“I don’t know,” you panted. You were unfocused, eyes staring at the old floor from where your head rested.

You tried recalling what it is he could want, anything at all, but nothing was becoming clear. You scavenged through the deepest parts of your brain for even a simple clue, but the blows had made you dazed.

“I swear, I’ll fuckin’ kill you—”

“You do know,” Graves repeated, cutting off the Captain. His tone grew annoyed. “Think real hard, dove.”

“I don’t know,” you cried, shoulders beginning to shake. All the built up confidence to fight back had vanished into thin air. Now, you felt like a scared little girl, begging for mercy.

Graves’ boot lifted, then returned back down. A string of curses were thrown his way from your crew, who were thrashing in the binds, unable to aid you under the lineup of guns to their heads.

You felt wetness cascade down your cheeks, dampening your skin and falling down to the side of your head from the angle you laid. It was then you realized you were crying, embarrassingly so.

Only mere hours ago you were deemed a pirate, and yet at the start of war, you fell apart like a damsel.

“The telescope,” Ghost said, voice low. It was the first he’d spoken, only sitting there silently as you were beaten down. His head hung low, as if ashamed, though the darkness in his eyes was enough to cast doom across entire continents. “He’s talkin’ about the telescope.”

You blinked away the tears, eyes burning. Realization dawned on you the moment Ghost spoke. Through your huddled position, you tried to tilt your chin down to meet his eye. As if thinking the same thing, he lifted his head, connecting your gazes. You could see that familiar apology pooling out of him, expressing everything he needed to say.

Washed away to land and shore,

shall be the looking glass for ocean eyes.

The telescope you found for Gaz was an innocent gesture. The sight of it called out to you, as if meant to be owned by you. If you would’ve known it was Graves it was calling, you would’ve thrown it into the deep sea so it could never be found again.

“So he speaks,” Graves mused sarcastically.

Ghost broke contact first, eyes boring into Graves. He looked murderous, plotting his own bloodbath with just a simple look. The dim light of the single lantern did nothing to lessen the ominous glow, only highlighting it.

“Don’t fuckin’ talk to him,” Soap hissed, scowling. The look of pure disgust was such a contrast to his normal, boyish grins.

Graves paid no mind to him, stuck in a contest with Ghost. The two of them had a dark force swirling between them, one that even outside made the air heavy and suffocating.

“A point for your bravery, Ghost,” Graves sighed dramatically, breaking his stare. He looked between each and every man, sparing you no glance while his boot remained in place. “My telescope. Give it to me, and I’ll let her go.”

You instantly shifted your eyes to look at Gaz, who seemed to be struggling with a decision. You knew why he was having a hard time—you gifted the telescope to him, unknowing of who it truly belonged to. It was something he treasured, something he didn’t want to let go of.

“I have it,” Gaz said lowly, head bowing. “It’s in my quarters. I’ll take you to it.”

Graves sucked his teeth, feigning pity. He shook his head, hand fully resting on the gun at his hip. “Not going to work on me, Gaz. I’m quite capable of getting it myself. You sit tight, aye?”

Gaz stiffened, expression growing grim. Nevertheless, he said nothing, deciding silence was the best contender for a fight bound to end in loss.

Graves gestured for the man behind Price to fetch the telescope from Gaz and Soap’s shared quarters. Price didn’t tear his eyes away from Graves once, even as the Devil of the Seas took out his own gun and pointed it right at Price’s forehead.

He pressed the barrel of the gun into Price’s forehead, indenting the skin. It was a snug fit, a perfect shot for Graves if he wished to end things the easy way.

Graves didn’t like it easy. He liked it fun.

“Scared we’ve caught on to your trail, aye?” Price bluffed, voice gravelly and malicious. “That’s why you came out here like a fuckin’ mutt, hidin’ in the storm until you found the right time to ambush us?”

“You have your dove to blame,” Graves replied nonchalantly, rubbing his boot back and forth along your side. The pressure had you sucking air through your teeth, eyes clenching shut. “She might be your new toy, but she’s just as much a mutt as I am.”

“You shut your fuckin’ mouth,” Price snarled, body shaking with feverish rage. If he could pounce on Graves, you knew he would.

“Looks like you finally grew some balls, Captain,” Graves snickered, pulling back the hammer of the gun. It resounded a loud click, which translated to a warning bell in Price’s favor. “Such anger. That anger has never worked for you, Price. It didn’t work for Ghost—it won’t work for her.”

Price let out an animalistic growl, his lips pulling back in a sneer. You’d seen the Captain angry, and you’d seen him under the guise of a scary, ominous pirate who would kill any innocent bystander that stood in his way.

This was entirely different. This was personal. A build up. This was a storm that had been coming for ages, and you were only toeing the edges.

The Shadow returned, holding the telescope you’d gifted Gaz. It shimmered in the lantern’s glow, glinting its gold details and showing it off. It felt like a goodbye.

“I’d be real careful from now on, Graves,” Price warned. It was the first you ever heard him speak so menacingly, like the demon inside of him was erupting with a stream of hot lava filled with nothing but spewing hatred. “When I find you, I’ll fuckin’ kill you myself. String you up on my sails until you’re dry, toss you into the ocean to the sharks. I’ll take pleasure in watchin’ you burn until there’s nothin’ left but ash and dust.”

Graves took the telescope from his Shadow’s hand, inspecting it. The words Price spoke clearly struck a nerve, for the arrogant grin had vanished, replaced with a gloomy, threatened expression.

“Hm,” Graves huffed, letting his gun fall and placing it back in its holster. He signaled for his men to follow suit, and you watched as all weapons dropped. “I await the day that happens, Captain. Until then, keep your mutt on a leash, aye?”

Graves made no effort to untie the crew, leaving them bound as he gathered his men to walk the plank connecting the two ship. A long, woden plank that creaked under the weight, one od wish you could kick from its balance and send them flying into the dark sea.

The moment was brutally silent as they left. Nobody moved a muscle until Graves was on his ship, the plank pulled from its placement, and the skull flag waved goodbye as they set sail into the pit of the night.

Time stood still, but the second Graves and his crew were hidden in the waves, all hell broke loose. Price and Gaz worked together to unbind each other with their backs to one another, frantic to be released. Ghost sat silently, eyes staring into the floorboards as if they’d speak to him.

“Say somethin’, dove,” Soap begged, scooting on his knees to be by your side.

As if the dam broke, you began to cry once more, heartbreaking sobs coming right from your core. You curled up tighter into your ball, your hand resting on your side as if it would magically ease the pain.

“It hurts,” you replied, voice cracking.

You’d stayed strong up until that point. Now, you couldn’t hold up your front.

You were scared. You felt more helpless than ever. You couldn’t remain strong for the sake of pretend anymore. Everything hurt, and Graves’ presence shook you to your very core.

“I know,” he cooed. He made a frustrated noise when he struggled against the binds. “I know, dove. We’re right here, alright?”

It felt strange, being on the other side of the spectrum. You were used to being the one to aid people in their injuries, but now, it was you being comforted. You couldn’t grasp what your life had become.

Price was released from his binds, quickly helping Gaz slip out of his. While Gaz made quick work to move to work on Ghost, Price was by your side in an instant.

One hand rested on your hip, turning your body towards him while the other found your face, resting his palm on it. His eyes were filled with worry when you faced him and he urgently wiped at your tears with his thumb.

“Dove,” he breathed in relief, his heart aching at the sight of you so broken. This was his fault. “You’re okay, I have you.”

You whimpered when he shifted so he could slide his arms beneath you, one under your shoulders and the other in the bend of your knees. The movement flared pain all over again, and Price murmured apologies, unsure of what to do.

He hurried to his quarters, his men following closely behind like scared dogs with their tails between their legs. Gaz held open the door, and you only caught a glimpse of his guilt-stricken expression before you were ushered in.

Price carefully slid you on to his cot, wincing every time you whimpered or cried. The pain felt excruciating, your breathing quick and labored.

“She needs a medic,” Soap stressed.

“She is a medic,” Gaz reminded, resting his hands on the edge of the cot so he could lean over and inspect your face. “We have no help besides her.”

“Well, she can’t treat herself, ye fuckin’ oaf,” Soap snipped, shooing him away from your space. “Cap, she needs to get checked. She can’t even breathe properly!”

Your head began to pound from the sheer loudness that filled the room. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to will away the ache while simultaneously trying to correct your breathing.

You knew well enough that there was something shattered or broken. A rib, though small in theory, but dreadfully painful without the correct medicines. Not to mention the amount of force Graves had used—it was pure hell.

Price was silent, as was Ghost, the two of them sharing a conversation with just a look. There was an understanding shared, and Price gently shoved Gaz and Soap aside, replacing them.

He mimicked Gaz’s previous stance, leaning on the bed. His hand came to brush a stray tear away, frowning embedded in his mouth.

“Tell me what to do, dove,” he said softly. “I’ll do whatever it is.”

You sniffled, hand shaking where they rested on your side. You shook your head, nearly deranged from the shock and horror of it all, unable to snap out of it.

“I—I can’t fix it on my own, Captain,” you quivered, lips trembling. “It hurts.”

Price nearly broke, filled with guilt. He glanced behind him at Ghost, who quickly looked away, hands balling into fists.

“I know,” he assured calmly, brushing his finger along your cheek where he wiped the tear away. “We’ll fix it, aye? You just have to sit tight until we can. Can you do that for us, dove?”

Though you knew the wait would be cruel—a slow healing process until you could receive proper care—you found yourself nodding shamelessly, instantly trusting Price and his promises.

Price nodded along with you, giving your cheek a comforting pinch. “Attagirl,” he praised, calming your nerves.

“I’ll fuckin’ gut him,” Soap muttered, jaw pulled tight. “He’s fuckin’ dead.”

Gaz reached up to grip Soap’s nape, tugging at his hair. Soap threw him a glare, one Gaz promptly ignored, turning his attention to you.

“Listen to Cap, birdie,” Gaz encouraged warmly. “We’ll get you all fixed up. You won’t even know you’re hurtin’.”

Price had a look of hesitation when you caught his eye. You furrowed your eyebrows, frowning in confusion before he spoke again, causing you to grow uncomfortable.

“We need to check it first, dove,” he said apologetically. “If you don’t feel well with all of us bein’ here, you can pick who you prefer. No hard feelin’s, hm?”

The idea that one, if not all, had to see you undressed in order to inspect the damage was one that made you a bit dazed. You’d never been seen beneath your raggedy clothes in the village, and the same applied for your time on the ship. It felt sacred, like your vulnerability was on the line, but you had to remind yourself that it was purely medical—you’d done it plenty of times when in practice at your old home.

“It—it is fine, just… just turn away, yes?” you pleaded, unable to meet any of them in the eye.

You heard a round of shuffling, only seeing Gaz elbow Soap in the corner of your vision. Once you were sure they feasted their eyes upon the old wall, you began to carefully lift your hips, biting your lip to muffle the pained noise that threatened to leave.

The hem of your dress was swiftly pulled up past your thighs, all the way until your torso was exposed. You stopped it beneath your breasts, quick to tug the blanket over your nakedness that remained uninjured and in no need to be checked.

The anxiety that pooled in your stomach left you queasy, but you toughed through it, knowing how important it was. If you had more than a mere fracture, it could become worse over time.

“Okay,” you said quietly, cringing when they turned to take you in. The men did their best to make you feel as at ease as possible, gearing their focus towards the nasty swelling on your side.

You dared to take a peek yourself, fearing for why they were so quiet. What you saw was ugly—swollen and puffy, beaten to the point it was already turning purple and blue. It was tender to the touch, even more so without clothing as a barrier.

The worst was the gnarly, black veins that spouted out like roots, dipping deep into the new bruising. It was inhuman, something completely out of the ordinary. You knew it was Graves’ dirty work, and it reminded you of when Ghost had cut his finger in the kitchen and his blood turned black, vanishing into thin air.

When you shifted your eyes from your injury, you searched for Ghost’s, who was hard-stuck on the veins. His body was tense, a darkness swirling in his irises.

“Ghost?” Soap tried, nudging the brute lightly. “Any idea what that is?”

Ghost glanced over to Soap before returning to your side, taking in the sight. “Could be anythin’,” he muttered, unsure. “I don’t know what all he’s capable of. For all we know, it could already be infected.”

“Infected?” you asked, a worried chill racking through you.

Price reached out a careful hand to spread his fingertips along the veins. You choked on a gasp at the immediate discomfort, face scrunching up into a wince.

“We’re goin’ to a doctor,” Price nearly growled, taking his hand away. “I don’t care where. The moment we spot land, we’re goin’.”

“We still have bounties on our head, Cap,” Gaz reminded with a frown. “We can’t just go anywhere. It’s not the same as shoppin’. If we end up in the wrong place, we might get ourselves in deeper shit.”

“That is a risk I’m willin’ to take,” Price argued, firm in his stance. “If we start nitpickin’ where to go, it might be too late. You’re either in or out.”

The room fell silent as the men stared at their Captain. The answer to them was obvious, though you knew why they hesitated; if they were imprisoned, it would do you no good.

Emotions were high and the clock was ticking. It placed everyone on edge.

“I agree with Price.”

All heads turned to Ghost, who stood with his arms crossed, eyes boring into yours.

“It’s my fault she’s marked. So long as she gets fixed up, I could care less about bein’ thrown into a cell. I’m with Price,” he finished.

“Ghost—” you tried.

“I am quite firm in what I’ve decided,” he interrupted harshly before realizing his mistake, calming himself down. He looked away from you, crossing his arms a bit tighter. “I’m in no mood for arguments.”

You went quiet, watching Ghost turn towards the door and plot his escape. You knew out of everyone, he was affected the most, tormented with sickening guilt for all that’s transpired. You could only imagine how he felt, now that times had grown darker.

“Let him go,” Soap murmured softly, gaining your attention. “He’ll be alright. Let’s just worry ‘bout ye, aye?”

You were torn, but you nodded nonetheless, silently agreeing.

“You’ll stay with me for now,” Price explained. “No use in movin’ you anymore than I have. I’ll get you situated for now, and then you can rest.”

Gaz, Soap, and Price muttered amongst themselves, discussing a brief plan of what to do. The two set off to find more pillows to extend your comfort while Price remained by your side, plopping himself in his chair with a heavy sigh. His elbows rested on its arms, his fingers coming up to rub at his temple.

He looked exhausted, the bags under his eyes becoming more prominent the longer you looked.

“I am sorry, Captain,” you said quietly, eyes glueing to the ceiling.

“What have you got to be sorry for?” he asked, frowning. “Got nothin’ to apologize for, dove. Our worry stems from care.”

“Yes, but,” you paused, gathering the words, “I have caused much trouble since my arrival. Things only seem to be harder for you.”

“Life was hard before you, dove,” he assured, letting his hand fall from his face. “That’s the way it goes. It is to no fault but the world.”

You took in his words, letting them sink in. You hadn’t known a true life of trouble before, the only hardships being your utter loneliness and daily taunts from the local villagers. This was something beyond your knowledge, and you were beginning to understand that there was more to life than simply displeasuring people. There was more than what meets the eye, but there was also light at the end of every tunnel.

“You do not see me as a mere burden?” you asked, and he huffed.

“What have I told you before?” Price pressed in return, tilting his head. “You are one of us. A true pirate, if that is what you’d like.”

“I am far from a pirate,” you scoffed to yourself, ashamed. “I could not even defend myself or any of you.”

“Dove,” Price called out softly. He scooted his chair closer to your bedside, forcing you to turn your head and look at him. “A loss is not always a failure. Some wars are too big to handle on your own. There’s nothin’ wrong with that. Why must you speak so lowly of yourself?”

You stared at him unblinking, studying the furrow of his eyebrows and the curl of his lips, hidden beneath his beard. The worry lines on his forehead showed years of hardship, and you wondered how he managed to live through it if you could barely survive your own smaller ones.

“I have known nothing else,” you confessed bitterly, though not towards him. You were angry, not only with yourself, but at life for dealing its deck of cards in such an unfair way.

“I see,” he hummed, leaning back in his chair. He tapped his fingers along the armrests, getting lost in thought. “It was the same for me as well.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Really?”

“Mhm,” he sighed, picking at the splintering wood of the armrests. “My father was a captain before me. Had the tongue of a devil. Always angry, always cold—treated me like scum, even as a child.”

“I am sorry,” you murmured quietly. Price bristled, frowning.

“That is not the point, dove,” he replied. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the side of the bed, mere inches away from where you laid. You waited patiently for him to continue, keeping your gazes connected to show you were listening. “Some may treat you like a mutt on the street and deem your worth how they please. The only thing that matters is how you take it and how you come out of it.”

It dawned on you what he was implying. It was his way of comforting you, shielding you from your own burdening insecurities that never seemed to escape your mind.

“I could’ve remained angry and bitter, but now I captain my own ship and crew. The same applies for you—you may have experienced cruelty all your life, but you must take the reins on your own worth and decide what it is, dove.”

A blinding warmth shrouded you, like a blanket after being trapped in the icy cold, and you welcomed it with a smile. You’d never known Price to be so well with words, not int he way he was expressing now.

He knew what you needed to hear after being trapped in your own world of darkness, and he provided the light you needed to find your way out—all of them did. A glimmer of hope in a world full of loss.

“I am very thankful you kidnapped me,” you blurted, unable to contain your inner thoughts.

Price laughed, boisterous and loud, a smile washing over his face. It was a lovely sight, one that made your heart pound. Even through your pain, you found solitude in the aftermath, reaching a level of comfort you’d always wished to feel.

“I am happy to have you here despite it,” Price teased warmly. “I can say the same for the rest.”

You laughed, almost immediately regretting it at the shooting pain coursing in your side. He shot you a sympathetic smile, slowly standing from his chair.

“I will let you rest,” he said, giving you a gentle pat to your thigh over the blanket. Your heart jumped at the action, and you repressed it.

“You are not staying?” you asked, deflating.

“Soap and Gaz will be here with some more pillows soon. I must gather a plan so we can get you to a medic as soon as possible.”

It made sense, and you knew it was important. There was no telling what was flowing through the black veins, but your heart longed for more of his presence.

“Just for a moment longer?” you dared to request, voice small.

Price peered down at you from where he stood over you, a hint of surprise flashing on his expression before it softened. He nodded, reaching over to give your hand a gentle squeeze. You held on as long as you could.

“Just a moment then,” he repeated. “I will do it for you.”

You squeezed his hand in return, feeling as if you were on cloud nine. Your feelings were uncertain, but the more you spent with them, the clearer your vision became. It was an inner battle, forcing yourself to push them back in order to protect yourself. Now, though, you decided to allow yourself the comfort, just for a little while.

“Thank you,” you told him, unaware your voice had become a mere whisper. The air between you felt heavy, as if something unspoken was there.

Price glanced down at your hands that remained interlinked before shifting his gaze back at you. The gears in his mind were turning, and just as you were about to ask if it was alright, he beat you.

“I am not an emotional man,” he murmured quietly, seeming just as unsure as you were. “I make very stupid decisions and take paths I shouldn’t take. One of them is tellin’ me to kiss you, and I’m not sure if that’s alright.”

You froze in place, eyes growing wide. You were unable to look away, lost in your own little moment. Everything in you was yelling yes, yes, yes! and it was hard to ignore. You had always been weak in your feelings.

“Gaz tried to when I gifted him the telescope,” you said, unsure of why you did. “I hope that is okay.”

Price broke out into a smile, huffing out a breathy laugh. “So long as he did not beat me to it.”

You released a relieved breath, a shaky smile spreading on your lips. Price did not seem angry, and for that, you grew more enticed for a kiss. While your feelings for the others were all different in their special ways, having Price be the first was not something you could deny. It excited you more than it should.

Before you knew it, Price leaned down, capturing your lips in his own. There was no spark like you’d read in books you’d read at merchant stands when you couldn’t afford them, nor were there fireworks.

Instead, it was a calm sea that smothered you in peace, easing every worry that crowded your mind. They washed away, replaced with a warm buzz.

He was gentle, hand still grasping yours, the other coming to rest beneath your jaw. His skin was hot to the touch, rough from the callouses on his palm.

The moment wasn’t long, and when he pulled away, you wished you could reel him in for more.

“Rest,” he encouraged, his smile brighter than a thousand suns. “We’ll get you fixed up and better before you know it, alright?”

You nodded dumbly, your head empty. You were practically vibrating with excitement, the feel of his lips still tingling on yours.

He stroked his thumb over your cheekbone before pulling back, stepping away from the bed. He gave you a soft farewell, reminding you that the boys will be back soon and to try and sleep until then.

Once he was out of the room, the quiet didn’t bother you. It wasn’t maddening, driving you up a wall, suffocating you with loneliness—it was peaceful and kind, welcoming you with open arms as you slipped into unconsciousness, the images flashing behind your eyelids of the four of them in your life only bringing you true comfort after the storm.

[rothpie]

❝FIDELITY❞ |part9

MASTERLIST -`✮´- Rafe Cameron x Kook!Reader x JJ Maybank

Summary: Kook!Reader’s world is upended by betrayal, and her only way forward might lie with the most unlikely person—JJ Maybank. But as they build a new life together, old flames and past mistakes refuse to stay buried.

Warnings: mentioning miscarriage, blood, mentioning drug and alcohol use, daddy issues

Selly's note: First of all I'm sorry. I wrote this while my heart was broken. I learned my ex left the country. He was the first person I loved. LIKE COME BACK???? We HAVE TO marry!!!!! Sorry for oversharing💗, and if there is a mistake. I didn't re-read this. Love y'all.💗💗

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Your hands trembled. Your whole body felt numb, yet the shaking tethered you to reality. There was a heavy weight on your chest, as though even breathing had become an uphill battle. A knot in your throat tightened with every passing second, making even the simple act of swallowing painful. You didn’t know what to do. The chaos of the moment was tearing your mind into pieces, your thoughts tangling into a knot so thick you couldn’t unravel it. 

You hadn’t done anything unusual. The day had started like any other. You made yourself some herbal tea, watched TV, read a book about baby development. You cleaned the house a little, then opened the packages that had arrived—items for your daughter’s room. 

Alone. 

Since the moment you arrived in this town, you’d always felt alone, but this was different. This was like falling into a deep, endless chasm, where there was nothing to grasp, no hand to reach for. You could feel your hands flailing in the void, desperately searching, yet finding nothing. 

