#and pain and angst and i just need practice to be honest

[aria0fgold]

Now that I'm finished with my Mel drawing, I'd love to say time to work on some of my Closet AU drawing ideas but the OC brainrot has yet left me so time to instead write some Whumptober prompts with em, as a treat, and also cuz I oughta get started on that too.

Will I post em? M... maybe... It depends on how daring I feel cuz I'm... strangely embarrassed about em asdjkfcgvhbk Look, I... I'm... not good with writing whump...

[theetherealbloom]

It Only Falls Into Place When You're Falling To Pieces

Summary: There are a lot of people you thought would live forever. You swore Joel would be one of them.

Pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+ HEAVY ANGST, Fluff, Crying, Tears, Sadness, Apocalypse, Cordyceps, Infected, Major Character Death(s), Funerals, Grief, PTSD, Depression, Kissing, Blood, Morgue, Star-Crossed Lovers, TLOU 2 Spoilers,

Word Count: 7.7k

A/N: Fml. I know that you know I don’t usually write angst, but fuck man, I need to mourn and maybe so do you… God I'm so sad. Like we knew the story and how it would end for Joel. Even if you think you're ready... But I know this from experience, even if you've braced yourself, brutality like this... will hurt a lot.

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: Still by Noah Kahan

Joel Miller Masterlist | MAIN MASTERLIST |

WYOMING, JACKSON — 2029

The mornings were slow in Jackson. Slow in a way that made you feel like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t living in the end times anymore.

Joel had a habit of waking up before you. Not out of routine or discipline, but out of muscle memory. The kind that sticks even when the world’s long since changed.

Sometimes, he made coffee. Sometimes, he just sat at the table, plucking at his guitar in soft, incomplete chords while the sun started to push through the windows. The house you shared wasn’t big or fancy. But it was warm. It was quiet. It had his coat always draped over the same chair, his boots by the door, the scent of cedar and pine from the little woodworking studio in one of the rooms.

It had Joel.

You found yourself drifting toward him more often than not. Whether he was sanding a piece of maple or trying to shape a leg for a rocking chair he swore he’d finish someday, he let you linger. You’d sit on the bench next to him, fingers curled around a warm mug. He’d hand you scraps to practice carving, smiling softly when you accidentally broke off a corner.

“‘S alright,” he’d murmur, brushing sawdust off your cheek with a thumb. “Takes time.”

Everything with Joel took time.

Loving him. Learning him. Earning the space between his heart and the pain he never quite put into words.

But the quiet in Jackson gave you time. Time to laugh with him over burned dinners, to slow dance in the kitchen when he played a familiar tune, to lay on the couch with your head on his chest while he told you about old country songs and the guitar he lost in Austin.

And it gave him time, too.

Time to lower his walls. To see you not as a danger, but as something steady—something soft he could rest in. Time to share pieces of himself he rarely offered to anyone, fragile corners he'd kept locked away.

He would look at you and think, If I were braver. If I could just say it.

He’d imagine the words on his tongue, how they’d change everything the second they left his mouth. But he wasn’t ready—not brave enough, not honest enough.

So he just looked at you instead.

And maybe you knew. Maybe you always knew.

Because he did love you.

In quiet, consistent ways. In the way he made your coffee just how you liked it. In the way he memorized the sound of your laugh. In every glance, every softened breath, every moment where he didn’t walk away.

He didn’t love you because he was lonely—Joel had long since learned how to survive in the silence.

He loved you because your light made the dark seem less like a prison and more like a place he could leave behind.

It started small.

A found thing—half-buried in the snow behind the stables. You’d been looking for spare nails in a busted old toolbox when you saw it: a film camera. Dusty, scratched up, but the click still worked. You brought it back like a prize.

Joel looked up from the guitar he was restringing, brow furrowed. “You went diggin’ around in that old junkyard again?”

You grinned, breath fogging the air. “Found treasure.”

He squinted at the thing in your hand like it might bite him. “You sure that ain’t just some broken plastic?”

“Only one way to find out.”

He watched you tinker with it all afternoon, wiping the lens clean with your sleeve, warming the roll of film between your palms to bring it back to life. You caught him staring more than once—chin propped in his hand, fingers idle on the frets of a guitar he’d been meaning to finish tuning.

When it finally worked, you snapped a picture of the sunset from your porch. Then one of his back as he worked, his brow furrowed in concentration, sleeves rolled up, calloused hands steady over the worn wood.

You took one of his profile too. He’d been humming low under his breath, unaware.

“Hey,” he said, catching the click. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”

“You’re handsome when you’re focused.”

He huffed a laugh, but he didn’t stop you when you raised the camera again.

Later that week, you asked him for one together.

“C’mere,” you said, tugging at the front of his jacket. “Just one. You might like the memory someday.”

He looked reluctant, like the idea of being frozen in time made him itch. But he let you lead him into the light. You kissed him on the cheek just as the timer clicked. He smiled, wide and surprised and real.

The photo came out a little blurry. But your mouth was pressed to his skin, his eyes crinkled with something close to joy. You kept it in your coat pocket like it might keep you warm.

Sometimes, he came into the kitchen just to touch you.

No reason. No words. Just drawn to you like muscle memory.

You’d be standing at the counter, elbow-deep in something mundane—rinsing mugs, slicing vegetables, stirring whatever was bubbling in the pot—when suddenly there’d be a shift in the air behind you. A warmth. A quiet presence.

Then, Joel’s arms would wind around your waist, firm and steady, palms pressing low on your stomach, right through the thin fabric of your shirt. His chest would settle against your back like it belonged there, like you were meant to carry each other’s weight.

“You makin’ somethin’ good?” he’d mumble into your hair, voice rough with sleep or fresh air or maybe just the softness you always brought out of him.

You barely had time to answer before you’d feel it—his nose brushing just beneath your ear, his scruff scratching tender against your neck. The kind of touch that made the air feel thick with heat and memory.

“You smell like cinnamon,” he whispered one evening, lips grazing the spot where your jaw met your throat.

You stilled, blinking down at the spoon in your hand. “You been sniffin’ me, Miller?”

A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Can’t help it,” he murmured, slow and sweet, like molasses in summer. “You’re intoxicatin’, darlin’. Makes a man forget what he came in here for.”

His mouth followed the curve of your neck, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss against your pulse. Slow. Patient. Like he had all the time in the world to worship you.

You laughed then, breath catching in your throat. It wasn’t loud—it didn’t need to be. Just a soft, breathless sound that filled the space between your bodies as you leaned back into him, hips settling against his.

The laughter didn’t last long. It never did when his hands started to move—one curling around your hip, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin.

The spoon slipped from your fingers and clattered into the sink, forgotten.

You turned slightly, enough to meet his eyes, and whispered, “The stew’s gonna burn.”

Joel kissed the corner of your mouth, smiling just enough to be trouble.

“Let it.”

One night, he kissed you like he had all the time in the world.