The warm, sticky sensation spreading down your legs sent a jolt of panic through you. Your eyes flicked downward involuntarily, but you didn’t want to look. Yet it felt as if everything around you was betraying you, even the streetlamp outside, which cast its harsh glow on the spreading pool on the floor. You didn’t want to see it. You feared that seeing it would confirm your worst fears. Your eyes filled with tears, but you couldn’t cry. You wouldn’t cry. Would tears ease the crushing weight of this fear? You doubted it. 

You reached for your phone, but even your fingers trembled. Touching the screen, dialing a number, selecting a name—it all felt like an impossible task. The chaos in your mind blurred your thoughts. Everything was moving too fast and too slow all at once. Seconds stretched into eternities, yet time pressed on, dragging you deeper into helplessness. 

You hadn’t wanted this. You had left the island just for this pregnancy, determined to build a life here. And now, was it all going to be taken from you? After all the effort to adjust, after everything? 

You glanced around. The silence of the room pressed down on you like a weight. It felt as if the entire world had pulled away, leaving you stranded. You knew there were people—so many people—but none of them were close, not really. Placing your hands on your belly, you clung to the small hope that the motion could somehow quiet the storm of fear inside you. But it didn’t work. 

The voices of fear echoed in your mind: What if I’m too late? What if it’s over? What if this loneliness never ends? Each scenario was scarier than the last. You closed your eyes, but even the darkness offered no solace. The images in your head only fanned the flames of your terror. 

When you finally held the phone in your hand, you knew you had to choose someone to call. Should it be your mom? Or your dad? Maybe… someone else? But what if they couldn’t come? That thought pushed you deeper into despair. It suddenly felt as if the entire world had turned its back on you, as if every person was out of reach. The weight of isolation was crushing. 

Your hands were cold and clammy. As your fingers hovered over the screen, trying to pick a name, you felt frozen. You couldn’t move them. It was as though your brain had redirected all its attention to the fluid trickling down your legs and the stabbing pain in your abdomen. Panic consumed you, leaving you paralyzed and unsure of what to do. 

A quiet voice in your mind whispered, Everything will be okay. But it was impossible to believe. That voice was so faint, so far away, drowned out by the louder, darker thoughts. Reality felt so distant that even hope seemed like a luxury you couldn’t afford. While your mind scrambled for answers, your body refused to move. 

You tightened your grip on your belly, as though holding on harder could anchor you to something, anything. Alone in that dark, silent room, you had never felt smaller. The outside world was shut off from you, leaving only your fears, your thoughts, and the suffocating weight of solitude. 

Since moving to this town, you’d thought a lot about loneliness. But now, you truly understood its meaning. Loneliness wasn’t just sitting in silence. It wasn’t merely being by yourself. Loneliness was not having anyone to reach when you needed them most. It was feeling as though your voice couldn’t reach anyone, as though you were invisible. 

The trembling didn’t stop. Your eyes darted around, trying to focus on something, anything, but everything was blurry—not because you couldn’t see, but because you couldn’t concentrate. Nothing made sense in that moment. 

You searched for a way out. But maybe the only thing you could do was wait. That thought terrified you even more. Waiting... it made you feel so helpless, so powerless. But what else could you do? 

Tears welled up again as you struggled to breathe. But each breath felt heavier, each inhale pulling the loneliness deeper into your chest. That loneliness, like a black hole, seemed ready to devour you. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at the pool of liquid spreading on the floor. You couldn’t face it. If you didn’t look, maybe it would stay a bad dream. Maybe this was just paranoia playing tricks on your mind. 

Even though you could feel the warm liquid dripping down your legs, you clung to the hope that you’d wake up. That you’d open your eyes in bed and thank God it was just a nightmare. 

You wanted to wake up. You didn’t want to believe this was real. Not after everything you had done to adjust to this new life. Not after leaving the island to start fresh. 

You had left everything behind. Everyone. 

For a life with your baby. 

You had wanted this baby. Even with your initial doubts, you had wanted it. And for what? To have it taken from you? 

Your eyes shut tight as your hand clenched the phone and your other hand pressed harder against your belly. You wished the pain would stop, that the ache—so reminiscent of a menstrual cramp—would just go away. 

Only days ago, you’d noticed your belly start to show, a tiny swell that made you smile. You had cradled it with your hands, talked to it, even though you didn’t care if it could hear. You wanted it to know you were there. Just a few days ago, you’d been excited about buying clothes for it. 

For this? 

For it to be taken away? 

When you finally opened your eyes, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock. You wanted to block it out. You wanted the sensation in your legs to disappear. For a moment, you convinced yourself it was all in your head. But the warm trickle that followed was a harsh slap of reality. 

Your trembling eyes drifted downward. The sight of the blood pooled on the floor knocked the breath out of you. Your heart skipped, as if an elephant had perched on your chest. Your legs gave way. Falling to the floor hurt, but it was nothing compared to the pain in your chest. 

You had never seen them. They’d only been with you for five months, but the thought of that bond breaking—of losing them—felt like your heart was being ripped out. 

When you love something so deeply, does it always have to be taken away? Is that just the way life works? Had everything led to this moment? 

Had you fought with your family, with Rafe, for this? Had you left your entire life behind, moved to this town, just to lose your baby? 

Even your family had started to share your joy. They were thrilled for you, as ecstatic as you were. And now, for what? For this? 

Were you supposed to mourn?

To learn a lesson, did you really have to fall this hard? You hated it. You didn’t want to learn any more lessons. Not if they hurt this much. If growth meant falling like this, you were ready to stay exactly the same—stagnant, unchanging, and safe. 

The moment you felt a fragment of clarity, just enough to push panic aside, you called 911. You couldn’t afford to lose more time. It felt like your mind had snapped back into place, even if only temporarily. 

But you had no idea what you were saying. Your words felt foreign, disjointed, even as you tried to describe what was happening. They assured you they’d come to your home. They told you not to hang up.

Then you realized—you needed to call your family. You needed them with you. Right now, you just wanted to be back in Outer Banks, in your own house, surrounded by the people who had always been there for you. 

If you were there, you wouldn’t feel this crushing loneliness. They would be by your side. 

You didn’t even know how many times you tried. Your fingers repeatedly dialed your mom’s number, then your dad’s, over and over again. Each time, you were met with the same recorded message: unreachable. 

Still, you kept calling, clinging to that faint hope that someone, anyone, would answer. But each attempt ended the same way, the monotone voice echoing the same result. 

And then, without thinking, your fingers moved on their own. They dialed his number. In that moment, you didn’t care about shame or pride. All that mattered was that you needed help. You needed Rafe. Even if the chance was slim, even if it was just a sliver of hope, you needed him to answer. 

As the phone rang, your heart pounded so violently it felt like it would burst out of your chest. Each ring amplified the fragile hope blooming inside you. Your lips moved as if uttering a prayer: “Please pick up.” You needed someone—anyone—to be there, to tell you that everything was going to be okay. Tears streamed down your face as the call rang on, unanswered.

He wouldn’t ignore you, you told yourself. He wouldn’t turn you away. He’d come. You knew he would. He had to. You prayed he wasn’t still angry, that he didn’t hate you for not terminating the pregnancy. 

When the call ended without an answer, you didn’t stop. Your trembling hands hit redial without hesitation. Shame and pride were irrelevant now. You needed him. If he wouldn’t come, you needed him to reach your family. You were utterly alone otherwise. 

Alone. The word echoed like a hollow drumbeat in your chest. 

For a moment, time seemed to stop. The racing of your heart, the chaotic swirl of your thoughts, even your tears—all stilled in the suffocating silence of your own helplessness. But you didn’t give up. You called again. And again. Your trembling fingers barely functioned, struggling to tap the screen. But you kept trying.

Fuck pride. You needed help. You needed someone by your side, someone to hold you, someone to tell you it wasn’t the end. Your lips quivered as you let out a stifled sob. “Please…” When the call went to voicemail yet again, your shoulders shook with the weight of another unanswered prayer. 

Wasn’t this his baby too? Didn’t it matter to him? You hadn’t made this baby alone. Surely he would care. You didn’t need him to grieve with you. You just needed him here. And he would come. Rafe was a lot of things, but when it came down to it, he wouldn’t leave you stranded. 

Not you. 

You had to believe that. You clung to that hope like a lifeline, begging for it to still be true. 

Another sob tore through you, reverberating through the empty room. This time, it came from somewhere so deep inside that it left your chest heavy, crushed under the weight of despair. You prayed he’d answer.

You weren’t strong enough to endure this. 

You didn’t want to do this alone. You fought to steady your trembling lips, desperate to string together the words you’d need to say if he picked up—when he picked up. But once again, the line went dead.

This time, it felt like a door slamming in your face. But it wasn’t just rejection—it was the crumbling of a trust you hadn’t even realized you still held onto. Deep down, you had truly believed he would answer. That he’d help you. That he wouldn’t leave you to face this on your own. 

As the silence deepened, your hands fell to the cold floor, sticky with blood. You didn’t even care. You felt like everything you wanted, everything you’d dreamed of, was slipping through your fingers. Did you not deserve happiness? Had you done something so wrong to deserve this? 

You wanted to scream. To set the house on fire, to rip apart the tiny baby clothes you’d just bought. 

You nearly buried your face in your hands, but the sight of blood on your fingers stopped you. Frantically, you wiped them on your nightgown, trying to erase it. You wanted it gone—needed it gone. You wanted to forget everything that had happened today. 

The phone was still in your hand, your fingers gripping it like it held a flicker of hope. Rafe hadn’t answered. Your family hadn’t answered. Their silence only pushed you deeper into yourself. Your tears began to dry, replaced by a hollow ache gnawing at your insides. 

After your final attempt, you let the screen go dark. The reflection of your tear-streaked face stared back at you from the blackened screen, ghostly and unfamiliar. Your lips still trembled with silent cries, your voice barely audible even to yourself. 

Then, the phone buzzed. The unexpected vibration made you flinch. The screen lit up, and your heart stuttered before racing into overdrive. A message. 

When you saw the name, a fraction of the emptiness lifted. JJ. His name sat there like it belonged, as if the chaos hadn’t touched it. You opened the message, holding your breath. 

How’s it going with your new street animal buddies? Found yourself a soulmate yet?

It was stupid. Ridiculous. But somehow, in all its absurdity, that sarcastic tone cracked something open inside you. A tiny window of light broke through the storm. 

And yet, the relief was fleeting. Looking at the message, then back at the blood pooling on the floor, your emotions surged in a tangle of anger, helplessness, and unrelenting fear. 

You needed him. Right now. Without thinking, your trembling fingers scrolled back to his name.

The name on the screen made your eyes well up. JJ. So ordinary, so simple. Yet, at that moment, it felt like your only tether to life. He’d come. He would, wouldn’t he? 

With trembling hands, you pressed the call button. As you held the phone to your ear, the silence was broken only by the erratic pounding of your heart. Each ring sent a jolt of panic through you—what if he didn’t answer? “Please…” you whispered, barely audible. “Please pick up…”

It felt like you were losing your mind. Was this real? Had he really sent that message? 

“Hey, Princess. I noticed we’ve upped the calls lately. Can’t manage without me, huh—”

The distant sound of sirens reached your ears, and your lips quivered. Even JJ’s voice, with its usual cocky tone, felt like an anchor. Just hearing him talk, hearing that familiar teasing edge—it was everything. It made you feel as if you’d already done all you could. 

“I need you here.” 

The words came out shakily, and there was a pause on the other end of the line. One hand rested in your lap, the other gripping the phone, both stained with blood. 

To be honest, you were terrified. Not just about what might happen but about losing the baby. 

“What’s wrong?” His voice had lost its playful tone, replaced with a sharp seriousness. He was waiting for an answer, but you felt too drained, too scared, to put your fears into words. Saying the possibility of a miscarriage out loud felt impossible. 

How did he always know? How could he tell when you needed him the most? Was he like this with everyone, or just you? 

When he said your name, you tried to take a deep breath, but it came out broken and shallow. The sirens were getting closer. “I’m bleeding.” The weight of the words nearly crushed you as they left your lips, leaving you lightheaded—not from pain, but from the sheer gravity of it. 

You were so used to him being there. The idea of him leaving, of him not being there, was unbearable. “I called everyone, but—”

“I’m on the way. Did you call 911? Listen, I’ll be there, okay? Don’t worry. I’ll get there as fast as I can. You’ll be fine. You’re going to be fine. I’ll meet you at the hospital. Okay? I need you to say something.” His words were quick, determined, unwavering. 

You nodded instinctively, even though you knew he couldn’t see it. Even if this was your fate, you didn’t want to accept it. 

“I’m scared.” A sob escaped your lips as the sirens grew louder. They were on your street. 

“I’m coming. Everything’s going to be okay.”

—

Last night was ordinary. A night that fell short of expectations—not that Rafe knew what he was expecting anymore. He had become a ghost of himself, far from anything resembling pride. 

Had he ever been proud of himself, really? 

He couldn’t focus on the future or the present; he was stuck in the past. 

His eyes had searched for you everywhere. There wasn’t a corner of the Outer Banks he hadn’t roamed. The beach, parties, the country club—he’d scoured them all, just to catch a glimpse of you. 

He even shopped at the grocery store near your house, the one far from his own. Almost every day, he’d find himself there, grabbing a drink, some crackers, whatever he could justify, just to linger for a chance to see you. 

He missed your presence. Your scent. 

He missed the moments in bed with you—not the sex, but the times he held you in his arms, kissed you, and just existed in your warmth. He missed looking into your eyes, the overwhelming urge to tell you he loved you. 

But Rafe was a coward. He couldn’t admit that to anyone, not even himself. And you? You already knew. You didn’t need to hear it from anyone. 

He hadn’t told his father. He hadn’t told anyone—Topper, Kelce, Sarah, even Wheezie. Not that anyone else could really understand. 

You were the only one who truly knew him. And he’d lost you. Because he was a coward. 

He missed the sound of your voice. If he could go back, he’d want you to talk more in those old videos. He’d spend hours talking to you if he had the chance again. 

He couldn’t adjust to your absence. 

When he threw himself into alcohol, he didn’t think much about it. When had he ever truly sat down and thought anything through? All he knew was how to make impulsive decisions that wrecked his life. 

He couldn’t stand Topper and Kelce’s phases of chasing random girls, calling them over, laughing at nothing. Rafe’s mind, body, and soul belonged to you. He couldn’t bring himself to touch or even look at anyone else. 

Every time he closed his eyes, every time he tried to sleep, the only image in his head was your face. 

He hadn’t touched another woman. Not that he tried. He knew he couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the same. They wouldn’t be you. 

There was a time when he thrived on quick, meaningless flings. He hated attachments—blamed it on his childhood. He figured it was because he didn’t know what it meant to make love. He never let emotions into it. But with you, it was different. 

It was intoxicating—better than anything drugs had ever made him feel. It was addictive. 

He loved whispering “I love you” while he was with you. It made him feel like less of the mess he knew he was. But even then, he hadn’t said it enough—like the idiot he was. 

You had been gone from his life for almost four months, and the void was unbearable. Not even when he’d tried to quit drugs had he craved their presence the way he craved yours. 

It was like he was a teenager nursing his first heartbreak. And yet, somehow, this was the mildest punishment he thought he deserved for his cowardice. 

He’d worked so hard to get Ward’s approval, to finally be seen by his father. Ward was noticing him now, for the first time. He could see Rafe’s potential, and Rafe knew it. For once, it wasn’t Sarah he was looking at—it was him. 

For the first time, Ward saw Rafe accomplishing something for Cameron Development. For the first time, Rafe gave his father the impression that he was capable of more. After years of begging for attention, Rafe was finally getting it. 

But it had cost him you. 

He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his father’s approval. He couldn’t face that rejection again. Ward had finally placed a hand on his shoulder, and Rafe didn’t want to feel that hand pulled away. 

He hadn’t wanted to lose you, either. That was never part of the plan. It just… happened. Too fast. And he’d been too scared. 

Scared of seeing that disappointment in his father’s eyes again. 

Everyone around him noticed his spiraling depression, even Topper and Kelce. Though he never opened up to them, they could tell something was wrong. If they noticed, then everyone else must’ve, too. Not that Rafe cared. Nobody dared bring it up to him anyway. 

Under Topper and Kelce’s relentless pressure, he found himself at a party. Not to have fun. Not to let loose. But to see you. He spent the night searching for you, glancing around like you might walk in at any second. 

He looked for your old friends, the ones he’d seen you with before. He hoped you’d be there, even though he knew it was unlikely. You were pregnant. You probably wouldn’t come. But the possibility, however slim, was enough to drag him there. 

That same possibility kept him shopping near your place, day after day. 

For the chance of you. 

The more he didn’t see you, the more he drank, as if alcohol could drown out the ache. Nothing could fill the emptiness you left behind, but he still clung to his glass, hoping—maybe if he drank enough, he’d hallucinate you. 

He didn’t know how much he drank. It didn’t even feel like a party. Topper and Kelce flirted and joked with girls, but Rafe didn’t bother looking their way. He just drank and searched. 

You were the one who used to go to parties with him. You were his girl. And Rafe? He was yours. It wasn’t an open relationship; he wouldn’t have shared you with anyone. 

You used to pull him onto the dance floor. He’d groan and complain at first, but you always got your way. And once he gave in, he didn’t hate it. Not when he was touching you. He loved every moment he could hold you. 

Even now, he could hear your voice in his head, persuading him to dance. Him pretending to resist. You insisting, until he finally caved. What an idiot he’d been. He should’ve just said yes every time. Done anything you asked. 

His regrets were endless. His self-loathing, boundless. For being such a coward. For being a failure, yet again. 

You had believed in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself. Your faith in him had given him the courage to ask his father for opportunities, small as they were. And with you, he’d felt like he’d succeeded, just a little. 

Now he hated himself for choosing his father’s approval over you—and the baby. 

The thought of you moving on, raising a child without him, was unbearable. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you with your swollen belly, or playing with your child—his child. And the thought of not being there... 

He hated himself for fearing his father more than losing you. For crawling for scraps of his father’s affection like some pathetic creature. 

Which he was. 

And now, for the rest of his life, he would hate this moment—and himself—for choosing so poorly. 

Rafe thought he’d made it home thanks to Topper and Kelce. He vaguely remembered stumbling through the front door and collapsing into Wheezie’s arms. The idea that the tiny girl could hold him up was almost laughable. Somehow, he’d managed to make it to his room.

Wheezie had laid him down on his bed before leaving. You’d have to be an idiot not to notice something was wrong. She knew her brother too well. She hadn’t seen him this quiet, this withdrawn, in a long time.

You were always there with him.

When you were around, Wheezie could hear your laughter coming from Rafe’s room. Even when Rafe was being his usual insufferable self, you made him bearable. She never thought he had that side to him. Frankly, she wasn’t even sure it existed until you came along.

When Rafe opened his eyes the next morning, a sharp, pounding headache greeted him like a cruel companion. The remnants of last night’s party echoed in his skull. Sitting up in bed, hungover and disoriented, fragments of the night before started to drift back into focus—crowds, noise, laughter. The sunlight filtering through the curtains hit him square in the face, intensifying the pain. All he wanted was to throw up and stay in bed for the rest of the day.

He didn’t remember much, just that he went to the party and drank like it was his last night on Earth. Alcohol had been a more reliable friend than Topper or Kelce that night.

Rubbing his hands over his face, he tried to shake off the fog. The smell—his own and the room’s—was rancid, like a stale cocktail of sweat and regret.

He kicked off the covers, intending to get up, when his eyes landed on a single pill and a glass of water sitting on the bedside table. Without thinking, he swallowed the pill and drained the glass.

Stumbling to the window, he threw it open, letting fresh air seep in. He took a quick shower, practically praying for relief from the headache that felt like it was splitting his skull in two. The cold water shocked his system, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to crawl into a dark room and hide there for a week.

Out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around his neck and caught a glimpse of his reflection. Dark circles framed his eyes, his face bore the fatigue of a man who hadn’t truly rested in years. The weight pressing down on him wasn’t just from the alcohol; it was everything else. Everything he’d tried to suppress. “You really are a master at screwing things up,” he muttered bitterly at himself.

His gaze drifted around the room—clothes tossed haphazardly on the bed, an empty bottle lying on the floor, a lighter on the nightstand. Even the carpet under his feet made his skin crawl. He needed to pull himself together, maybe eat something, grab a coffee. But first, his phone.

It sat there on the edge of the table, an unspoken threat. Reaching for it, a wave of unease washed over him. He didn’t know who he’d talked to, what he’d said, or worse, what he’d texted. His fingers trembled as he picked it up and unlocked the screen.

Notifications flooded in—group chats, Instagram likes—and then, there they were. Three missed calls.

From you.

His breath hitched. He stared at the screen, the timestamp mocking him. Midnight. One after the other. His thumb hovered over the call log, uncertainty gripping him. Why had you called? 

And why at midnight?

It couldn’t be. Not you. Not after everything. You never made the first move, especially not in the middle of the night. 

For a moment, he considered calling you back. His thumb ghosted over your name. Should he? Maybe. Or maybe not. What if it led to the same arguments—about the baby, about why you didn’t want to stay, about why he let you go? He could still feel the weight of everything left unsaid between you, haunting him like a shadow.

He dropped the phone back onto the table, running his hands through his hair. Deep down, he knew these questions were rhetorical. No matter how hard he tried to convince himself otherwise, he hadn’t stopped thinking about you—or the life you might’ve had together.

Rising from the bed, he moved to his closet, grabbing the first shirt he saw. A hollow ache settled in his chest as he debated whether to call. The courage he’d relied on last night felt a thousand miles away.

Just then, the phone buzzed. Another notification. His heart skipped. Was it you? No. Someone else. But the fleeting hope that it might’ve been you twisted something inside him.

Setting the phone down again, he took a deep breath. *Calm down,* he told himself. But calming down was impossible. The unease coiled tighter, mixing guilt and longing into a cocktail of misery.

Without thinking too much, he hit your name and let the call go through. The ringing filled the room, amplifying his heartbeat. What if you were asleep? What if he woke you? He hated the idea of disturbing you.

The line clicked off before you answered. His worry deepened. What if something had happened to you? His fingers hovered, then dialed again, this time with more urgency.

The second call rang longer. Each tone ratcheted up his anxiety. And then, finally, the line connected. 

“Hey,” Your voice was quiet, cautious.

For a moment, Rafe’s words stuck in his throat. He tried to speak, but it felt like someone had stolen his voice. Finally, he managed, “Hey… uh, you called me?”

It sounded weak, tentative. But hearing your voice, even like this, sent a pang straight through him. He missed you more than he could put into words.

A pause. The silence stretched, making him wonder if you were about to hang up. Then you answered, “I was drunk.”

The words hit him like a slap. Drunk? That was it? Just a drunk dial? The thought made his stomach twist. Was it really that meaningless?

“Are you okay?” he asked, this time more firmly, though it took everything not to press harder.

“I’m fine.” But your tone was too quick, too dismissive. He knew you better than that. He could always tell when you were lying. But he didn’t push. Maybe he didn’t want to know the truth.

“Alright,” he said, not knowing what else to say. He wanted to keep you on the line, to hear more, to find some excuse to hold onto this moment.

“Okay,” you said, your voice faltering briefly before you caught yourself. “I have to go.”

And just like that, the call ended. The short beep that followed felt like a final blow, sealing the unbearable silence around him.

Rafe stared at the phone. Drunk. The word echoed in his head. It collided with another thought, one that sent a chill through him. Did she…?

Had you gone through with it? The decision he’d pushed you toward but never truly wanted? He’d convinced himself it was the right thing to do, but now the thought made his chest tighten unbearably.

He slumped back into his chair, burying his face in his hands. He didn’t know how to feel—relief, regret, or something else entirely. But one thing was clear: he hadn’t stopped loving you. And that realization hit him harder than anything else.

He glanced at the phone one last time. Your name was still there on the screen, a painful reminder of everything he’d lost. 

He thought about texting you but stopped. No words felt right. Maybe silence was all he deserved. After all, what was left to say when you’d already walked away for good?

[stylesispunk]

"Eternal whispers of you"

marcus acacius x f!reader

Summary: In a time of ancient empires, the forbidden love between a powerful general, Marcus Acacius, and the emperor's sister was met with tragedy. Their affair was discovered, and the emperor cursed his sister to live an eternal life, forced to witness Marcus die in every lifetime without the chance to love him fully again. After a thousand lives, would they meet again?

w.c: 13k (this was supposed to be 8k.)

warnings: angst, power imbalance, loss, separation, mentions of curse, some historical mistakes, the story also takes place in the modern day (I'm telling you) not proofreading. paragraphs in cursive indicate flashbacks.

a/n: This idea was better in my head, but the last Gladiator 2 trailer made me feel things and inspired me to write this. You will also notice inspiration from "The Age of Adeline" in this story. I hope you like it cuz it took me three days to write it. You will notice some inaccurate facts but it was for the sake of the story and my imagination, don't judge me, please. Happy reading and PLEASE share your thoughts with me. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. 💌

Dividers by @/saradika-graphics

********"

You were cursed to a life without an ending. Lonely and loveless, every day of your life or any love you could find wouldn't reciprocate and you were going to be condemned to see them grow old and die, and you would continue to live a life in an endless cycle of tragedy.

You were condemned to just tell stories about the man of your life, the one who had been murdered and punished to die without honor for your brother's poisoned mouth.

You became a traitor for the empire. But not cries out of shame or the dirty words of people hurt as much as the day you hold Marcus’s hand for the last time as his eyes closed in a forever eternity that you were going to live without him.

Not even death could put you both together in the same path. You were cursed to remember his love, and you were cursed to never see him again and to live a never-ending life without the love who made your life a field of dreams.

The night after your love affair with Marcus was discovered. The emperor, your brother, furious with your betrayal, condemned both of you. You were summoned to the imperial court, where your brother delivered the punishment. His words sting like venom, cursing Marcus to die dishonorably in front of your eyes.

That night still haunted you.

The imperial court was dimly lit by the flickering flames of torches, casting shadows across the towering marble columns. You stood at the center, your heart pounding like war drums in your chest. Your brother, sat upon his gilded throne, his eyes dark with fury. You could barely hear the words that escaped his lips, but their venom poisoned the air between you.

“Traitor,” he spat, his voice echoing through the chamber. “You have betrayed not only your empire but your blood.”

Your eyes flicked to Marcus, kneeling beside you, bound and bruised. The strong, unyielding general was barely recognizable under the weight of chains and despair. His gaze, however, remained fixed on you, calm, resolute, and filled with love that no curse could shatter.

Your brother’s face twisted with rage as he stood, his robes sweeping the floor like the wings of a vulture. “You,” he snarled, his finger pointing at Marcus, “will die with dishonor, like a common criminal for taking advantage of my sister. And you,” he turned to you, his eyes burning with hatred, “You will be cursed to an eternal life, loveless and alone. You will remember this betrayal every waking moment for the rest of your existence, and you will never know peace again.”

Tears pricked your eyes, but you did not flinch. The emperor’s voice rose like a storm. “You will watch him die, over and over, in your memory. And with every death you witness, you will be reminded that this is your doing. You will live forever, but you will die inside every day.”

With a gesture of his hand, the guards dragged Marcus away. His eyes never left yours, filled with an unspoken promise of love that neither time nor curse could take from you. You reached for him, your fingers grazing his as they pulled him further from you, his touch slipping away like sand between your fingers.

You screamed his name, but your voice was swallowed by the cold, empty hall. The weight of your brother’s words crashed down on you like a wave, and you fell to your knees. The curse had already begun.

The day of Marcus’s execution came far too soon.

They paraded him through the streets like a criminal, his once-glorious armor stripped from him, replaced with the rags of the condemned. The crowd jeered and spat, but you saw none of it. All you saw was Marcus, broken, yet still impossibly strong.

You stood at the front of the crowd, the place of honor reserved for the emperor’s family, forced to witness the final blow. As they prepared to end his life, your heart pounded in your chest, each beat screaming for you to do something, to save him.

But you were powerless.

Marcus turned his head toward you one last time, his eyes soft, filled with a love that had transcended the horror of the moment. His lips moved, forming words meant only for you.

“I will find you again.”

With that, the sword fell.

The world shattered around you. You dropped to your knees as the crowd roared with approval, but the noise was drowned out by the sound of your heart breaking. You clutched your chest, feeling the jagged pieces of your soul tearing at you, but the pain wasn’t enough to free you from the curse. You couldn’t escape. The curse wouldn’t let you.

You watched as Marcus’s body was dragged away, knowing you would never hold him again.

++

After Marcus’ death, you begin to experience your immortality firsthand. You don’t age, but the world around you does. At first, the pain is too great, and you isolate yourself, haunted by the memory of his final moments. You visit his grave every day, talking to him as if he were still alive.

There’s a sense of numbness, a hollow ache where his presence used to be. You realize the gravity of your curse the first time you notice gray hairs on the friends and people around you, but none on yourself. While others grow old and die, you remain the same, a constant in a world of change.

You slowly started to see the empire fall, and with it the death caught your family, one by one. Geta was the first, the middle of a family you now considered cursed. The, your mother and father met the same fate, and finally, Caracalla met death too, murdered by a soldier. He died without honor and he would be remembered as the cruelest imperator, you would make sure of it.

You were the only left from the fallen family, you could have saved the empire from breaking into pieces, but you weren’t going to sacrifice any second from your eternal life on it, so you erased yourself from Rome and from the history of it.

You left Rome behind, watching the city fall to ruin, its power crumbling with each passing year. The empire you had once known, that had been ruled by your family, was now a memory, a fading echo in the vastness of time. You no longer belonged there, and you had no desire to preserve what had been lost. The weight of your curse consumed you, drowning out any loyalty you might have once felt.

Instead, you wandered, drifting across continents and centuries. At first, you tried to hide, retreating to the furthest corners of the earth, away from people, away from the pain of watching those around you wither and die. Each new connection, each fleeting friendship, was a reminder of the man you could never forget, of Marcus's warm touch and his promise to find you again, unfulfilled.

But the world was relentless, and no matter how much you tried to isolate yourself, it continued to grow, to change. Civilizations rose and fell, each one leaving its mark on history, yet you remained untouched by time. You began to realize the truth of your brother’s curse, not just the eternity of your life, but the eternal loneliness that accompanied it.

The worst part wasn’t just the loss of your family or Marcus’s death; it was the fact that no matter where you went or how much time passed, you could never escape the memory of him. The grief was always there, lingering just beneath the surface, a shadow following you wherever you went. You carried the weight of his death, not just as a memory, but as an unending, crushing reality that haunted your dreams and your waking moments.

In the centuries that followed, you watched as kingdoms rose from the ashes of the Roman Empire. You saw the birth of new religions, new governments, new ways of thinking, but you remained on the outside, forever watching, forever unchanged. While others lived their lives, you were a ghost, slipping through the cracks of history, unnoticed and unseen.

But you could never forget Marcus. No matter how hard you tried to distance yourself from the pain, he was always there in your thoughts. His memory became your only companion, the one thing that time could never take from you. You told stories of him, of his strength, his courage, his love, but never revealed the truth. They were just tales to those who listened, history that no one could verify, but for you, they were the only way to keep his memory alive.

You returned to his grave as often as you could, though as the centuries passed, even that became more difficult. The world changed around you, the landscapes shifted, cities were built and destroyed, and the places you had once known became unfamiliar. His grave, once a sacred place for you, was lost to time. It was one of the last connections you had to him, and when it was gone, it felt as though a piece of you had been taken too.

There were moments when you tried to end your existence, hoping to find Marcus in the afterlife. You throw yourself into battles, attempt poison, even seek out dark magic, but nothing works. The curse prevented any harm from lasting.

The curse ensures that you never forget Marcus, his face, his touch, the sound of his voice. You find yourself returning to places that remind you of him, like the old battlefield where you first met, or the quiet corners of the palace where you shared stolen moments.

You often found yourself returning to places that held memories of Marcus. The battlefield where you first met, where he had caught your eye in the midst of the chaos, remained sacred to you. You would stand there, recalling the way your heart raced when he first spoke to you. The palace too, though long gone, remained vivid in your mind. You could still hear the echo of your laughter as you shared secret moments in the quiet corners, moments stolen from the prying eyes of the court.

But none of these memories could fill the void that had been left behind. You were a shell of who you had once been, and your existence was now defined by the absence of Marcus.

You became a witness, watching people fall in love, create families, grow old, and die. It was a cycle you had been denied, and it filled you with both longing and bitterness. The worst part of your immortality wasn't the endless life itself, it was the endless isolation, the inability to ever truly connect with anyone again.

In the present day, the weight of centuries finally began to take its toll. You had lived through empires, witnessed the birth of new nations, and seen countless lives come and go. Yet, no matter where you went or how much time passed, you remained haunted by Marcus’s memory. He was always there, a specter in your mind, the only constant in your immortal existence.

After wandering aimlessly for decades, you found yourself drawn to history once again, not just as a passive observer, but with a deep desire to preserve the past.

You were in a quiet bookstore, surrounded by shelves of dusty books. Your hands ran over the spines of history texts as you stopped at a volume about Ancient Rome. The familiar symbols, the names, even the dates of battles were etched in your mind like scars. You paused on a chapter dedicated to General Marcus Acacius, your Marcus. He was remembered as a hero, a man of honor, but the truth of his death, the betrayal, has been lost to history. You smiled at the thought that even Caracalla’s venom words, didn’t tinted Marcus’s name on history.

The memories fled back in an instant, the first time you saw Marcus commanding his troops, his fierce yet kind eyes, the way he smiled when no one else was looking. It was a painful nostalgia, one that made your chest tighten. You’ve avoided facing the truth about the Roman Empire for so long, unable to face the weight of those memories. But you realized now that telling Marcus’ story was the only way to keep him alive.

You left the bookstore, a decision already made in your heart. You would become a history teacher, and through your lessons, you would keep Marcus alive in a way that no curse could take from you.

At the first day in the classroom. The desks were arranged neatly, sunlight streaming through the windows, and your students were filing in. You stood at the front of the room; your hands rested on the chalkboard. It was strange, being back on an important role where you were meant to pass on knowledge. But for you, this was more than just education, it was a form of remembrance.

You felt a mixture of nerves. This was a chance to talk about Marcus again, to give him the honor he was stripped of in life. You weren’t sure if you were becoming crazy through this endless circle, and you didn’t know if you still were twisting the knife of endless memories you had of him, but you know that this was the closest you had been to him. As you students settled in, you introduce yourself, with a new of the thousand names you had had during your long life. You dove into your lecture about the Roman Empire. When you mentioned Marcus, your voice faltered just slightly, but you pressed on, determined to honor him in the only way left to you.

As you stood before your students, your mind wandered back to the times when you were with Marcus, the memories flooding in, unbidden but unstoppable. The classroom around you faded, and the vivid images of the Roman Empire took over. You were no longer in the present, but back in the heart of ancient Rome, standing beside him, your love, your general.

It was a warm summer evening in Rome. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in shades of deep orange and purple. You and Marcus were hidden away in a secluded corner of the palace, stealing a moment of peace amid the constant threat of discovery. His armor had been discarded, instead he was wearing his cloak as if it could erase the responsibility off his shoulders. In that moment, he was not a general, he was just Marcus, yours, the man you loved.

His hand brushed against yours, sending a shiver up your spine. You had to be careful, even here. The walls had ears, and the court was always watching. But with him, you found yourself willing to take the risk. The world outside your bubble of stolen moments didn't matter. Not the empire, not your brother, not the looming consequences. Just Marcus.

"You should go," he whispered, his voice low and rough. "It's too dangerous."

But you shook your head, stepping closer, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. "I don't care," you whispered back, your heart racing. "Let them find out. Let the whole world know. I love you, Marcus."

He looked down at you, his dark eyes softening as they always did when he gazed at you. He placed a gentle hand on your cheek, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "I love you too," he said, his voice filled with the same intensity you had come to depend on, but laced with sorrow. "But your family will not be kind to us.”

You knew he was right. You both did. The affair was treason, a betrayal to the honor of your family, to your brother. But the pull between you was too strong, too undeniable. It had started innocently enough, during the long strategy meetings Marcus held with your brother. You had caught glimpses of him, and over time, those stolen glances had become longer, lingering. Before you knew it, you were sneaking away from the palace, meeting him in secret, hiding your love from the watchful eyes of Rome.

In that moment, though, none of it mattered. He leaned down and kissed you, softly at first, as if testing the boundaries of your defiance, then more passionately, as if the whole world could burn for all he cared. You melted into his embrace, letting yourself get lost in the heat of the moment, your mind clouded by desire and the need to be close to him.

You snapped back to the present, your heart still racing as if you had just been pulled from Marcus’s arms. The students stared at you, waiting. You realized you had paused in the middle of your lecture, lost in the memory. Quickly, you cleared your throat, steadying your voice before continuing.

"General Marcus Acacius was one of the finest commanders Rome ever produced. He led with strength and honor, but..." you hesitated, a lump forming in your throat. "But history doesn’t always remember those who deserve it most. He died in dishonor, stripped of his title and his legacy.”

Your students watched you, unaware of the deep, personal meaning those words held for you. They were listening to a lesson, but you were recounting the loss of your greatest love.

And that’s how week after week, your lectures became more detailed. The students were captivated by your knowledge of the Roman Empire, unaware that you were telling them stories of your own life. When you spoke of the campaigns Marcus led, your tone softened, and the students sense the reverence in your words. They asked questions about him, and you answer with more care than you do for any other figure in Roman history.

Speaking about Marcus became a bittersweet ritual. You felt the same pain as you did centuries ago, but there was a strange comfort in saying his name aloud. With every story you tell, you feel like you were giving him a second life, bringing him back into the world if only for a moment. The students didn’t know it, but they were learning about a man who shaped you in ways that any book could never explain.

After class, you often sat alone in your office, a single lamp casting a dim glow. Old books of the Roman Empire were spread out before you, but your mind drifted away. You thought about the moments you shared with Marcus, the way he used to hold you after long days of battle, the whispered promises of a future that was stolen from you both.

The loneliness that had followed you for centuries still lingered, but teaching about him helped ease it, if only slightly. It was as though every time you speak his name, you were defying the curse, keeping his memory alive despite the gods’ punishment. But there were nights when the pain was too much, and you felt the weight of eternity pressing down on you. You wonder if Marcus could hear you, if somewhere, in some distant place, he knows you were still fighting to keep his honor intact.

It was late, the room lit only by the flicker of a single oil lamp. You were lying beside Marcus, the cool night seeping through the cracks of the window shutters. The war outside had raged on for weeks, but in this quiet moment, there was only the two of you, wrapped in the warmth of each other's presence.

His arm was draped across your waist, his fingers tracing delicate patterns over the back of your hand. His touch was gentle, a contrast to the hardened general the world saw. Here, with you, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. You shifted slightly, laying your head on his chest, feeling the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath you.

"You know we can't keep this up forever," he whispered, his voice thick with weariness and something more. Fear, perhaps. Or resignation.

You didn’t reply right away. You knew the truth of his words there was always the looming threat of discovery, of punishment. But in this moment, you wanted to pretend, just for a little longer, that the world outside didn’t exist. That this wasn’t forbidden. That you weren’t living on borrowed time.

He caressed your hand, the roughness of his calloused fingers a stark reminder of the battles he fought, the sacrifices he made. "I would give it all up, you know," he continued, his voice soft, barely audible. "The empire, the glory, everything. Just to stay here with you."

Your heart twisted painfully at his words. You knew he meant them, and you wanted to believe in a future where such sacrifices could lead to a peaceful life together. But you both knew better. The weight of duty and the ever-watchful eyes of the emperor, your brother, were never far from your thoughts.

"You don't have to give up anything, Marcus," you whispered, bringing your hand to his cheek, guiding his gaze to yours. "I love you as you are. And for as long as we have, that will be enough for me."

But even as you said the words, a sinking feeling settled in your chest. You had always known that the empire was a ruthless machine, and it would not allow your love to exist without a price. Still, you closed your eyes, pressing your lips to his, letting the kiss linger as though you could keep time at bay, as though you could stop the inevitable.

When you pulled away, Marcus smiled faintly, his thumb brushing your lower lip. "If only we could stay like this forever," he murmured.

You leaned back in your chair, the weight of eternity pressing down once again. Could Marcus hear you now? Could he feel your longing across the vast time? You didn’t know. But you hoped, no, you believed that somehow, somewhere, he still held you in his heart, just as you held him in yours.

One day, a student stayed behind after class, intrigued by the depth of your knowledge about Marcus Acacius. “It’s like you knew him,” she said, half-joking. “How do you know so much about his life? There’s not much written about him in the sources we have.”

For a moment, you’re taken aback. You’ve been careful to keep your personal connection to Marcus hidden, but the student’s words strike a chord. You felt the urge to tell her the truth, that you did know him, that you loved him, that you were cursed to live on without him. But instead, you smile softly and say, “I’ve studied him for a very long time. Some stories just stay with you.”

The student nodded, satisfied with your answer, but as she left, you felt a pang of longing. You wished, just once, you could tell someone the truth. But you know the world wasn’t ready for your story. It’s a secret you’ll carry alone.

As the years passed, teaching became your refuge. You taught more than just facts and dates, you taught the human side of history, the emotions and relationships that shaped the past. Through your stories, Marcus lived on in the minds of your students, and that gave you a small sense of peace.

The curse still lingered, and the pain of losing Marcus never would fade completely. But through your lectures, you’ve found a way to keep his memory alive. You couldn’t bring him back, but you could ensure that he was remembered, not as the man who was unjustly killed, but as the honorable general who loved you. In that way, you fought against the curse, turning your suffering into something meaningful.

One afternoon, as your students filled out of the classroom, you noticed one student lingering behind, gathering his things slowly. You've been watching him for a few weeks now, and it hasn’t escaped your attention that he always sat alone, quiet and withdrawn. His name was David, and though he never caused any disruptions, he seemed distant from the rest of the class, lost in thought, barely engaging with the lessons.

You decide it was time to reach out.

After the classroom emptied, you approached David as he slanged his backpack over one shoulder. His eyes remained downcast, and you sensed a heaviness about him, something familiar in the way he seemed to carry the world on his shoulders.

“David,” you said gently, “can I speak to you for a moment?”

He glanced up, surprised, but nodded. You gestured toward the front of the room, and he hesitantly followed you. The two of you sat across from each other, the quietness of the empty classroom made the moment more intimate.

You saw something familiar on him, soft brown eyes

You looked at David and felt a strange sense of recognition. His soft brown eyes held a weight that was all too familiar, reminding you of someone you had long ago lost. The resemblance was subtle, but it struck a chord deep within you, like an echo from a past you had tried to forget.

"Is everything alright?" you asked gently, hoping to break through the wall he had built around himself.

David shrugged, staring down at the desk in front of him. “I’m fine,” he mumbled, but you could tell from his tone that he wasn’t.

You leaned forward, trying to catch his gaze. “It’s okay if you're not. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

He glanced up briefly, then away again, the silence between you heavy with unspoken thoughts. There was something more than just teenage angst weighing on him. Something deeper.

“Do you live with your parents?” you asked, thinking you could reach out to them, perhaps offer a meeting to better understand what was troubling him.

David shook his head slowly. “No, it’s just me and my dad.”

His words were like a key, unlocking a door that had remained sealed for centuries. The moment he mentioned his father, a strange chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t explain it, but something inside you shifted, as if the ground beneath your feet had suddenly become unstable.

Before you could ask another question, David continued. “He…he works a lot, doesn’t talk much about stuff. But he cares. I know he does.”

You nodded, sensing a familiar loneliness in his words, one that mirrored your own. “I’d like to meet him,” you said, though the idea stirred something unsettling within you. “Maybe we could have a talk, see if we can help you feel more connected here.”

David shrugged again but didn’t resist. “I guess. I’ll let him know.”

A few days later, you arranged for a meeting with David’s father. As the time approached, you couldn’t shake the unease that had settled into your bones since the conversation with David. There was something about him, about his eyes, his manners, that reminded you of Marcus in a way that felt impossible. But centuries had taught you that the impossible often had a way of finding you.

The classroom door creaked open, and you looked up from your desk. David walked in first, looking a bit anxious, followed by his father. The moment you saw him, your breath caught in your throat.

It was Marcus.

He stood there, lingering by the door, his eyes locking with yours. Though time had passed, and he appeared as someone entirely new, the essence of him, his presence, his soul, was unmistakable. He looked at you with a furrowed brow, as if trying to place you, the same soft brown eyes that had haunted your dreams staring back at you in the flesh.

He stepped in slowly, a tall man with broad shoulders, dark eyes, and a calm yet commanding presence. He looked almost exactly the same as he did all those centuries ago, his hair was streaked with gray, and there was a tiredness around his eyes, but the face, the face was unmistakable.

It was Marcus.

Your heart pounded violently in your chest, and for a split second, you felt dizzy, as if the ground had shifted beneath your feet. Memories fled back, so overwhelming it was as if you were living them all over again: his voice, his touch, the way he smiled at you in those quiet moments when no one else was around. Your throat tightened, your hands trembled, and you could barely breathe. You waited for centuries, living in the shadow of his absence, knowing he would never return to you. And yet, here he is.

You’re stared at a man who didn’t remember the life you shared. A man who looked like Marcus but had no idea of the love, the pain, the eternity you’ve endured without him.

He didn’t recognize you, of course. How could he? You’ve lived for centuries, unchanged, while he, he’d been given a new life, one free from the curse that bound you. He cleared his throat, clearly waiting for you to speak, and it was only then that you realize you’d been standing there, staring.

“Uh… I’m David’s father,” he says, extending a hand. His voice was deeper now, worn by time, but the tone. It was Marcus. It was him.

You forced yourself to take his hand, and the moment your fingers touched, the air in the room seemed to thin. The connection was immediate, electric, and your mind spun with the impossibility of what’s happening. You shook his hand, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep from falling apart.

“I’m… I’m David’s teacher,” you managed to say, your voice shaky. You gave him your name, though you were almost certain the sound of it, the familiarity of it, would spark something in him. But nothing. He was just a man, living an ordinary life, unaware of the past you shared.

He sat down across from you, unaware that this is the most surreal moment of your long, cursed life.

“David’s mentioned he’s been struggling,” he began, looking down at his son, and there was concern in his voice. “I’ve been worried about him. I thought maybe it had to do with his schoolwork.”

You forced yourself to focus, trying to push down the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you. How could Marcus be here, sitting in front of you, unchanged yet completely different? He didn’t recognize you, he couldn’t. He had lived and died, while you had remained frozen in time. This man, David’s father, had no knowledge of the centuries of pain you had carried or the love you had lost.

“Yes, David has been a little distant,” you managed to say, your voice barely steady. You glanced at David, who sat quietly next to his father, unaware of the storm brewing inside you. “He’s a bright student, but I’ve noticed he’s been… struggling to engage.”

Marcus—no, not Marcus, David’s father—nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, we’ve had a rough few months,” he admitted, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “I’ve been working a lot, and it’s been just the two of us since his mother left. I think it’s been harder on him than I realized.”

The way he spoke, the cadence of his words, the soft concern in his voice, it was Marcus. Your heart ached with the familiarity of it, but the reality crashed down on you just as quickly. He didn’t know who you were. He didn’t remember anything about the life you had shared, about the love you had lost. To him, you were just another teacher, another stranger.

“I understand,” you replied, trying to keep your voice level. “Maybe we can work together to help him feel more connected. Sometimes, just having a consistent presence can make all the difference.”

As you spoke, your eyes couldn’t help but drift back to him, trying to reconcile the man sitting in front of you with the one who had held you centuries ago. He was so close and yet so impossibly far away. He had no memory of you, no recollection of the love that had once bound you together. It was both a blessing and a curse—he was free from the torment that had plagued you for centuries, but you were left alone in your knowledge of what you had once shared.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” he said, glancing at David with a softness that made your chest tighten. “I want to make sure he’s okay. It’s been tough on both of us.”

You nodded, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on you. This was your Marcus, but not your Marcus. He was a father now, concerned about his son, living a life you had never been a part of.

The meeting wrapped up quickly after that. You offered some advice, discussed possible ways to help David, but all the while, your thoughts were consumed by the impossibility of the situation. As they both left the room, Marcus lingered for a moment by the door, his eyes meeting yours once again.

“I appreciate you taking the time,” he said quietly. “I know it’s not easy, but… it means a lot.”

You nodded, unable to trust your voice. “Of course.”

He gave you a small, almost hesitant smile before he turned and left, his footsteps echoing in the hallway. And then you were alone, the weight of your endless existence pressing down on you once more.

As you sat there, staring at the door through which he had just walked, you realized the cruel twist of fate you now faced. Marcus had been given another chance at life—a chance to live without the burden of the past, without the curse that had chained you to eternity. But you, you remained the same, trapped in an endless cycle of love and loss.

As you sat there in the quiet, the memories of Marcus flooded your mind—his voice, his touch, the way he looked at you all those centuries ago. You were lost in the whirlwind of it when you suddenly heard footsteps approaching. Your heart quickened, and before you could even turn, you knew who it was.

David’s father-Marcus- stood in the doorway again, hesitating for a moment. His brow furrowed in thought, as though something was tugging at the edges of his consciousness, something familiar that he couldn’t quite place. He cleared his throat, and when you finally met his eyes, your heart nearly stopped.

“I know this might sound strange,” he begins, his voice softer now, uncertain. “But… have we met before?”

The question hit you like a punch to the gut. For centuries, you had dreamed of hearing those words, of him somehow remembering you, but now that it was happening, you didn’t know how to respond. How could you explain what was beyond comprehension? That you had loved him deeply, that you had lived lifetimes while he had been reborn, oblivious to the pain you still carried?

You forced a smile, trying to hide the turmoil inside you. “I… I don’t think so,” you said, though your voice wavered slightly.

He looked at you closely, his eyes searching your face, as if trying to pull a long-forgotten memory to the surface. For a fleeting moment, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—the curse wasn’t as strong as you thought. Maybe some part of him did remember.

“There’s just something familiar about you,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a gesture you remembered all too well. “It’s strange… like I’ve seen you before. Or… I don’t know.” He gave a sheepish laugh. “Maybe I’m just overthinking it.”

You felt your breath catch. It would be so easy to tell him the truth, to give in to the temptation of finally revealing who you really were. But what good would that do? He was living a new life, and you had no place in it.

“Maybe we’ve crossed paths somewhere before,” you replied, your voice steadying even as your heart ached. “The world can be small like that.”

He nodded, but you could see the doubt lingering in his eyes. “Yeah, maybe.” He looked down at the ground for a moment, then back up at you. “Thanks again for everything. I really appreciate it.”

You nodded, offering him a smile that felt like a lie. “Of course. Take care.”

With that, he gave you one last look—one that made your chest tighten—and turned to leave. As his footsteps echoed down the hallway, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had made the right choice in keeping the truth hidden.

For the first time in centuries, you weren’t sure what your future held. All you knew was that Marcus was out there again, living a life you could never be a part of. And once again, you were left with the memories, the only thing that time and the curse had not been able to take from you.

Alone in your office, the weight of eternity pressed down on you more heavily than ever before.

A few days passed, but the encounter with David’s father lingered in your mind like a ghost. You went through your routine, teaching classes, grading papers, keeping up the mask you had worn for centuries. But beneath the surface, the storm raged on. You could still feel the weight of his gaze, the unspoken recognition that had passed between you. He didn’t know the truth, but something inside him remembered.

Meanwhile, across the city, Marcus found himself wrestling with a strange, unshakable feeling. It had been there ever since he met you at the school, a persistent pull that gnawed at him in quiet moments. He tried to push it aside, rationalize it as nothing more than stress, but no matter what he did, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

At first, it was just small flashes—your face as you had looked at him, the way your voice had trembled ever so slightly when you spoke. There was something familiar about you, something that stirred a sense of déjà vu he couldn’t explain. And then, the dreams began.

They started out hazy at first, fragments of images that disappeared as soon as he woke. A battlefield, the clash of swords, and always…you. Standing there in the distance, watching him. He couldn’t make sense of it, and every morning he woke with the same unsettled feeling gnawing at him.

It got worse with each passing day. He found himself driving by the school on his way to work, glancing at the building as if he might see you standing there. He caught himself wondering what you were doing, if you remembered him in some strange way too. It didn’t make sense, but the pull was real, undeniable.

One night, after tossing and turning in bed, Marcus sat up, running a hand through his hair in frustration. The dreams had returned again, this time more vivid than ever. In them, you had been lying beside him, your fingers intertwined with his as he whispered something he couldn’t quite remember. The sensation was so real, so intense, that he had woken with his heart racing, the image of your face burned into his mind.

He couldn’t keep ignoring it.

The next day, after dropping David off at school, Marcus found himself walking back to the classroom where he had first met you. He didn’t have a clear plan, only a need to see you again, to understand why this strange connection existed between the two of you.

When he arrived, he stood outside the door, hesitating for a moment. What would he even say? He didn’t know if he was ready for whatever this was, or if you would even feel the same pull. But the need to know, to see you, overpowered the doubts.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked softly on the door and waited.

Inside the classroom, you had been in the middle of organizing papers when the knock startled you. You weren’t expecting anyone, and your heart leapt in your chest at the possibility that it could be him. You took a deep breath before opening the door, bracing yourself for whatever was to come.

When you saw Marcus standing there, his familiar brown eyes looking at you with that same confusion and intensity, you knew this moment had been coming. His presence was overwhelming, and for a brief moment, it was as if centuries fell away and you were back in that palace with him, before the curse, before the loss.

“I’m sorry for dropping by like this,” he said, his voice softer than you remembered, though the same cadence was there. “I just… I’ve been thinking about our meeting the other day. I can’t shake this feeling that there’s something—”

He trailed off, searching for the right words, clearly struggling to articulate the pull he was feeling.

You stood there, your heart pounding, knowing that this conversation was teetering on the edge of something dangerous, something you couldn’t fully control.

“Something familiar?” you finished for him, your voice almost a whisper.

His eyes widened slightly, and he nodded. “Yeah. Exactly that.” He ran a hand through his hair, looking almost embarrassed. “I know it sounds crazy, but since I met you, it’s like I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. I keep having these…dreams, and it doesn’t make any sense, but it feels like I’ve known you before.”

Your heart pounded at his words, the weight of centuries crashing down on you all at once. His admission felt like a thread connecting the past to the present, something fragile and dangerous. You had never expected this—Marcus remembering, even if only in fragmented dreams. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the confusion he was trying so hard to make sense of.

You tried to steady your breath, knowing you couldn’t tell him the truth, not yet. It would unravel everything. But his presence, the way he looked at you as if he had known you for lifetimes, made it impossible to keep your emotions in check.

“I’m sure it’s just… coincidence,” you said softly, your voice betraying the turmoil inside you. “People get those feelings sometimes, don’t they? Like they’ve met someone before.”

He studied you for a moment, his brow furrowing. “Maybe.” But he didn’t sound convinced. He took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s not just that. It’s something more. And I don’t understand why, but I feel like… I should know you. Like I’m supposed to know you.”

Your pulse quickened. It was dangerous, this line you were walking. If he kept pushing, if he kept searching for answers, the curse could be exposed. Yet, the way his eyes searched yours made your resolve falter. It was Marcus standing before you, but not the Marcus you had known. This was a man who had been granted a new life, free from the past that had chained you both.

“I’m just a teacher,” you said, forcing a small smile. “We only met a few days ago.”

He nodded, but the crease between his brows deepened, as if he was debating with himself, wrestling with whether to leave things be or push further. He took another breath, as though on the verge of saying something else, but then stopped himself, shaking his head slightly.

“I don’t usually do this,” he said, almost to himself, his voice low, hesitant. “But… would you like to get coffee sometime? I mean, not as David’s teacher, but just as… us.”

The question hung in the air between you, and you felt the ground shift beneath your feet. You had lived through countless lives, avoided countless connections, and yet here was Marcus, in this new form, asking you to start something again. It was as if fate was daring you to test the boundaries of the curse.

You hesitated, your heart torn between the longing you had carried for centuries and the knowledge that this was a path filled with danger. If he remembered more, if the past began to bleed into the present, what would that mean for him—for both of you?

“I…” You swallowed, unsure of what to say. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

His face fell slightly, disappointment flickering in his eyes. But then he smiled, trying to mask it. “I get it. I just—there’s something about you…”

Your chest tightened at his words. He was offering you an out, a way to walk away from this, to keep the curse at bay. But deep down, the thought of letting him go again, of walking away from the man you had loved for centuries, felt unbearable.

“I’ll think about it,” you whispered, almost afraid of your own answer.

He nodded, offering you a small, understanding smile. “Take your time.” His eyes lingered on you for a moment longer, searching for something he couldn’t quite find. “I’ll see you around.”

And then, he turned to leave, the weight of his unspoken questions hanging in the air like a ghost. You watched him go, your heart aching with the knowledge that fate was once again drawing you both into its web.

The door closed behind him, and you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. This was only the beginning, and you knew it. The past had a way of finding you, no matter how much time had passed.

A few days later, the school hosted a parent-teacher meeting. The hallways buzzed with the low hum of voices, the shuffle of papers, and the occasional sound of children darting between classrooms. You had prepared for a busy evening, but the thought of seeing Marcus again lingered in the back of your mind, an undercurrent to everything else.

You were speaking with another parent when, out of the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of him. He was standing near the entrance, casually scanning the room. For a moment, he looked lost in thought, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that tugged at your heart. And then, as if sensing your gaze, his eyes met yours.

The world seemed to pause.

The warmth of his smile was immediate, softening his features in a way that was both disarming and comforting. It was as though, in that brief moment, everything else in the room faded away. The connection between you, the pull that had been simmering beneath the surface since that first meeting, was undeniable. His eyes lingered on you, full of recognition that he couldn’t quite place, yet something deep inside of him understood.

As the conversation with the other parent wrapped up, you felt Marcus slowly making his way toward you, weaving through the crowded room. Your heart raced, knowing that whatever happened next, you wouldn’t be able to pretend that the past didn’t exist—not for much longer.

“Hi,” he greeted you, his voice warm and easy as he stopped in front of you.

“Hi,” you replied, your voice barely steady as you met his gaze.

He glanced around briefly before looking back at you. “Busy night?”

You nodded, the weight of the moment making it hard to find words. “Yeah. A lot of parents to talk to.”

Marcus gave a small chuckle. “I guess I’m one of them.” But the tone of his voice suggested he had more in mind than just the usual parent-teacher talk. His eyes searched yours again, that same sense of familiarity clouding his expression.

“You’ve been on my mind,” he admitted softly, leaning in just enough so that his words wouldn’t be overheard by anyone else. “I know it’s probably crazy, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the other day. And… about you.”

Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening at his words. He was so close now, and you could feel the intensity radiating off him, the same intensity that had bound you together in another life.

“I…” You hesitated, knowing the danger in getting too close, in letting yourself fall into the old patterns. But something in the way he looked at you, the softness in his expression, made it impossible to resist. “I’ve been thinking about it too.”

His smile grew, a flicker of relief crossing his face. “I’m glad it’s not just me.”

You could see the uncertainty in his eyes, the same battle he was fighting inside himself—the inexplicable connection, the way the past seemed to bleed into the present even though he couldn’t understand why.

“I know we’re at a parent-teacher meeting,” he said, his voice a bit lower now, “but maybe after this, we could grab that coffee? Well, we could make it, a dinner. I’m still trying to make sense of this, of what I’m feeling, and I’d really like to talk to you… if you’re open to it.”

Your heart ached at the question, knowing that whatever happened, this was Marcus reaching out to you again, even if he didn’t remember the lives you had shared. You felt the weight of the curse pressing down on you, but for the first time in centuries, the idea of keeping your distance felt unbearable.

“I’d like that,” you said, surprising yourself with how easily the words came out.

His eyes lit up at your response, and he smiled again, this time a bit more confidently. “Great. I’ll wait for you after the meeting.”

And with that, he gave you a nod before moving off to join the other parents, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding with anticipation, fear, and hope all at once. You knew this meeting would be the beginning of something far more complicated than either of you could imagine.

++

The rest of the parent-teacher meeting passed in a blur. You were aware of the conversations happening around you, but your mind was somewhere else—focused on what was to come. Marcus had invited you for dinner, a simple gesture that felt monumental in the context of your tangled past. Every minute felt heavier with anticipation, knowing that after so many lifetimes of loss, this was your chance to be near him again, even if he didn’t remember.

When the meeting finally ended, you gathered your things and made your way toward the entrance. You spotted Marcus waiting by the doors, hands in his pockets, eyes searching the crowd. As soon as he saw you, that familiar warmth spread across his face, and for a moment, it was like stepping back in time.

“Ready?” he asked, his voice casual but with an undercurrent of something deeper.

You nodded, offering him a soft smile. “Yeah, ready.”

Together, you made your way out to the parking lot. David was waiting by their car, playing with a small toy in his hands. When he saw you walking with his father, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“Dad?” David asked, looking between the two of you. “Why’s my teacher coming with us?”

Marcus glanced down at his son, his smile never wavering as he reached over and tousled David’s hair. “She’s joining us for dinner tonight,” he explained lightly. “I wanted to say thank you for helping out with everything.”

David’s eyes widened, and he looked at you with a mix of curiosity and surprise. “Oh… okay,” he said slowly, clearly trying to process this new development. “So, like, you’re friends with my dad?”

You exchanged a quick glance with Marcus, both of you sharing a silent understanding of how complicated the truth really was.

“Something like that,” you answered with a gentle smile. “We’re just going to have dinner and talk about how to help you in school.”

David seemed to accept this explanation for now, though his gaze lingered on you a little longer before he climbed into the car. As you slid into the passenger seat, your thoughts were swirling. You were entering Marcus’s home, a place that was both familiar and foreign to him—a life he had built without any memory of you.

The drive to their house was quiet, but the tension between you and Marcus was palpable. Every now and then, you caught him glancing at you, as if he were trying to piece something together, to understand why he felt this pull toward you.

When you arrived at their home, Marcus led you inside. It was cozy, filled with the warmth of a lived-in space—family photos, toys scattered across the living room floor, the faint smell of something cooking. It was so different from the life you had known with him centuries ago, yet the sense of care and love was the same.

“Make yourself at home,” Marcus said, gesturing to the living room. “I’ll get dinner started. David, why don’t you help me set the table?”

David nodded and followed his father into the kitchen, but not before giving you one more curious glance. You settled onto the couch, feeling out of place and yet strangely at ease. This was Marcus’s life now, a life you had never been a part of, but somehow it still felt like home.

As they busied themselves in the kitchen, you couldn’t help but think about the enormity of what was happening. You were here, in his home, sharing a moment that felt so normal and yet carried the weight of centuries. It was a bittersweet reminder of everything you had lost and everything you still longed for.

After a few minutes, Marcus emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. “Dinner’s almost ready,” he said, his voice soft. “Thanks for… well, for coming. I know it’s kind of last minute.”

You shook your head, offering him a small smile. “It’s fine. I’m happy to be here.”

He sat down across from you, leaning forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. “I meant what I said earlier. There’s something about you… something I can’t explain.” His voice was quieter now, as though he was sharing a secret. “It’s like I’ve known you forever, but I don’t know how or why.”

Your heart ached at his words, the familiar pain of your curse tugging at you. He was so close, yet so far from remembering the life you had shared. But in this moment, it was enough just to be here, to feel his presence again.

Dinner passed in a warm haze, filled with laughter and the comforting sounds of family. You enjoyed every bite, trying to savor the moment as Marcus shared stories about David's antics at school, his love for art, and the curious questions he had been asking lately. You felt a genuine connection growing, like the threads of your past weaving together with the present.

Once dinner was finished, David excused himself, yawning as he dragged his feet toward the living room. "I'm too tired to finish my project," he declared, and Marcus smiled, understanding that he was ready for bed.

“Okay, buddy, let’s get you settled,” Marcus said, ruffling his son’s hair as David headed up the stairs. After a few moments, you heard the soft sound of David’s door closing, followed by the gentle hum of a lullaby drifting down the hall.

With David tucked in, Marcus returned to the living room, a comfortable silence settling between you. He sank into the armchair across from you, and you both took a moment to collect your thoughts.

“Thanks for tonight,” he said, his eyes locking onto yours. “I didn’t expect to enjoy it so much.”

“I’m glad you did,” you replied, feeling your heart race under his gaze. “I had a great time.”

Marcus leaned back in his chair, a contemplative look crossing his face. “David has been talking about your lessons a lot lately. He’s become really obsessed with the Roman Empire.”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. “Really? That’s amazing to hear! What does he say?”

“Well,” Marcus chuckled softly, “he keeps mentioning this General Acacius as his hero. Apparently, he thinks it’s so cool that he’s a general and a fighter at the same time. I think he thinks he’s going to become a gladiator or something,” he said, rolling his eyes playfully.

Your heart skipped a beat at the mention of the name. “Marcus Acacius? He’s a fascinating figure in history. He had a complex life—fighting for honor and trying to navigate the politics of his time.”

Marcus raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “You really know your stuff, don’t you? It sounds like you’ve done quite a bit of research for your lessons.”

“I’ve always been passionate about history,” you admitted, feeling a warmth spread in your chest as you talked about your favorite subject. “Especially the stories of strong figures like him. I believe there’s so much we can learn from the past.”

“Do you think David sees himself in Acacius?” Marcus asked, leaning forward slightly, genuinely interested in your opinion.

“Perhaps,” you replied thoughtfully. “Or maybe he sees a bit of him in you” you said.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, surprise etched across his face. “In me?”

“Absolutely,” you continued, feeling the words flow more easily now. “You’re a dedicated father, and you fight for what’s best for your son, just like Acacius fought for his people. The way you support David, always encouraging his interests and nurturing his passions—that's heroic in its own right.”

He chuckled softly, a hint of embarrassment creeping into his features. “I’ve never thought of it that way. I just try to do my best for him.”

“Exactly,” you said, leaning in a little closer. “Being a hero isn’t just about great battles or glory; it’s also about the everyday moments—the sacrifices we make for the ones we love. That’s what really matters.”

Marcus’s gaze softened as he listened, and you could see him processing your words. “I guess I can see that. I want David to grow up feeling strong and capable, like he can achieve anything he sets his mind to.”

“And you’re doing just that,” you replied, your heart swelling with admiration for him. “He looks up to you, Marcus. Your presence in his life is already making a huge difference.”

The weight of his vulnerability hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt as if the world outside faded away. “You know, I never realized how much I needed this conversation until now,” he said, a genuine smile gracing his lips. “It’s refreshing to talk to someone who understands what it means to teach and inspire.”

“I’m glad,” you replied, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest.

Marcus nodded; his expression thoughtful. “Speaking of which, I actually bought a book for David the other day. It’s about Marcus Acacius—the general. I thought he might enjoy reading about a real-life hero.”

Your heart raced at the mention of the name, the connection striking a chord deep within you. “Really? I’d love to see it,” you said, your curiosity piqued.

With a spark of excitement, Marcus stood and walked toward a nearby bookshelf, scanning the titles. He pulled out a well-worn book, its cover faded but the spine intact. As he handed it to you, he said, “I thought it would be a great way to inspire him. The stories of bravery and leadership are so important, especially now.”

You opened the book and began flipping through the pages, the illustrations of ancient battles and heroic deeds instantly drawing you in. “This is wonderful, Marcus,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “David will love this.”

“I hope so,” he replied, his gaze fixed on you, watching your reaction with a mix of anticipation and pride.

As you admired the illustrations, Marcus leaned closer to look at the page you were on, his shoulder brushing against yours. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, and for a brief moment, it felt like you were back in another life, lost in a world where everything was simpler.

“This page really captures the spirit of what it means to be a hero,” you began, your voice soft yet earnest. “You know, once upon a time, a hero like Marcus Acacius fought not just for glory but for the love of those he held dear. It reminds me of the bond they shared—how love can be as powerful as any sword or shield.”

Your words hung in the air, the weight of history resonating in the silence between you. You continued, feeling emboldened by the moment. “In many ways, that love is what drove him, just as it drove someone else in a different time—someone who used to call her, mi dulce Cara’”

You glanced over at Marcus, watching as his expression shifted from curiosity to surprise. His eyes widened slightly, and he turned to face you fully. “What? How do you know that?”

The question echoed in the quiet room, and your heart raced at the realization of what you had just revealed. It was a nickname that only he had used, a term of endearment from a time long past, one that had been buried under centuries of memories and pain.

“I—” you hesitated, your mind racing as you tried to find the right words. “I guess I’ve always felt a connection to that name. It… it just came to me.”

Marcus studied you intensely, searching your eyes for answers. “But that have never been mentioned that to anyone. How could you know?”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you realized how the truth was slipping through your fingers, how deeply you yearned for him to remember. “Sometimes, memories linger in the air, even when we think they’re lost,” you said, your voice trembling slightly. “It’s like a whisper from the past.”

He looked at you, a mixture of confusion and intrigue swirling in his gaze. “A whisper?”

“Something like that,” you replied softly, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you. “Maybe it’s just… a feeling, or a part of a dream I once had. I can’t explain it, Marcus.”

The two of you sat there in silence, the air thick with unspoken words and lingering emotions. You could sense the gravity of the moment, the delicate thread that connected your past with the present, and you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps, just perhaps, this was the beginning of something that could bridge the gap between who you had been and who you were now.

Marcus leaned closer, his gaze intense and searching. “Dulce cara mia,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “I spent years looking out for you.”

Your heart skipped a beat as the familiar phrase hung in the air, a sweet reminder of the bond you once shared. It felt as if the walls between your past and present were beginning to crumble, allowing the sunlight of long-buried emotions to seep through.

“Wait… you remember that?” you asked, your voice barely a breath.

His words were a balm to your soul, igniting a flame of hope that you had thought long extinguished. “How could I forget about you, my love?” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “I've lived a thousand lives trying to find you.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes as the weight of his confession settled over you like a comforting blanket. “You really mean that?” you asked, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.

“Every word,” he replied, his thumb gently brushing against your knuckles. “Even in this life, it felt as if something was missing. A part of me always knew you were out there, waiting for me.”

You felt a rush of warmth at his admission, the love that had been lost in the ages flooding back to you. “I thought I would never find you again,” you whispered, your heart aching with the bittersweet pain of your shared history. “I thought the curse would keep us apart forever.”

Marcus shook his head, his expression fierce. “No curse can hold us back. It may take a thousand lifetimes, but we always find each other. Always.”

His gaze bore into yours, filled with a fierce intensity that made your heart race. The air around you felt charged with emotion, and you could feel the weight of the moment pressing down like the world had paused just for you two.

“Every word,” he reiterated softly, nodding as he leaned in closer. The distance between you evaporated, and your breath caught in your throat as he brushed a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering against your skin. “I’ve missed you, cara,” he murmured, using that endearing name that sent shivers down your spine.

As he inched closer, the warmth radiating from him enveloped you like a comforting embrace. “I’ve spent so long searching for you,” he whispered, his lips hovering just inches from yours. “And now that I’ve found you again… I never want to let you go.”

Your heart swelled with emotion, and the tension in the air seemed to pulse with life. It felt as though everything around you faded into the background—the world, the past, the curse—all that mattered was this moment, this connection.

“Marcus,” you breathed, your voice barely audible as you leaned in, craving the touch of his lips against yours.

But then, just before your lips met, he pulled back slightly, searching your eyes with a mixture of longing and caution. “I won’t rush this. I want to savor every moment we have, to make it count.”

You nodded, your heart pounding as you took a deep breath, grounding yourself in the reality of this second chance. “I want that too,” you said softly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions swirling within you.

++++++

You were standing in the dimly lit corridors of the palace; the cold stone walls a stark contrast to the warmth you felt whenever Marcus was nearby. The sounds of soldiers and servants echoed faintly in the distance, but here, in this hidden alcove, the world felt small and intimate. Marcus had pulled you into the shadows, his hand firm but gentle on your arm, his eyes filled with the same intensity they held now.

“We must be careful,” you had whispered, your breath catching as he leaned in close, the smell of leather and sandalwood surrounding you. “If anyone sees us…”

But Marcus had silenced your worries with a soft kiss, his lips pressing against yours in a way that made your heart skip. “I would fight the whole empire if it meant being with you.” he murmured, his voice low and dangerous.

His words had sent a thrill through you, but you both knew the risks. You were not just any woman; you were the emperor’s sister, and Marcus was the empire’s fiercest general. Your love, while passionate and real, was forbidden—an act of treason in the eyes of those who held power over you.

Yet, none of that mattered when you were in his arms.

“I can’t stay away from you,” Marcus had whispered against your skin, his lips brushing the curve of your neck as he held you close. “Every moment I’m not with you feels like torture.”

You had smiled then, your hands tangling in his dark curls, pulling him closer, as if you could keep him with you forever. “We will find a way,” you had promised, though neither of you knew how. “We’ll be together, one day.”

For now, stolen kisses and secret embraces were all you had, and in those moments, it felt like enough. The weight of your circumstances melted away, leaving only the raw, unshakable truth of your love.

As Marcus kissed you again, more urgently this time, the world outside your alcove seemed to disappear. His hands traced the familiar lines of your body, and you clung to him, desperate to make the moment last, knowing it would be hours—maybe days—before you could find each other again.

“I love you,” he had breathed into your ear, his voice filled with the kind of vulnerability only you ever saw. “In this life and every life to come, Cara Mia.”

++++++

As the memory faded, you were pulled back into the present, Marcus still inches away, his intense gaze fixed on you. The warmth of that ancient kiss lingered between you, and the weight of the moment felt just as powerful now as it had back then.

His hand, still gently resting on your cheek, was real, solid, warm, and the centuries that had separated you seemed to dissolve in the space between your shared breath. The flicker of recognition deepened in his eyes, and you saw it, the understanding, the knowing.

“Cara,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I’ve been searching for you in every life. And now, here you are, right in front of me.”

You could hardly breathe, the intensity of his presence overwhelming. “Marcus,” you said softly, your voice trembling. “All this time… it’s been you. I knew it, I felt it.”

He nodded, his thumb brushing away a tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “I never forgot. Even when the memories were blurry, even when I didn’t understand… something inside me always knew.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I met many women during my life, but it was always you. I was always looking for you.”

the years of searching, of waiting, finally melting away. You could feel his love, not just from this life, but from the countless lifetimes before. He leaned in, his forehead resting gently against yours, his breath mingling with your own.

“I won’t lose you again,” he whispered, his voice filled with the determination of a man who had lived a thousand lives in search of one thing, one person.

You closed your eyes, a rush of emotion flooding through you, knowing that, this time, neither of you would have to live without the other.

the reality of your curse loomed at the back of your mind, like a shadow waiting to resurface. You opened your eyes slowly, pulling back just enough to look into Marcus’s eyes. The intensity was still there, but now, mixed with something else—worry, doubt.

“But what about the curse?” you asked softly, your voice trembling with the weight of the question. “We’ve found each other again, but… what if it’s not enough? What if we’re torn apart, just like all the other times?”

“I Will break it” he said, sealing a promise.

Marcus’s words hung in the air, a declaration so filled with determination that it made your heart ache with both hope and fear. His hand tightened around yours, grounding you in the moment as he repeated, “I will break it.”

You stared at him, searching his eyes for any hint of uncertainty, but all you saw was a fierce resolve—a promise he intended to keep, no matter the cost. The weight of his vow pressed down on you, the enormity of the task, the centuries of separation, all coming to the forefront of your mind. “How?” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “How can you break something that has kept us apart for so long?”

“I don’t know,” Marcus admitted, his voice unwavering. “But I do know that I’m not the same man I was before. None of those lifetimes matter without you by my side, and I will tear down the heavens if I have to, to keep you with me.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine, the intensity of his love for you overwhelming. You could feel the fear still lurking beneath the surface, the fear that no matter how much you wanted this, how hard you fought, the curse would come between you once again. But something in the way Marcus looked at you, the absolute certainty in his gaze, made you want to believe him.

“And if we fail?” you asked, your voice barely more than a breath, the question slipping out despite yourself. “What if we can’t break it?”

Marcus shook his head, gently cupping your face in his hands. “We won’t fail,” he said softly, his thumb brushing your cheek. “Because this time, I’m not letting you go. I’m not letting anything stand between us. I’ll break the curse or die trying.”

Tears welled in your eyes as his words sank in, the promise of his love wrapping around you like a shield. For the first time in centuries, you allowed yourself to hope. Maybe, just maybe, this time could be different.

A soft chuckle escaped your lips, breaking the heavy tension that had settled between you. “People will talk again,” you said, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “That hasn’t changed.”

Marcus’s eyes lit up, a playful glint dancing behind the intensity of his gaze. “Let them talk,” he said with a shrug, his voice full of warmth and mischief. “They’ve been talking about us for centuries. Let them have something real to talk about this time.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound breaking through the lingering shadows of fear and doubt. It was a familiar feeling, this lightness that always seemed to come when you were with him, no matter how dire the circumstances. In a world that constantly threatened to tear you apart, these moments of shared joy felt like a rebellion, a testament to the strength of your bond.

“They’re going to say I’ve bewitched you,” you teased, leaning in a little closer, savoring the warmth of his presence. “Or that you’ve gone mad.”

Marcus grinned, his thumb still gently caressing your cheek. “Maybe I have,” he said, his voice low and full of affection. “Mad with love for you.”

You rested your forehead against his once more, your breath mingling with his as you whispered, “Let them talk, then. As long as we have this, as long as we have each other, none of it matters.”

Marcus’s arms tightened around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. “Forever,” he whispered back, sealing the promise between you with a tender kiss.

You kissed him as though every single one of the lifetimes you had lived without him was pouring into this one moment. The touch of his lips against yours ignited something deep within you—a longing, a love, that had spanned centuries. All the heartache, all the searching, all the endless years of waiting melted away as you gave yourself fully to the kiss.

Marcus held you like he had done a thousand times before, but this time, it was different. This time, the kiss was filled with the knowledge that you had found each other again, that no matter what came next, you were together now. His hands traced the curve of your back, pulling you closer as if he were afraid you might disappear again.

You could feel the weight of all those years, all the love that had been lost and found again, in every movement, in every breath. His kiss was not just a promise but a reminder—a reminder of all the times he had loved you, all the moments you had shared in different lives, and all the moments you had missed. And now, here, you were living them all again.

When you finally pulled back, your breath coming in shallow gasps, you stared into his eyes, searching for the same fire you knew was burning inside you. It was there—strong, unwavering, eternal. “I’ve waited lifetimes for you,” you whispered, your forehead resting against his. “And I’d wait a thousand more if it meant I could be with you like this.”

Marcus’s gaze softened, and his fingers brushed tenderly against your jawline. “You won’t have to wait anymore,” he said, his voice steady and filled with love.

After the kiss, you found yourself in front of a mirror, your fingers lightly brushing over your lips, still tingling from the touch of his. The room was quiet now, the world beyond the two of you seemed distant, as though the very air had stilled to give you space for this moment. As you gazed at your reflection, a glimmer caught your eye.

There, among the strands of your hair, was a single grey hair. You reached up, gently twisting it between your fingers, a realization dawning on you with a surge of emotion. The curse. All those lifetimes, the endless cycle of living and dying, never aging, never truly being free… It was broken.

For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you had changed. The grey hair was proof—proof that time, real time, had touched you. Proof that you were no longer trapped in the endless loop of waiting, searching, and losing Marcus again and again.

Your heart swelled with emotion as you stared at the grey hair, a smile tugging at your lips. It wasn’t a sign of loss or fear, but of life—of the future you could now build together. The weight of your immortality, the curse that had kept you apart, had lifted.

Marcus’s reflection appeared behind you in the mirror, his eyes soft but filled with a quiet intensity. He gently placed his hands on your shoulders, his warmth grounding you in this new reality. “You see it too, don’t you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, unable to stop the tears from welling up. “It’s broken, Marcus. We’re free.”

His arms slid around you, pulling you close to his chest. You could feel the steady beat of his heart, the sound of it a reminder that you were no longer bound by the past. “I told you,” he whispered against your hair. “No curse can keep us apart.”

[dblk-archives]

Like fear, like love.

Summary: Some of the diaboys comforting you when you have an anxiety/panic attack.

Characters: Shu Sakamaki, Ayato Sakamaki, Laito Sakamaki, Subaru Sakamaki, Ruki Mukami, Kou Mukami, Yuma Mukami, Azusa Mukami, gn! reader.

Tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, fluff, mentions of anxiety.

❀ Shu Sakamaki.

“The grounding warmth of a blanket in the cold hours of dawn; vivid sun hues on the dull horizon.”

When you are scared or anxious, Shu is the type to pull you down into bed (or whichever random place he happened to fall asleep at) with him. Even if he seems unbothered, his heart literally breaks when he sees you going through trying times.

So he tries to do for you what works for him; trying to get you to rest, even sharing his earphones with you, the soothing notes of a classical melody lulling you into dreams with him.

And you can’t see it, but his ocean eyes soften when you finally calm down, having fallen asleep with your hand still in his.

His free hand brushes stray hairs away from your eyes,

“Sweet dreams.” He murmurs. 

Even though he doesn’t like to see you suffer, he’s happy he can take care of you.

❀ Ayato Sakamaki.

“Sparks of a crackling fire, propagating against the rain, brighter than lightning.”

At first glance, Ayato might not seem like the mist detail-oriented guy, but he is pretty perceptive and intelligent despite his silly moments (and he is not given enough credit for it!)

Especially, when it comes to your feelings and little shifts in your mood.

Initially, he tries to lighten the mood with his usual “Oi, you should be happier to be in the presence of Ore-sama, why are you looking so depressed?”

But when all you give him is a meek hum, then you can see a concerned crease between his brows, that cute expression he does where he goes wide eyed and pouts a little.

The redhead wraps his arms around you, leaning his head on your shoulder, a silent invitation to play with his hair, to keep you distracted.

“If something’s happened, you know I, the great Ayato, will protect you.”

❀ Laito Sakamaki.

“The language of wordless lips over heated skin, the unholy touch of deft hands in the dark.”

Laito’s probably the most versed in understanding another’s feelings out of everyone here. A subtle change in the way you move and carry yourself, the small crease in between your brows, or the way your jaw tightens; those speak volumes to him, and he knows right away that something is not right.

He tries to distract you in the way he knows better: sultry words whispered in your ear, in the dim light of his bedroom; his hand sneaking beneath your shirt, lingering dangerously low on your hips; his sensuous lips trailing your neck and shoulder, pointed fangs sinking in your skin, the afterglow of his kisses ardently addictive.

You try to stop him at first, not because you dislike what he’s doing, but rather that you don’t want to burden him.

To bring back the memories.

To make him feel like you’re just using him to relieve your tension.

Of course, he notices that, too.

“You’re nothing like her, bitch-chan.” He whispers in between lovebites. “So for tonight, give into me, okay? Nfu ~”

❀ Subaru Sakamaki.

“The tender brush of white rose petals scattered into the night, their familiar sweet scent fending off eternal shadows.”

When you’re upset or dark thoughts have you overthinking, the first thing that crosses Subaru’s mind is “is this my fault?”

For a moment, he starts fearing for the worst himself, did he upset you in any way? Did his tainted self hurt you? Would you be better off without him?

However, all of those ideas die out as soon as you cling to him, your face buried in his chest, his cheeks blooming in pretty rose.

Subaru hesitates for a moment, but then he holds you, even if a little awkward at first. 

Needless to say, he wants to punch anyone and anything that made you feel so anxious, but you need him now, in the same way he’s needed you on endless nights when all he knew was despair.

“I love you.” He whispers softly, crimson eyes closing as he nuzzles into your hair, leaving the softest of kisses there. “I’m here.”

❀ Ruki Mukami.

“The soothing truth of irrefutable words set in stone; the softness of blackened feathers; white crows guiding you home.”

Honestly, Ruki is one of the best people to assuage the intrusive thoughts plaguing your mind. Not because he is the most affectionate or soft, far from it, but because the logic he uses to make you see you’ll be okay is pretty much absolute.

Your own doubts scatter away, washed away by the night reflected in the deep ocean of his eyes. Somehow, he always has the power to make you feel like you’ll be safe as long as you stay by his side.

Of course, Ruki won’t leave you alone either. He’ll pull you into his lap while he reads a book, even read it out loud for you if you ask him.

“You’ll be safe with me, livestock. As long as you have your master to protect you, no harm will come your way.”

❀ Kou Mukami.

“A happy melody with lyrics that accompany your tears; not in tune, but a game of opposites, as if understanding you, setting your sights on blue skies after a downpour.”

Kou is another one who will notice right away if your mood shifts. Not just because of his eye; he doesn’t quite need to use it when it’s you.

Even if he now stands on the brightest stages, he knows pain like no other, and he doesn’t like that look on you.

You are his bluest sky. To see it covered by stormy clouds… It makes him sad. Though because he is a performer, he knows how to distract you from your endless night.

He brings you roses or any little gift he noticed you eyeing another time; similarly to Laito, he’ll resort to physical affection and naughty touches if you’re in the mood. 

But you always told him you love his voice, so now, he sings for his favorite audience: you and only you. He’ll teach you to dance like he does if you’re in the mood too, catching you securely in his arms when you trip, teasing you.

“My M-neko-chan is the cutest when they smile… You are my favorite sky, okay? Never forget it.” He tells you, as he kisses the corner of your lips.

❀ Yuma Mukami.

“The familiar scent of a fireplace in the home you’ve so longed for; he is the warmth of the sun on your back and the hues of rustling leaves in late summer.”

“Oi, sow, why do you look so depressed?” 

His rough voice is blazing sunshine amidst thick tree canopies. 

He’s noticed you staring at nothing and probably thinking about too much as you help him in the garden. 

He’s noticed the iron grip you have in the basket of tomatoes, the one now in your hand threatening to be crushed.

He’s noticed the trembling of your form.

He’s noticed you are not acting like yourself right now.

And Yuma can’t stand it. Like the unforgiving freeze of a clouded dawn making flowers wither, he won’t allow for the rose petals you put in his life to never bloom again.

So, as he always does, he lets his actions speak volumes. 

Taking the basket from your trembling hands, he gently throws you over his shoulder. Bathed in the last of the sun’s golden glow, he begins the short trek back to the manor.

“I won’t let anything happen to ya, ya hear me? So stop bein’ so sad, I’m here.”

❀ Azusa Mukami.

“He is the softness of clean gauze over your sore hands; a flutter of butterfly wings brushing your cheek as you wake from a sweet dream.”

Azusa is very attentive, so he can tell the little shifts in your mood when fear wraps their cruel claws around you.

At first, he’ll try to distract you, showing you his knife collection and telling you about the story of each one.

That helps a little, gentle smiles tugging at your lips every now and then as you see him excited to tell you about them.

But he knows that is not enough, that you’re still worried; your mind, a tapestry of criss-cross throbbing wounds.

So he’ll patch them up, no matter how long it takes for the turbulent flow of blood to stop.

He’ll hold you from behind, his ever tranquil heartbeat warm and soothing against your back.

“Eve… You deserve to be happy… My Eve is always beautiful… But I like you happy the most…”

[littledes1re]

How to disappear | Chapter: Three

Summary: After what happened at your house, Joel is a mess. His girlfriend confronts him and that makes his situation way worse. The only thing that‘s left for you is to get better and forget him. But he pulls up on your front door, once again…

Warnings: Angst, dealing with grief, description of death in a flashback!, blood, dead body, dealing with heartbreak, crying, guilt, alcohol, talks and underlying mentions of suicide, age gap! (61 and 23)

A/N: hello once again hehe. This one’s a little bit longer and i’m trying to explore more Joel as a character (he is not the worst person ever, I promise you)

„You seriously have lost your mind, Joel.“

He didn‘t need anyone telling him that—he already knew. The moment when he looked into your eyes, full of tears and despair, it was burned into his mind, replaying in an endless loop. It wouldn't let him go, even as he sat in the car beside his so-called girlfriend, forcing himself to hold it together—trying his best not to crumble, to sob out maybe. Or maybe get the anger out, steer the wheel to the left and end it all for good.

„What do you think she is going through right now?“ Tess bursts out. Her arms flailed, not just in anger, but in helplessness—helplessness at herself, at him, at this situation she never should’ve agreed to. Why did she gone along with it? Why did she let it happen? Joel sees her from the corner of his eye, but he can‘t stop the car and explain her everything. He can‘t open up and talk to her about what he was feeling, he can‘t just do something—something to make this situation better, to make up for all the problems he had caused. His lower lip was trembling, fists tightening around the wheel, a knot in his throat making it impossible for him to talk, because if he would, he would cry. He was trying his best to concentrate on the road and in his mind, he drops Tess off, gets back home, collapsing into bed. Or drowning himself in liquor, numbing the guilt, the regret, the unbearable truth of what he'd done. But none of that would fix this. None of it would undo the damage.

She slumped back into her seat, staring at him. Waiting. But he had nothing to give— not now.

-

„The hell are you doing?“ Joel asks as Tess crosses her arms in front of her chest, not going out of the car, even though he just parked right in front of her apartment.

She sighs.

„Joel, I need an explanation. Right now.“

He looks at her. Stares. Minutes might pass, maybe longer. His mind circles the same agonizing path, again and again. How would the explanation unfold? How would it end? How would she react? How would he react? Each version plays out in his head, shifting, twisting, none of them leading anywhere good. No matter how he shapes it, no matter how he tries to make it sound less damning, it remains the same ugly truth. Telling her—admitting that he had fallen for his buddy’s young daughter only to cast her aside like she was nothing, was not an option.

„I already told you. We had fun, it was wrong. Now it‘s all over. Thank you for covering me, now please—”

„Nuh uh. I don‘t believe you Miller. I saw it and heard it. She was crying her heart out. What the hell happened between you two?“

The moon filtered through the cracks of the blinds, painting soft shadows over your skin, tracing the curves of your face, your collarbone and the steady rise and fall of your chest. The dim light made everything feel dreamlike, as if time had slowed to allow the quiet to stretch, uninterrupted.

Joel laid beside you, his gaze quiet, warm, thoughtful. You held it, locked in the silent pull between you—no words, no movement, just a silent understanding that neither of you needed to speak. The weight of the day had disappeared, leaving only this: the closeness, the security of being near him, the way his presence settled something deep inside you. The room was still, save for the occasional creak of the old bedframe and the soft rustling of fabric when either of you shifted slightly. There was something profoundly peaceful in the way your breaths aligned, an unspoken rhythm, a quiet connection between souls. It wasn’t just comfort—it was belonging.

Together.

But there’s a sudden shift in Joel’s gaze—uncertainty pooling in his eyes, like a thought that’s been swimming in his mind for days, finally ready to surface. Something has been weighing on him, lingering between you both in quiet tension, and yet, you hadn’t noticed.

He parts his lips as if to speak, then hesitates, closing them again. The hesitation tightens something in your chest. Concern flickers across your face as your hand finds his cheek, a gentle touch meant to steady him. But before you can ask, he finally speaks.

“We can’t do this anymore.”

You feel your heart drop. While this moment between you two should be peaceful, comfortable—it turned into a miserable argument.

You two were going back and forth, stood up from his bed and standing in his kitchen. Tears already dripping from your eyes, still wearing his shirt, still feeling his come dripping out of you from two hours ago. You angrily shouted at him, throwing him words, you never wanted to say to him. Yet, he didn’t give you an explanation, just repeating the same thing over again. Nothing that makes sense to you, nothing that makes sense of why he suddenly wants to end this relationship. And after a while he completely went silent.

He just looked at you.

And you looked at him back.

And then he whispered one last time.

“We can’t.”

Tess looked in disbelief. In utter disbelief, not believing one single thing that just came out her best friend’s mouth. At least—not wanting to.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Joel?”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Joel knew this outcome would happen, he didn’t want to say it to her, especially to her. Hell—didn’t even wanted to admit it to himself. Not even to his brother, the one he always told his secrets, always pouring his heart out to him. Joel wasn’t clueless, he knew what he did. It was cowardice, it was stupidity. And maybe it was a twisted way of him trying to protect you. Him being afraid of losing you the way he lost his daughter. Scared of mistreating you.

„Y’really are one dumbass of a man if you think she’s just gonna forget you—just like that.“

Tess was absolutely furious—rightfully so. Her stomach twisting every time she remembered that she'd agreed to this. Agreed to show up as his girlfriend, going along with this reckless idea, to right a wrong.

Instead, all they‘d done was wreck a heart.

She hadn’t signed up for that. She hadn’t signed up to stand there and listen to how much hurt had been left behind in Joel’s wake. She didn’t even know him like that—not really. But now? Now she sure as hell was beginning to.

Joel exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling up as he ran his hands over his face, pacing erratically in the too small space of his home.

„Please, god damn—just give me a break!“

The words erupted from him, raw, desperate, like he could somehow claw his way out of this mess if only he shouted loud enough.

But Tess just scoffed, shaking her head with an exhausted laugh.

„I don‘t even want to know what Sarah would think about all of this.“

And there it was. The name. The weight of it. Heavy and suffocating.

Joel stopped in his tracks.

Tess didn’t intended her words to be cruel, but rather a wake up call from him. Regardless, her words hit like a gut punch anyway. He swallowed hard, forcing his gaze anywhere but hers, because he knew, if he met her eyes, he’d see the one thing he wasn’t ready to face.

Truth.

And his mind drifted once again, to that night that destroyed his whole life.

The blue and red lights flickered at equal intervals; if you looked at them with unfocused eyes, they appeared purple. That was all he remembered of the night: the screams, the loud police cars and purple.

He felt guilty for not remembering Sarah's face.

She laid crumpled on his lap, too quiet, too small. His little girl. Her body was warm but fading. Blood smeared across his arms, pooling in the creases of his clothes, and still—purple. Always purple.

The audio she sent from that night was not deleted from his phone, sitting there, waiting for him to listen at it whenever he missed his girl.

Yet, he couldn’t even remember her face.

The only thing that remained vivid was the pain in his gut. A deep, primal ache that hollowed him out. The one that he feels over and over whenever he thinks of it. Weak, weak and unable to grasp what was happening—he hold her, hold her body, screaming into her ear, shaking her body, holding the wound—pressing down until his hand cramped. Wrapping her body into his jacket, carrying her like he did when she was first born, her head in his chest but body limp and unresponsive. Yet he carried her, somewhere, he didn’t know where. “You’re okay, baby. You’re okay, you’re okay, Daddy’s here.” Yet, those chantings came unheard. His voice was stained with the broken sobs and screams that he lets out, breath coming in shudders, voice cracking as he called for help—over and over but it was all silent.

There was no heartbeat beneath his fingertips. No flutter of lashes. No wide-eyed spark of wonder. Just stillness. And in that stillness, something in him died too. His baby girl was gone. And with her, the reason he was alive.

All those years he'd spent memorizing every feature, every dimple of her smile, every soft curl that framed her cheek... but now, when he tried to recall them, they scattered like ash in the wind.

If you could describe Joel after the accident, you couldn’t say much—because no one saw him after that. He vanished from the world, not physically, but emotionally—swallowed by silence. He built walls so thick no one could see in, and no light could reach him. Not once he called, dared to speak, not once he went outside looked at the trees. The seasons passed like ghosts, slipping by his window—spring thaw, summer bloom, autumn flame, winter hush—each promising that time might heal, that life might move forward. But time was powerless against wounds that cut too deep. Sitting agonisingly, preventing him from standing up, preventing him from thinking straight. And as he failed his one opportunity to flee it all, pointing a gun to his temple, trembling, missing his head and surviving with a wound—he suffocated himself in alcohol.

“Hey, dad. Can you come pick me up? I was gonna go with my other friends but they are going somewhere else. I’m waiting at Hayley’s house.”

Her voice felt like stab wounds, over and over again. Whenever it went quiet, her voice appeared. Whenever it was quiet, he squeezed his eyes shut as he remembers how he said ‘no’ to her. ‘I’m working, busy. Take an uber’.

Tommy came numerous times by, looked out for his older brother. Yet, he didn’t had anything he could work with. Joel didn’t listen to him, didn’t let tommy help him, didn’t want to hear what he has to say. He made sure that Joel knew, he could talk with him, like they always did. Like the old times before all of this. He didn’t gave his brother up, slowly getting him used to his job once more, slowly cleaning his house—only the alcohol stood there, only the sorrow was still seen. The sleepless nights were evident, the emotionless state he was in made tommy’s stomach turn.

„Hey, Kiddo.”

Talking to you felt like a chore on that day. It felt impossible but necessary. He knew you well enough, a sensitive girl with a soft spot for her mom and a dad who had too often felt distant. And after his buddy told him that his wife died, he knew in what state he is going to find you. The many bags under your swollen, red eyes. Hair messy, just like your room.

He understood. He knew what you were feeling.

First, he felt like he was talking to a ghost. Your eyes were fixed on a single spot, unmoving, as if afraid looking away might shatter what was left. Your breath came in slow gasps, then silence, then shallow again. Tears left dried trails on your cheeks—etched so deeply into your skin they seemed permanent. And still, they returned, welling up every time a memory passed too close. Joel tried his best, but at least he sat there in silence with you. A silence that connected. A silence that was comfortable—two people dealing with the same situation, two people that lost something in their life. Two people who suddenly became one.

„Okey! Great, thank you so, so much. Goodbye!”

Life was finally opening it‘s arms to you. After years of proving yourself one project at a time, you stepped into your first full-time graphic design job— the very place where you once started as a part timer. Your mother taught you how to hold a pencil before you could even spell your name. The two of you would spend endless afternoons at the kitchen table, surrounded by colored pencils, magazines, and love— crafting pieces that were art and memory.

Now, years later, every design you created whispered echoes of those moments. Each curve, each color choice, carried the warmth of your roots. You knew if she was alive, she would be proud of you. And if he was here with you, he would be too.

„Hey, uh— I’m leaving.”

Your dad stood in the hallway, the same emotionless expression stuck on his face like a permanent mask. His suitcase rested by his side, the glasses sat crooked on the bridge of his nose, and the navy blue suit he wore hung awkwardly on him now, a size too small or perhaps a decade too late. He said he was going on another business trip— the same excuse he always used— though you had the suspicion there was more to it. Not that you cared enough to ask.

In truth, a part of you welcomed his absence. One whole week with the house to yourself. No stiff silences. No cold critiques. Just space— glorious and uninterrupted space to breathe, create, and just to be.

When the door finally clicked shut behind him, it was as if the air itself softened. The hum of the refrigerator sounded almost melodic. The dust motes in the sunlight moved slower, gentler. For the first time in what felt like ages, you could hear your own thoughts without needing to shout over the noise of unspoken tension. Everything felt more aligned, more still, more yours. You poured yourself a cup of tea, settled by the window, and let the quiet wrap around you like a blanket. Maybe this week would be the start of something new. Maybe this time, you can look forward. Focus on yourself, start to get better.

You didn’t cry for him anymore. The tears long dried up, but the anger still lingered inside you—quiet, heavy, always waiting beneath the surface. Every thought of him still sent a shiver down your spine, goosebumps spreading over your body— a reminder that the wounds hadn’t fully closed.

And yet, you were still wrestling with the same feeling: understanding.

You felt bad— guilty, even. For the slap across his face, for the words you thrown at him in rage. You hated that moment, hated the way your anger had taken over. But behind that facade was something softer— an ache, a crack in your chest. Because he wasn’t just the man who hurt you. He was also a grieving father. A man who had lost his daughter and was drowning in his own torment— mentally unstable, lost, and utterly alone. Just like you.

But you were hurting too. You were broken in your own way, trying to patch yourself together while watching someone else fall apart. And still, deep down, you knew you’d never be capable of doing that to him what he did to you.

That truth haunted you.

Grief wears different faces. It twists people, shapes them, sometimes into things they never meant to become. And while your pain demanded justice, a small voice inside whispered for grace. Because maybe, just maybe, part of healing is forgiving.

There were already tears prickling in your eyes once again. The thought of him, his smell, his hands, his smile and the comfortable feeling he gave you. How could you forget? When he made you feel like a princess, treated you better than everyone you’ve ever been with. Every memory was stitched into your heart like embroidery—delicate, permanent. Even the silences you shared had their own melody, like the world paused just for the two of you. You could still feel the ghost of his fingertips brushing yours, still hear the way he said your name like it was something sacred.

A loud knock pulled you out of your thoughts.

It was already evening, who could it be? You tip-toed down to your front door, carefully opening it and looked through the narrow gap. And your breath hitched when you did. It’s like all that you have forgotten, all the pain you had swallowed came back once again— standing right in front of your door.

„What the hell are you doing here, Joel?”

He looked miserable. Hell—he even smelled miserable. Like he had bathed in the sharp sting of liquor, his skin soaked with it, reeking like you’d stepped into the backroom of some dingy bar. Sweat all over his face, hair damp, matted to his forehead and his shirt was plastered to his chest. The bags under his eyes, just more prominent and bigger, like he didn’t sleep since you last talked. The same man you saw on his daughter’s funeral. That hollow-eyed, broken man who had nothing left to lose. The same man who came to you that night and held you like he couldn’t bear being alone with his sorrow. The same man who whispered affection like it could patch the holes in both your hearts.

„I-I don’t know.” he breathed, voice jagged and rushed like he’d run straight from a nightmare into your doorway. But even as the words spilled from him, you saw it— clear as day. His eyes were vacant. As if Joel isn’t really here.

Joel swayed slightly where he stood, like gravity itself was too much to fight. His knuckles were white, gripping the frame of your doorway, holding himself up. He looked like a man caught between wanting to confess something and praying you wouldn’t ask. Every inch of him screamed exhaustion— not the kind, a good night’s sleep could fix, but the kind that settles in your bones when you’ve been carrying the weight of the past for far too long.

You tried to meet his eyes, but he looked everywhere but at you. The floor. The ceiling. The dark hallway behind you. His silence wasn’t empty— it was loud, deafening, soaked with everything he couldn’t say. And yet, your heart betrayed you. Somewhere beneath the anger and confusion, a part of you still ached for him. Still remembered how his voice softened when he said your name. Still longed that comfort he gave you, longed for the tall, strong man he once was. Only yours.

You reached for him before you could stop yourself. „Joel,” you whispered, unsure if it was meant to comfort him, or yourself.

His eyes finally met yours, bloodshot and glistening.

You were angry— angry at yourself. Angry at how easily you’d let your guard down again, how effortlessly you allowed him back into your room after everything. After what he did. After his actions. The memory still burned, but there he was. A wreck of a man, and your heart ached at the sight of him.

Joel was lying next to you now, on your bed. You didn’t even remember guiding him there. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was compassion. It was obvious he couldn’t stand on his own, let alone pretend he was okay. There was something broken in him— something hollow that hadn’t been there before. And as much as your rational mind screamed to stay angry, something deeper inside whispered… mercy.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, glassy and unfocused, like he was trying to hold onto something— reality, maybe. Or the last pieces of himself before everything broke.

„You’re drunk,” you said quietly. Not accusing, just... acknowledging.

He didn’t argue. He just gave a soft, half-hearted chuckle, like he knew how pitiful he looked. His voice was raw when he finally spoke. „I didn’t know where else to go.”

That hurt more than you wanted to admit.

You shifted slightly on the bed, the mattress dipping gently beneath your movement as you laid down next to him. Joel laid still, eyes closed now, his breathing steady. You could feel the heat of him next to you, the rise and fall of his chest— so familiar it hurt.

„I got the full-time job,” you murmured, more to the ceiling than to him.

He didn’t respond. Just turned his head slowly to look at you. His eyes, shadowed and tired, met yours. And in that moment, no words were needed.

You saw it— all of it. The pride. The ache. The silent apology tucked beneath the quiet admiration in his gaze. And you understood. He was proud of you. He had always been.

There was a woman waiting for him somewhere else. Someone who probably didn’t know where he was tonight. That thought made your stomach twist. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t yours anymore.

But here you were— side by side again.

His hand shifted on the blanket, fingers brushing against yours. Not a full reach, just a graze. A question. An apology. A memory.

You could’ve moved. Pulled away. Created space between you both, where logic and reality lived. But instead, you stayed still, letting the warmth of that small touch settle.

It felt wrong.

It felt right.

AAAA this took so long🫩

Masterlist for How to Disappear!!

Taglist: @vickie5446 @a-goose-on-mars @thatgirlmendo @ihearttdilfs @pickyeater13 @sweetiegirl16 @keseqna @shivispunk @kyloispunk @meetmeatyourworst @joelmillerswife9 @iveseenstrangerthings50 @idrkman @vanishintoyoubby @dlwrish @brittmb115 @xcallmetaniax @umadirectioner @glitterspark @replaythatrayrae @bluekat707 @ccmoonshine @datgirl-audrey @cuntyhunty22 @lovelystrawberrysblog @heartpatch @sukivenue @valitagun @lizaispunk @bigeyesbabe @mystickittytaco @catalysmic @marisemonteiroo @nosebeers @ariundercovers @misguidedasgardian @neobangverse @lestatismo @aj0elap0l0gist @ur-fav-pixi @pedrofan @hhallefuckinglujahh @callmeafra @b1bbles @fallout-girl219 @therewastherewas @ivoryandflame @pinkcabinet @cuteanimalmama @paprikainfurs

[tacowacco]

deceit's new favorite

shadow milk cookied x gender neutral reader

cw: mentions of mind breaking, heavy posessive behavior, implied forced relationship, and potential ooc.

my request is open, therefore requests are heavily appreciated and encouraged!

As you entered the Spire of Shadows, an eerie sensation coursed through your body. Inside, there were endless halls that seemed to stretch on forever, and stairs that appeared to have no beginning or end. Chaos awaited you in this unsettling place. Some might even argue that it felt like a never-ending nightmare—akin to one meant for cookies instead.

The outcome of your arrival at the beast-yeast became far worse than you'd ever imagined. Just within hours of stepping into the domain of the Beast of Deceit, you managed to find yourself lost in the unfamiliar terrain. You hurriedly searched for an exit, desperate to reunite with your friends.

You were certain that you had found an escape, but to your surprise was another pair of endless halls filled with trickery and lies. You took a moment to sit down and catch your breath after what felt like hours of searching. 

“Oh, my! Well, isn’t this just a lovely surprise?~ One of little Silly Vanilly’s pals all lost, and alone?” the jester cooed, as he stepped forward and his mismatched eyes met with yours. 

Shadow Milk yearned to shatter Pure Vanilla and witness his slow descent into madness and despair. He wanted to see the truth and hope he cherished so much deeply crumble. He'd ensure to sever the delicate thin thread that Pure Vanilla was holding so dearly to by toying with you. By immersing yourself completely in his world, you find yourself captivated, consumed by an overwhelming admiration that borders on obsession. Only focusing on him, the main character. He’d make sure to make you forget about these pesky side characters. 

You were now in his possession, his pawn to use for his advantage. 

“Now what’s with the looooooong face? Not thrilled to see me?” he purred.

“Hmph! This isn’t a part of the script, looks like I’ll have to make some adjustments and alterations. Alas, that’s what improv is for!” he exclaimed while flipping through his script— schemes, filled with theatrical mischief. 

"You'll be the most exciting addition to my prized collection! It's been so long since I've had a new puppet to cherish. Even better, I'll make you the star of my new show!" Your eyes widen as you feel your muscles tense up. 'Prized collection? Most exciting addition? New puppet?' What did he mean by that?

“C’mon, we’ve got a show to prepare for, and an audience to amuse!” Shadow Milk said excitedly in a singsongy voice.

-----

You sat in the front row of the audience and watched as the red velvet curtains opened, revealing the first act of Shadow Milk's puppet show. The stage lights dimmed before focusing on the center of the stage, casting a spotlight over the cutout puppets.

“Once upon a time, long long ago there was a very beautiful cookie called ‘Y/n cookie’! Unfortunately, they were focused too on that stupid soul jam-thief pure vanilla.” Shadow Milk said, irritated once mentioning Pure Vanilla.

"Fortunately for dear Y/n, a cookie so dignified, very sophisticated, and—not to mention extremely handsome appeared...

ME! The one and only, shadow milk cookie appeared to save Y/n!" Shadow Milk exclaimed. 

The brainwashed audience began to erupt into applause and enthusiastic clapping, creating a wave of energy that enveloped you. You started blinking rapidly in an attempt to adjust to the bright, scorching spotlight that blinded you. 

"Since dear Y/n was SOOO grateful that I, Shadow Milk cookie, saved them from Pure Vanilla..they decided to become my newest puppet!” Shadow Milk enthusiastically said, as his glowing mismatched eyes met with yours.

a/n: first post! currently writing instead sleeping.. (it's 11:51PM on a school night)

likes, reblogs, etc. are highly appreciated :))! thank you lovelies

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Forbidden Desires: A Handmaid’s Tale Fic✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x Handmaid! fem reader

A/N: I started watching The Handmaid’s Tale and fell in love with Nick right away, so it inspired this one-shot! I couldn’t stop thinking about Joel in his place, so I had to write while inspiration soared. If you love soft, protective Joel, then this fic might be for you 🩷

Summary: Gilead. A dystopian world—one that was once a free country. But that’s gone. Just like your freedom. You do as you’re told: say your prayers, spread your legs, pretend this nightmare is just a phase that’ll end. But it’s not; it’s real. Just like he is. Joel Miller—the gardener/driver that just might be your way out.

Rating: 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 10k

Tags: Soft! Joel, Protective! Joel, a Handmaid’s Tale inspired fic, dystopian world, forbidden romance, angst, yearning, smut, unprotected piv, mentions of abuse, trauma, nonconsensual touching, implied age gap

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Red carves along your teary vision as you stare at your pale expression in the mirror—your modest dress clinging to your fragile body, bonnet covering your locks of pinned-up hair beneath the white fabric. You feel it. All of it. The weight of this dystopian nightmare you wish you weren’t living in rushing through every limb, every nerve in your body like a bolt of hot lightning.   

   You’re going to be sick. Going to throw up what little dinner and water you’ve had over the past few hours. Or maybe you’ll just toss your body down on the wooden floor like Mrs. Waterford likes to do when she shoves you in your little room, throwing slurs around like you’re a tiny ant she wants to squish under the ball of her expensive high heels. Her favorite word to use is slut. 

   Slut. Slut. Slut. It’s ingrained into your brain. Carved with blood into the back of your eyelids when you try to sleep. You almost start to believe the lies, believe you were never special in the first place. Maybe she’s right. Maybe you’re useless, just like you feel. 

   Maybe you should let her end your suffering. Take you into the back and shove a knife through your jugular and get it over with. It’d be quick. Just a few seconds and you’d be bleeding out on the cobblestone pathway. It’d be one of the best ways out of this insufferable hell. Maybe you’d find peace. A nice place to rest your weary head from the endless months you’ve been here. 

   Maybe then you’ll just be free. 

   Free of her, free of the Commander, free of this house. This extravagant, overly-large residence seems to shrink in on your anxious mind. Despair crawls under your skin like a hoard of spiders. You feel sticky, hot as your breath is knocked from your lungs over and over again like you’re suffocating under a black lake with nobody in sight to pull you free from the dark. No one’s coming to save you…

   Your red-rimmed eyes stare back at you in the bathroom mirror, taunting you like the blood that comes once a month. You’re still not pregnant, still not filled with the seed of a child that’ll never truly be yours. Mrs. Waterford loves to punish you. Loves to slap you around each time she’s reminded that she can’t have children herself. Maybe she’s just taking her rage out on you because she lives under a roof with a monster of a husband that doesn’t desire or love her anymore. He doesn’t even touch her. No gentle gazes from his narrowed eyes. No words of affirmation from his poisoned tongue. No. He doesn’t love her. He’s just stuck with her until her beating heart ceases to stop.

   This she knows. Like she knows you know. That’s why she always sends you away to your room when she catches you staring. Or when you’re laying in her bed while the Commander drills his half-soft cock into you, taking advantage while she holds you down against your will. She can’t even look at him because she knows she hasn’t felt his touch since their wedding night. And you hate it. You hate being underneath him. A ragdoll with no say. He doesn’t make you feel good, only shoots his cum deep inside you where you know it’ll never fertilize. 

   He’s sterile and his wife knows this. She even whispered the possibility to you the other day in the garden. All you could do was stare with wide eyes and keep silent. If you would’ve spoken, she would’ve taken her garden clippers and cut your tongue right out at the scene. So you just zipped your mouth closed like you always do. You don’t have a say anymore. Not with anything. You have no freedom left. Nothing.

   And yet, she still blames you. You’re the problem. The succubus that sucks away her husband’s will to fuck. Lately, he’s snuck peeks at you while you’re underneath him, limp and lifeless. Even though he threatens to get you caught. You’re his new plaything—a pretty little doll that bends at his will. A piece of plastic that he loves to break. You’re his to command, his to destroy. Like the nights he invites you down to his office to play board games. You can’t refuse, can’t say no. That’s the only way you get a semblance of freedom. The only way you’re getting out of this hellish house.

   So you flirt, bat your eyelashes each time he offers you a drink. Grit your teeth each time he uninvitedly touches you out of respect. You’ll indulge him, but only because you’d be locked away in your room till the moment you get pregnant, which will never happen. Not with the Commander, at least… 

   But then there’s him. Joel. The only thing that keeps you going every day. A breath of fresh air. Sunlight streaming through your darkened curtains. A taste of something that feels a lot like coming home. 

   He’s kind. So very gentle. From the moment you arrived, he was always near, always seeking a way to be close to you. It was the slight brush of his hand against yours, the soft gazes across the garden, the stolen conversations in the car when he was ordered to chauffeur you around Massachusetts. He’s become something dear to you. Something you can hold on to for just a moment when your knees give out. He always keeps you from hitting the floor.

  Safe. A word you no longer recognize in a cold world where women have no rights anymore. Nowhere feels safe anymore. But yet, you felt safe the moment he brought you an ice pack after Mrs. Waterford bruised your face after lashing out about you not being pregnant. He wasn’t supposed to be there, wasn’t supposed to help. But still, he snuck you a cold ice pack, took your hands in his gently, brushed a stolen kiss to the back of your knuckles. You still feel it—his soft lips lingering on your fragile skin like sweet perfume. You wish you could feel his lips on yours. Wish you could just be with him…

   But that can’t happen, can it? No. You only got that one afternoon. The one where Mrs. Waterford snuck you into his little studio, told you to hurry up and finish the deed so she could have your child. And you just had to comply.

   It was only five minutes. Five blissful minutes that you got to be with Joel. Even if it was forbidden, the wrong way to do this. She didn’t fucking care. She just selfishly threw you in the room and told you to spread your legs, get it over with. But even though you were both forced into it, you were glad it was him. Because you got him once. You got him, even under the worst situation. Still, you had him. Even if it was just those five whole minutes…

   He was so gentle, even then. Whispered, “I’m right here. Jus’ look at me, sweetheart. You’re alright.” And so you did. You stared up into his big brown eyes, pretended your handler wasn’t in the room, imagined it was just you and Joel for those quick five minutes. His broad body loomed over yours like a blanket. His strong, tanned arms held himself up against each side of your shoulders. And his eyes—big brown orbs of sadness slipping against his flecked irises. He was holding himself back. Holding himself back from really touching you like he wanted. You could see it in those coffee-colored eyes. He wanted to kiss you so badly, but he couldn’t. He fucking couldn’t. 

   He held on for as long as he could with each slow, languid thrust inside your walls. Gritted his teeth together when she said to hurry up before someone comes up. He wanted to fucking strangle her with each sharp word steered toward the two of you. But at the next command, he thrusted deep inside and spilled all of his warm seed inside you, claiming you as his own. 

   And even through those entire five minutes, he never once let his warm brown eyes drop from yours…

   But then you were ripped away, yanked out of his calloused reach, back to your prison cell of a house. And with one more longing look, she shut the door with a bang, growling orders once again when you were alone in that big, empty house where cobwebs lingered in dark corners. Corners only you knew. 

   Your teeth chatter, lips quiver as tears begin to stream down your face. Your nails dig into the porcelain sink like a chalkboard, dragging along like knives that could gut the expensive decor to shreds. This house is no home. The only home you know is in Joel’s arms. 

   Joel Miller. The only one that’s seen you as a real human being since this nightmare of a world started. The only one that truly made you feel safe, seen, loved. 

   Loved. That���s what it is. The one thing the Commander said wasn’t real anymore. But it is. It’s real in Joel… You feel it everywhere when you’re around him. It’s in those yearning eyes of his, those long, dragged out glances he steals across the garden when he’s tending to the rose bushes. It’s in the shadows of the kitchen when he brushes his knuckles against yours just so he can feel you for a second. It’s in the way he looks out his window every night just to make sure you’re okay. 

   But you’re not okay. You’re never okay. You’re a chipped teacup with cracks and fractures all along the dusty china. And you just keep chipping away day after day. Pretty soon, you’ll only be in pieces swept under the crimson rug by the front door. 

   Your body trembles beneath you as you stare at your pinned-up hair, hidden under the white bonnet. The one that hides your face from the world. The one that tells everyone you’re oppressed—used as an object to burden a child into this world. One you won’t be able to keep…

   And if you birth Joel’s baby, you won’t be able to keep it. You won’t be able to raise it together. It’ll just be taken like everything else has from your life. Just like Joel will be taken shortly after the birth, once you’re kicked out of the house. You’ll never have a real family of your own. You’ll never truly have… Joel.

   Anger boils its way through your body, singeing nerve endings, feeding flames in your watery eyes. Gritting your teeth together, you throw the white bonnet to the floor, frantically pull out the bobby pins that hold your hair up. It’s messy, unhinged the way you tug and throw them all over the floor while tears drop like rain to the polished wood. Metal clatters against the ground while your hair falls in messy waves. You claw at your scalp till all the bobby pins are out, till you feel a glimpse of a weight off your chest. But the rage still churns deep in your gut, still swims in your bloodstream. 

   When you run your fingers shakily through your hair and let them fall to your violent red dress, it takes everything in you not to rip it clear off your body, shred it to pieces till you never have to wear the monstrosity of a dress ever again. 

   Forbidden. What Mrs. Waterford did last week was off-limits. Banned. But she broke the rules, now it’s your turn. Now you get something forbidden too. And that something is Joel. 

   Whipping your head around, you see the clock says ten o’clock. She’ll be asleep by now. The Commander will be deep into his alcohol in his study. The guard that patrols the yard will be well past this area, clear across the neighborhood by now. So now is your chance. Now, you run. 

   Slipping out of your room, you tiptoe down the hall, go clear down the staircase silently, careful not to make a sound as you make your way to the front glass door. With one peek behind you, you have the all clear. So you slide through the door, quietly close it behind you and fucking run for your life. 

   You let your hair fly behind you as you zigzag through the rose bushes, push your way through the front gate, sprint next door to where the black staircase is. The one that’ll lead you to Joel’s room. 

   Your blood starts pumping when you hear footsteps approaching somewhere behind you. Sweat beads your forehead as you slip into the shadows and make a run up the staircase to safety. 

   “Is anyone there?” a guard shouts into the stillness of night. 

   Your foot catches on a broken step, and it takes everything in your power not to whimper as your knee skids against metal. But you hold in the cry, duck down and pray you won’t be seen. Your knee’s not bleeding, thanks to your long dress, but you still could be caught. 

   You timed it wrong, wasn’t prepared for this to happen. It was a rash decision. A desperate, stupid idea. One that might just get you killed. And for what? All because you can’t fucking go another night without being in his arms. For him, you’d hang if you have to. For Joel, you’ll do just about anything. Even if that means getting dragged off into a black van in the night. 

   Holding your breath, you feel the tears sting your eyes. Feel the weight of the world topple down on you as the guard with a huge rifle slips inside the creaking gate. He checks in every crevice of the garden, looks behind trees, through the red rose bushes, even looks through the kitchen window. 

   You don’t move a muscle, don’t even breathe while he’s there, hunting you down. He’ll never find you. Won’t drag you down this staircase. Won’t take you away from the man you’re head over heels for. You won’t let him. Or rather, Joel won’t let him. 

   Closing your eyes, you wait for the inevitable as he pushes the iron gate open while his heavy footsteps observe the perimeter. You cringe, sinking in on yourself, just waiting to be tazed and taken into custody. But his abusing hands never come. His gun never shoots off. He just vanishes into the dark night like a cloud. And in the next moment, he’s completely gone. 

   Uncovering your mouth, you let out a gigantic sigh, relax as your knee stops throbbing. You did it. You fucking did it. Snuck past the hounds. But still, you feel so far from safety. Feel like he’ll be back any second, so you push yourself up off the stairs and crawl your way up, still too terrified to stand up all the way. 

   When you make it to the dark green door that’s closed, you rap your knuckles quickly against the wood, scared of making too much noise in the quiet of the night. 

   Open up. Please, open the door, Joel. 

   It’s desperate, dire as you silently beg for him to open. What if he’s asleep and doesn’t hear you? What if he doesn’t come? What if he…

   Your rampant thoughts are suddenly silenced as he whips the door open, his eyes wide when he sees you standing there in a puddle of tears. Your hair all down, hands shaking, face probably pale from the close call of the guard. 

   You have no time to explain, you just rush into his space, close the door, click the lock tight, and then you’re jumping into his body. You wrap your arms around his broad back, fall into the weight of him, inhale the scent of coffee and safety, feel all of him, all at once. 

   “Joel. I had to see you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t…”

   “Shh. I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here. S’okay now. You’re safe,” he coos into your ear while he places a soft kiss atop the crown of your head, wrapping his arms like a cocoon around your shaking body. 

   He holds you like that for another minute, till your sobs start to quiet down, till you’ve soaked through a section of his blue flannel shirt. But he doesn’t seem to mind. Doesn’t even flinch when you lock your fingers around the soft fabric, till you’re one in the same with him. 

   “Hey. Look at me.” He says it softly, lifts your chin with his calloused fingers, lets the pad of his thumb catch a falling tear from crashing onto the carpet. “Are you hurt?” He assesses your cheeks, looks for any new signs of purple bruises, but he finds none. Only sees how broken you truly are. 

   Shaking your head, you gulp. “No. I’m not hurt. I’m just…”

   “Jus’ what?” His soft brown eyes delve into yours while they search for anything that might give your reckless behavior away. But he’s not looking for an apology or explanation of why you came. He knows why. Deep down, he knows. 

   You just need him. More than you ever did. 

   “I needed you…” you whisper into the air as he catches another falling tear. 

   “Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls out as sadness sweeps over his soft features. “C’mere, baby.” He scoops you up in his arms bridal style, takes you over to the bed, cradles you in his lap till everything just stops. Till all the noise dissipates into the air. Till your body stills in his arms. And then you let him rock you against his firm chest while he gently kisses your temple, leaves the mark of his soft lips on your skin like an invisible tattoo. You’ll surely wear it forever underneath this red rag of a dress. 

   “You’re such a brave girl, you know that?” he whispers into your hair, dragging his lips down until he’s pressing them to your forehead. An action you’ve needed so desperately for so long. 

   You choke on words, spit them out as if this will be your last time to voice them. “I thought I was gonna get caught. I slipped on the stairs. I made too much noise. They almost… they almost…” You fall into his warm chest, nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck where you know it’s safe.

   “Shh,” he coos while he runs a hand up and down the small of your back. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. You made it. And now, I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

   I’ve got you. He repeats the phrase so he can drive it into your brain. Really make you believe that this is all okay. He knows it’s not, but he’ll make you feel like it is for now. In these few minutes you have together. 

   You turn your head, stare at the locked door like they’ll break in any second. Carry you away. They’d take Joel first. Hang him by a rope till his neck breaks. That’s what they always do because they love torturing women. They’d drag it out so slow, till you felt everything Joel did. Till every single particle inside you broke from heartbreak. And then they’d drag you back to that awful house and make you relive it all over again but without Joel. You can’t live without him. You can’t…

   “It’s so awful in that house, Joel. They’re both monsters. Please don’t… don’t leave me,” you cry into the fabric of his flannel, praying it never gets to that point. Begging for anyone to just listen to your pleas. 

   “I'm not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart. Gonna stay right here,” he whispers gently into your ear. As if he knows exactly what you’re thinking, he wraps you tighter in his arms, rocks you till you’re floating in a sea of still water. “I know, sweetheart. I know. I worry ‘bout you every second of every day when I’m not there. ‘Cause I can’t… I can’t stop them from hurting you. I can’t stop him.” You know exactly what he means. He can’t stop the Commander from spreading your legs every single week. Joel has no power to do that, and you know it kills him. God, it fucking weighs on him like wet cement. Even if he wants to end it, he can’t. 

   “I know. I wish you could because he makes me sick. They make me so fucking sick. I just want…” You pause, curl your fingers into the soft flannel, reel him in a little closer so you can inhale his woodsy scent. 

   “What do you want? Tell me, sweetheart,” he coaxes as he twists a strand of your hair between his fingers.

   “I just want you.” That’s it. That’s all you want. All you need. “If I can’t have anything else in the world then just let me have you.” Your eyes swirl with mist, tears breaking over your lashes, a desperate cry for help for someone to hear your call through the dark night. 

   Please, just let me have Joel. Just once more, if that…

   “Oh, babygirl.” He draws you in, brushes his plush lips over yours, kissing away the pain of yesterday. And then he takes his calloused palm and caresses your cheek while he stares into your blurry eyes. “You’re all I ever want, too. You’re like the twinkling stars in the night sky. So beautiful, yet so out of reach. And when I try to extend my arm out, jump for the night sky, you somehow get further from my grasp. You always jus’… disappear.”

   You know what he means. You’re always pulled in two directions at once. Always at the beck and call of Mrs. Waterford. Always fucking drowning in her moody demands. She can’t stand the sight of you. Thinks you’re a crawling parasite that she can walk all over. Makes you choke when she wrings your neck like a dog on a leash she can’t control. She has control though. Always has ever since you walked through that dark doorway. She has every last bit of control with you, except right this very second.

   You cling to his flexed bicep, look him deep in the eyes while you try to put on a brave face. “I can’t sleep at night knowing you’re just feet away from me. I can’t function when all I think about is you in that haunted hell of a house. I can’t… think when you’re not around. I can’t fucking breathe.” There. You said it all. Poured out your entire feelings on a platter and offered it up to him like a pot of gold. He’s your everything, and you can’t bear to live in this authoritarian nightmare without him.

   He pauses a beat, fixes his sad brown eyes on you, slides his knuckles against your jawline, gives you that look that makes butterflies swim through your stomach. “Sweetheart, I… I haven’t slept a wink since me and you… Well, since we…”

   “Slept together,” you finish for him, watching his lips twitch and jaw clench.

   He nods, sighs through his words. “I wouldn’t call that sleepin’ together. That was… forced. ‘Cause she was fuckin’ standing over there like a goddamn watchdog hoverin’ and blowing smoke down my back. I couldn’t give you what I wanted to. I couldn’t make you feel the way you should feel. I couldn’t… Fuck. I couldn’t make love to you like I wanted to.” He drops his forehead to yours, holds you a bit closer, grazes his lips over your cheek, steals your breath when he tips your head back until you’re practically mouth to mouth.

   There’s a tension thickening in the air like a warm summer breeze. Thunderstorms brewing in the distance, creating humidity and heat between your bodies. This is it. This could be your only shot at a real moment together. You could be dead by tomorrow, so you’ll take every advantage of what’s right in front of you now. Joel. 

   “So make love to me then,” you whisper against his lips.

   He dips his head, looks you right in the eye and asks for permission with those perfect brown eyes of his. “You feel up for that, sweetheart? I mean, did the Commander…”

   “Not tonight,” you shake your head, feel relief flood through you as he carefully takes his hand and unzips the back of your crimson-stained dress, letting you know he’s going to take good care of you.

   “Well, then. Let me make you feel exactly how you deserve to feel. Let me show you how I really feel about you.” He slides the dress off your body, takes his hands and unclamps the back of your bra, tugs just enough until it’s thrown in a heap on the floor. Leaving you in only your panties.

   “Joel…” you breathe as he kisses a trail down the side of your neck, kneading your breasts until his mouth closes around them. You arch your back, whimper his name through closed lips, fall into bliss when he hooks his fingers around the elastic of your panties until he’s pushing them down, leaving you completely bare with parted legs.

   “Tell me what you want, baby,” he says through languid kisses, his tongue teasing along your inner thighs, creating slick that you haven’t felt in years. Is this what it’s like to feel wanted, to be loved? 

   “Want you to… touch me,” you say effortlessly through fluttering eyelashes, your legs splayed wide as he settles between your thighs, looks up at you with satisfaction swimming through his shiny irises. He’s going to eat you alive, and you hope he swallows you. 

   “Jus’ relax. Lay back. Enjoy this. It’s all for you, sweetheart. All of it,” he growls. And then he dives down, flattens his tongue over the entirety of you and slides up, licking all of you. 

   You have to wrap your fingers in the sheets. Have to hold on to something while he ignites every single nerve ending in your body. He does it again, this time slower, needier. Flicks his tongue around your bundle of nerves while you moan through the pleasure. 

   “Yes, yes,” you chant as he looks up with hungry eyes, replaces his tongue with two big fingers that circle your puffy clit till you see stars. 

   “Joel, I’m close. I’m…”

   “Take it all, sweetheart. Want you to feel so good for me. Want you to come like no one’s ever made you come,” he groans as he licks over your folds, pushes two thick fingers through your dripping hole, reaching that spongy spot that no one’s ever reached but him before. 

   You throw your head back into the silky sheets, push your fingers through his greying locks of hair, feel your body start to vibrate through the pleasure. You feel him everywhere. Through the tips of your fingers, through your curling toes, through the way his name slips off your tongue through his languid strokes of his tongue. He’s inside you, all around you, through the smoke of the air outside. You’re his. He’s marking you through his lips, reaching inside and slapping his name on your heartstrings. He’s all of you. And now, you fall. 

   He sucks you into his mouth, pulls you in and curls his fingers once more till you’re falling from the stars. Arching your back, you let the white-hot heat take hold of you, let the tears crash over the messy sheets, let his name fall off your lips as your orgasm washes over you like falling snow. There’s no Commanders, no rules, no regulations in this room. It’s just Joel guiding your body, freeing you of your shackles so you can experience this wonderful, incredible, once in a lifetime moment you may never have again. 

   You fall back in the bed, his fingers still meticulously brushing over you, pulling out the last of your orgasm like magic on a string. And when you open your eyes and let your body come back down to reality, he hovers over you, strokes your cheek, looks at you like you’re made to be loved. 

   “You okay?” His deep Southern drawl is filled with so much love. A scrape of affection you thought you’d never feel again. 

   “Mhm. More than okay.” You lace your fingers with his, coax him forward until his lips are hovering right above yours, waiting for an invitation to drop down on yours. 

   He sighs, lets his forehead lean against yours, brushes a piece of hair behind the shell of your ear, gazes at you with the most sincere eyes you’ve ever seen. “You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” he whispers out as his hand skates over your heated skin, feeding the flames inside you. 

   Your bottom lip trembles, your eyes melt. No one’s ever called you that. Not in this lifetime. Not in that house with crawling spiders and venomous snakes. But he did. Joel called you that. Beautiful. He thinks you’re beautiful…

   Without wasting another second, you grab the front of his flannel, draw him closer until your mouth crashes against his in a heated kiss. Flames erupt around you; wildfires burn as you tangle yourself around him. He tastes like yours, tastes like freedom, like love. 

   You paw at the buttons on his flannel, frantically tugging like you’ll die if you spend one more second without his tanned skin on yours. He senses your worry, feels you desperately pulling at the buckle of his belt while your other hand clings to his button-up. So he helps, assists you in your dire need. 

   He quickly undoes all his buttons, lets you slide the soft fabric off his broad shoulders while his tongue dances with yours. Next, he unzips his black pants, lets the belt slide loose until he shucks them off along with his boxers. Now there’s nothing left between you, just warm bodies sliding against one another, connecting like you fit perfectly together. 

   Your bodies tangle together as you roll through the sheets, toppling over one another. His hands are everywhere—exploring your curves, his mouth molding with yours like honey, fingers tangling through your locks. You push your hands through his soft brown hair, lock your arms around his neck, kiss him like he’s the only thing filling your lungs with oxygen. But it’s not enough. It still isn’t enough. You need to be closer, tighter, sewed into the very essence of him. Maybe then it’d be enough. 

   As he rolls onto his back, he disconnects from your lips. Just long enough to take a breath and look up at you with big brown eyes that sparkle just for you. And then he smiles—one that nearly tips you over the edge. You’ve never seen anything more beautiful in your life. 

   “Hi,” he says, so casually with a perfect crooked smile on his lips.

   “Hi,” you repeat, your lips curving into a soft smile. 

   “Goddamn it. Look at you. Straddlin’ me. Looking like a pretty picture under the soft lighting,” he smiles, melting your heart that much more. He’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that matters. The only thing that exists in this world. 

   “Am I your girl?” you ask shyly, batting your eyelashes as a blush stains your cheeks. 

   He nods, spreading his smile wide while he caresses his knuckles against the side of your cheek. “Yeah, you’re my girl.”

   You blink down at him, take this moment to memorize the outline of his chiseled jawline. Map out every single wrinkle and line of his tanned skin. Commit to memory his perfect glossy-brown eyes. Eyes that make your knees weak. 

   Taking his time, he slides your body down, just enough to where his tip nudges against your entrance. Coaxing you to move on your own terms. Nodding down between your sprawled legs, he lets his hand fall to the side of your right hip. 

   “Go on, sweetheart. Take what you need,” he coaxes, sending you another warm grin. 

   You flick your eyes down for a second, see his hardened cock ready to go, trace the outline of the thick veins wrapping around his long length, memorize all of him before you look back up with big eyes. 

   He knows… He knows you’re always being held down against your own will. Always on your back as the Commander takes and ravishes and steals till you finally break. Joel knows how uncomfortable it makes you. Reminds you that you have no freedom. But Joel’s giving you release, unshackling you from your duties. He’s giving you a choice. Freedom. He’s setting you free…

   With one more knowing look his way, you start to rock against him. Let him slip inside your dripping opening. Feel him stretch you like no one else has before. You slide down till he’s bottomed out inside you, bounce up and down at a slow, satiating rhythm. You revel in the feel of him, in the way he makes you feel so good. He lets you take the pleasure, lets you breathe his name through the thick air while you intertwine your fingers with his. And then you moan, let his name slip off your tongue till all you can feel is him buried deep inside you.

   “There ya go. That’s my girl,” he groans out through his own pleasure, his hooded eyes staring up at you as you listlessly call his name.

   “Joel, Joel, Joel,” you moan as your clit catches on his coarse, dark hair; your continuous echo bouncing across the walls each time his massive cock hits that spongy spot at the top of your walls. 

   “Yeah. Attagirl. Take it all. Every drop. Soak it in. Bottle it up. This is all for you. Jus’… you,” he bites through his clenched teeth as your walls suck him in, devouring him like you’ll never let go. 

   You revel in the ecstasy. The way he tilts his hips, just enough to where each thrust pounds you deeper into oblivion. And you ride him—slowly, implicitly, unabashedly until you take back every ounce of freedom you’ve lost. Each slide of his cock, each affectionate word, each roll of his hips is giving back something you’ve lost. Your right to own a house, your ability to have money in a bank, your freedom to fuck who you want, when you want, your choice to love who you want. Joel gives it all back piece by piece each time he stares at you with those big brown eyes. Eyes that make you forget you’re trapped in a simulation of misery and despair. 

   You blanket yourself over his body, seal your mouth to his, get lost in the taste, smell, and feel of him. Tanned, sweat-glistened skin. Calloused fingers dancing across your back. The scent of trimmed rose bushes permeating off the tips of his dark hair. You bottle it up, slip it into your mind so you won’t forget. Push past the barrier that says this might be the only night. The last time you’ll be able to be like this. Sprawled over his body, draped in his silky sheets, his tongue dancing in sync with yours, his body tangling with yours.

   Fear alights in your mind, your facade breaks, glass shattering as wet tears rain down your face. And you cry through the pleasure, sulk through the way his cock bruises your cervix, moving through the pain of knowing this could be the last time. The only time you’ll ever experience this form of love blooming in this little room, lighting fires in these twisted sheets. You just crumble, ride through the sheer terror of leaving this very room. Leaving him. 

   “Let it out, sweetheart,” he coos through your tears, helping you through your blurry eyesight. “Let it all out.” He flexes a big hand around your hip, guides you to that point of no return. Sets your body alight once again as your climax starts to go over the edge. 

   And then he says your name. Your real name. Slow, filled with passion, his tongue drawling your name in that sweet, saccharine way he always does. In a way that screams “I love you, I need you” so desperately and deeply. And then he repeats it like a prayer, chanting your name through his deep thrusts, making you burn like fire. And when he says it once more, rolls his hips so your puffy clit catches just the right spot to make you see stars, you fall, reach for heaven when you throw your head back and moan his name. 

   He falls apart the second after you do, calls your name while he spills his seed deep inside you—warm bursts of cum filling you, claiming you as his. 

   His, his, his. Yes, you’re his…

   The moment he pulls out, you topple on top of him, collapse against his sweat-glistening chest, your fingers automatically hooking around his. He pulls you up higher, kisses the crown of your head, talks you through coming down from your orgasmic high. 

   “That’s my girl. My perfect girl,” he drawls out slowly, his fingers curling a lock of hair behind the shell of your ear, brown eyes filled with so much admiration. 

   You look up at him with tears filling your eyes as fears drown out the bliss. You’ll have to go back, have to be ripped away from Joel once again. You don’t think you can do it. Don’t think you can breathe once you walk out his door. 

   Taking a shaky breath, you swallow back tears. “Please, don’t make me go back. I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to…”

   He goes silent for a beat. His lips form into a tight line; his eyes start to shine from the building tears he’s holding back. And then he closes them just for a second, enough to pull himself back together. He doesn’t want you to go back either. Wishes he could just vanish the both of you away from this awful, twisted place. He wishes he could take your pain away for good. 

   Letting the back of his knuckles graze your cheek, he sighs. “Sweetheart, I… If it were up to me, I never would’ve let you spend even five seconds in that house with those fuckin’ monsters.”

   You give him a sad smile and nod. “I know you wouldn’t.”

   He lets his hand fall to yours, intertwines his fingers through yours like tangled vines, looks at you with so much intensity you might just melt into his gaze. “Do you know how hard it is for me to jus’ stand there and watch the way they treat you? When he puts his hands on you or calls you names or slaps you around. I jus’ wanna take a goddamn gun and pop it in his fuckin’ mouth!”

   He’s angry, getting heated because he knows he can’t intervene. Not if he wants to be found out. If he gets caught that means this is over. And it can’t be over. Not yet. Not ever.

   “Hey, it’s okay,” you implore sadly, showing him you understand. 

   “It’s not okay! It’s—”

   You push your fingers through his messy locks, let his silver strands tangle around your hand. “Joel. Just having you in the same room with me is enough. For this life, it… it keeps me from tipping over the edge.”

   He draws out a sigh, relaxes beneath your touch. “You keep me from losin’ my goddamn mind in this hell, you beautiful woman. You keep me from lodging the barrel in my own mouth…”

   You nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck, breathe in his earthy scent, committing it to memory so you’ll never forget this night with him.

   “How much longer do we have?” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut so you don’t have to see the pain written on his face when he answers.

   “If we’re speaking in terms of safety, we have none,” he murmurs out quietly as he wraps an arm tightly around your waist like he never wants to let go. “Riskin’ a little, maybe an hour or two, at most.”

   Being brave, you flutter your eyelids open, watch the way he stares down at you with such affection in those pools of warmth. “Can I stay till morning?”

   He’s silent a beat, probably scared to say anything at this point. “Sweetheart, we…”

   “Please?” There’s a desperate plea in your voice, a cry for help in your wide eyes. If this is the only night you have, you want to make it last as long as it can. 

   He sighs, breathes as his jaw flexes, nodding through his uncertainty. “Alright. But we gotta get you back in before the sun rises. If you got caught, I couldn’t live with myself.”

   “Well, it’d be worth it because I got to spend my last moments with you…”

   He pulls you in, plants a lingering kiss atop the crown of your head, lets his lips trickle down to your forehead. And then he whispers out into the night air, “I love you, my sweet girl.”

   Love blooms deep in your chest. Butterflies toss through your stomach. And it’s like the rose garden in the front covers the expanse of Gilead. “I love you too. So much…” you whisper back.

   He throws his arms around you, pulls you as close as humanly possible into his side. And you mold to him like clay. If you die tomorrow, at least you can say they didn’t get to steal this night from you.

   After a few minutes of comfortable silence, you decide to ask the inevitable. It’s a touchy topic, but you have to know. “Have they let you see her?”

   He stills beneath you, his breathing becoming shallow at the mention of her. His little girl. 

   Joel shakes his head. His eyes become so heavy that you can almost see thunderstorms brewing in them. “No. The Commander loves to dangle Sarah in front of me. To threaten or scare me or maybe jus’ to be the bastard that he is.” His jaw ticks, the muscle becoming strained beneath the weight of this burden on him. “He thinks he has me on a short leash with a shock collar, but he’s fuckin’ wrong. I’ll never be his dog.” But his anger melts away. In its place is hurt, sadness, a weight that hollows out his chest. “He promises she’s safe, as long as I… obey.”

   There’s a weight setting across the room, blanketing heaviness and despair across the thick air. Joel looks so defeated, so very lost in his head. With his deep-set eyebrows framing his watering eyes to the flex of his jaw with every moment he makes. 

   You place a hand gently on the side of his face, give him an encouraging smile that says you know exactly how he feels. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine what that feels like. To have your daughter stripped from you just like that.”

   He shifts in the bed, stiffens his broad shoulders, holds you just a little tighter through the pain. “I miss her every day. Her laugh, her bright smile, the way she used to make pancakes with me every Saturday mornin’.” He sighs, relaxes his jaw, and looks at you with worried eyes. “You know, I don’t even know how brainwashed they’ve made her. I don’t even know if she remembers me.”

   Dragging your fingers softly through his salt-and-pepper scruff, you say, “She remembers. I know she does. And she loves you. So much, Joel. She thinks you’re the best father in the world.”

   He stills beneath you, gives you a half lopsided smile, and laughs under his breath. Tucking you against him, he lets his hand slide up and down your back slowly in a soothing way. 

   “I miss her so fuckin’ much…” There’s a gleam in his eye. A tear slips down his cheek, and you brush it away with your thumb. He tries so hard to be the big, tough man that is his, but strong men break too. 

   “I know, Joel. I know.” You linger your fingers on his tanned cheek, keep yourself strong just for him, even though you feel like shattering too. “She misses you too.”

   He swallows back the tears and nods through the pain, just like he always does. “She’d want me to be brave.”

   “And you are,” you confirm. “You’re the bravest man I know.”

   He burrows himself against you, lifts you up so you can blanket the top of his body with yours. And then he cups both sides of your face and brings your lips to his to soothe the pain for just a minute. You’d do anything to erase his pain. You guess the two of you do that a lot. Use each other to drown out the pain of living in enslavement. Remind each other that you’ve got to keep living. Even if most of the time that ray of light seems miles away. Like you’ll never be able to fully grasp it. 

   What was it he told you before? That night he found you in the mud in the middle of a thunderstorm. When you buried yourself behind the rose bushes, praying that’d be your last night on earth. He said, “C’mon, sweetheart. You can’t give up. You’ve got to find the light.” But he was your light. Still is. You could’ve died right there, but he scooped you up and showed you the path to light again. 

   He’s the only reason you’re still breathing…

   “Joel?”

   “Hm?” he hums against your body, one hand on the small of your back, the other drawing hearts on the side of your face.

   “What if I…” You pause, not able to finish the sentence.

   “What if you what?” He searches your face, digging for anything that might give away your half-finished sentence.

   “Get pregnant.” It’s a whisper, barely anything at all. But it permeates through the room like fog.

   “Then I’ll take care of you.” There’s no question or hesitation in his voice. He’s firm like the wood on the floor. He will take care of you. This you know. You guess you’ve always known. Like that first day at the house when he clasped his hand around your wrist after you stared at the ceiling fan for too long. He saved your life that day, and he’s still continuing to save it.

   “But they won’t… let you,” you mewl, biting your bottom lip as fear creeps its way inside you. “They’ll take the baby, Joel. Once it’s born. They won’t let me see them. Mrs. Waterford, she’ll never let me hold my…” You can’t help it. You break on the spot. Tears pool in your eyes. Your chest squeezes around your lungs. You can’t breathe. You can’t think because your future baby, the one that may already be growing inside you, will be lost forever. In the hands of monsters that will never be what your baby needs. 

   “Hey. No… no.” His big hands cup your face in a desperate plea, his big brown eyes delving into yours. “I’ll fuckin’ chop off their goddamn hands before they lay a finger on our baby.”

   Our baby. Something made out of love in spite of living here where love doesn’t exist. But it does with you and Joel. But again, it sounds too good to be true. Our baby. 

   “But…”

   He brushes his thumb over your skin, calming you down through every soft stroke. “I’m gonna get you out.”

   You gasp as you let the words sink in. “What?”

   “I’m gonna get us out,” he states clearly. 

   “Us?” 

   He nods. “You, me, Sarah, our baby…”

   Our baby. There it is again. It settles like concrete on the ground outside. Makes it official. You’re going to have his baby.

   “How?” Your eyes search his face, grabbing at answers you don’t quite have yet. 

   “Jus’ trust me, okay? I’ve been workin’ on somethin’, and I think it might jus’ work.” 

   You open your mouth, but then snap it shut. There’s nothing you can say because your mind is racing through the unknown. 

   He’s going to find a way out…

   You dig your fingers into the flesh of his bicep, hanging on for dear life when the fear comes raging through your bones. And then you start to shake. “I’m scared, Joel. The Commander. He’ll… he’ll…”

   Joel wraps his arms around you, draws you in so he can hug you tight like a teddy bear. And you cling to him as hard as you can.

   “Hey. Baby, I need you to hold on jus’ a little longer.” He smoothes a hand through your hair, caresses his other down your back until you feel just the slightest weight leave your chest.

   You flick your eyes up to his and whisper, “How much longer?”

   He lets a sigh escape his mouth. “Maybe a month. Two at the most, unless I can get my cards right.”

   You close your eyes, breathe in the scent of him and try to picture freedom. “Two months is an awfully long time.” But really, every day seems like weeks.

   “I know.” He lets his scruff slide against your jawline till his lips brush against the shell of your ear. “Sweetheart, you’re such a brave woman. So fuckin’ brave. And you’re gonna be okay. As long as I’m here, you’re gonna be okay.” 

   You want to believe he’s right, but he’s not in the Commander’s room when he’s got his grimy hands on you. Joel’s not there when he’s using your body and holding you down. He can’t always be there. At least not when you need him the most…

   As if he can read your thoughts, he murmurs out once more, “I’m gonna get us out.”

   Get us out. The words sound foreign, distorted, but they’re clear as day when you look into his soft brown eyes.

   “But what if they catch us. What if they…”

   “Hey, look at me.” He cups your chin, tilts your head until his gaze is locked with yours. There’s no maybe about it in those eyes. “I’m gonna get us to Canada. I’m gonna set us free.”

   “You promise?” you whimper out, holding back tears from the fear that tries to eat you alive. 

   “I swear,” he nods, firm in his promise.

   “Okay.” You fiddle with your bottom lip, brows knit, your teeth grinding against one another. What if this doesn’t work? What if we get caught? What if we… die.

   Joel sees that look in your eyes. The one he knows all too well. So he does what he does best. Comforts you when you need it.

   “C’mere, sweetheart.” He scoops you up, wraps his thick arms around you, and hugs away the fright. It just melts away like warm butter. “You alright?” His warm breath blows against the shell of your ear, his lips grazing your skin, making you feel so good and warm and safe.

   “As long as I’m in your arms, I’ll be alright,” you coo into the crook of his neck as your fingers dig into the flesh of shoulders. 

   “Then I’ll hold you for as long as I can,” he says quietly as he kisses the top of your forehead, silencing the gut-wrenching fizzle in your chest that tells you you’re running out of time. The night can’t last forever.

   “Promise you’ll never let go?” There’s a catch to your voice, something broken, fading—like the light inside you. But Joel holds the lamp up, so you never have to fade to black. 

   “I promise.” And he does. You hear it in the softness of his words. He promises to always keep you safe…

   The room turns into silence, only the faint chirps from grasshoppers outside, the hoot of an owl somewhere in the blowing trees. You wish you could just walk out that front gate with your hand in Joel’s. Strut right past the armed guards, turn invisible for the hour it’d take to get past this city. Maybe then you’d really be free.

   Shifting your weight, you adjust yourself atop his broad chest and look at him with a fixed gaze. “You really think we can make it?”

   He nods and strokes lightly at the back of your head, your hair tangling in his fingers. “I know we’ll make it.”

   “I believe you.” Giving him a sweet smile, you take your nails and scratch them along his greying scruff, memorizing how it feels to touch him. Really touch him. This time it’s not just your imagination. 

   Joel brushes the pad of his thumb along your cheek, soft strokes like he’s running a paint brush over your skin. “When we get there, I’m gonna take you on the best date of your life.”

   “Oh?” You giggle, tilting your face to the side so you can admire the handsome man in front of you. 

   “Mhm,” he hums out, watching you through lovesick eyes.

   “Enlighten me,” you challenge with a smirk.

   “Hmm. Let’s see.” He traces a line down your arm slowly, savoring the feel of your skin. “We could start by me takin’ you out for a nice, fancy steak dinner. Top it off with some chocolate cake.”

   “Go on. I’m listening,” you murmur out dreamily.

   He strokes along the back of your neck, sending tingles down your spine. “Could drive you down to the lake. Make a little bed in the back of the truck. Watch the stars in the night sky.”

   He’s such a romantic. How’d you get so lucky? If you were never placed with the Waterfords, you never would’ve met Joel.

   “I like the sound of that,” you lull against his chest, your fingers still scratching along his smooth, clipped beard.

   “Yeah?” he smiles, asks you to elaborate, so you do.

   “Sounds so romantic,” you drawl out in a thick cloud of admiration, picturing it through the fog of your mind. 

   You adore this man so much.

   “Well, I am the romantic type,” he smirks playfully, his Texas accent thick on his tongue. 

   “I can see that.” You press a sweet kiss to his cheek, settle back into him as one of his big arms snakes around your back.

   Tilting his head in curiosity, he murmurs out, “And if by chance we have another guest with us then?” One of his hands finds your stomach. As he flattens his palm over your bare skin, he lingers there like he’s waiting to feel something other than the butterflies flitting in your belly.

   “Then?” You try to read him, but it’s pretty damn obvious. He’d love to have a baby with you. 

   A crooked smile frames over his mouth. Makes his eyes a little brighter. “Maybe we’d put on a record, get nice and cozy in bed, cuddle till we both fall asleep. You in my arms…”

   “Sounds like the perfect date,” you muse as his hand slides atop yours.

   “It will be, sweetheart. It will be.” And there’s that promise again in his deep drawl. Something to hold on to.

   As he tangles his fingers in yours, he pauses. “You know, if we would’ve met when America wasn’t like this, when it wasn’t a prison, I think I’d have found you either way. Given you a family.” 

   Given you a family. He wants to give you a family…

   “You are my family,” you verify with a big smile. And he is. He has been since the day you met him months ago. 

   “Jus’ as you are mine.” 

   Craning his neck forward, he brushes his lips over yours, steals a kiss like he steals your breath every single time he even looks at you. Even that first day that you saw him in the garden, you just knew he’d be your undoing.

   Biting your bottom lip, you ponder for a moment. Wonder what this could become in a broken world. “Do you think…” You pause, unsure if you should continue. But the tilt of his head and warm eyes tells you that you should. So you ask, setting the question free like a string on a loose kite. “Do you think it’d be a boy or a girl?”

   He hums, mulling over the question as he stretches his arm up, flexing his muscles while his fingers run through his messy curls. Then, he smiles. One that’s gigantic and all-knowing. “A girl.” The answer makes you light up a bit.

   “Yeah?” You daydream for a second, trying to snatch an image of what she’d be like. She’d probably be so brave. As brave as her daddy. Must have the cutest laugh. One that floats through warm summer air and fills you with joy.

   “Yeah,” he confirms as his thumb brushes against your bottom lip. “I just have this weird feeling it’ll be a girl.”

   A girl. You’d love to have Joel’s little girl.

   “What would you name her?” he wonders out loud as your eyes light up like fireflies.

   Chewing your bottom lip, you think hard on the question. But it doesn’t take you long until one is right there dancing on the tip of your tongue.

   “Ellie,” you reply with a soft smile, already certain.

   “Ellie…” he breathes out quietly, like he’s drawing the letters on the wall with permanent ink. “I like it. That’s a pretty name.”

   “I think so,” you smile as you run your fingers through his tousled locks, enjoying every second you can continue doing this.

   “Bet she’d have your eyes,” he drawls out as a heartstopping smile appears on his face. 

   “Just like she’d have your smile.” You caress the side of his face with your fingers, nuzzle your nose against his, pour out affection while you still can. 

   “Our own little family,” he sighs out. You can almost map out the daydreams flitting across his brown eyes. Can almost see exactly what he does. 

   “One day,” you whisper out faintly.

   “We’ll be free. Happy. Safe.” 

   “Yes. Safe…”

   One day, you will get away from this place. Whether it’s months from now or just barely weeks. Joel will get you and Sarah out, and he’ll take the two of you far, far away. 

   Well, the three of you. 

   It’s inevitable now. You will have his baby. Mrs. Waterford won’t give up the chance to have you get pregnant. She’s too desperate, too soulless and selfish of a person. She’d rather cheat the system and use a forbidden way than not have a child. But your baby will never be hers. Your baby will have you and Joel’s DNA tied together like a web. And you won’t give that up. You’d rather die by fire. 

   Maybe that’s what will happen if you don’t get out in time. You’ll just wither away like the crumpled leaves of winter. But Joel won’t let you. No. He’ll be the rock you need through this treacherous valley of death. He’ll be exactly what you need, just like he’s always been. 

   So you nuzzle against his neck, bury yourself in his warmth as he wraps his strong arms around you. And then you doze off to sleep, breathe this moment in like it’s the last breath you’ll ever take. 

   If this place is the desert, Joel’s the stream of fresh water that never stops flowing. He’ll keep you hydrated, safe in a place you thought had no happy endings. But isn’t Joel that? Yes, he is. 

   He’s your happy ending that’ll set you free from Gilead.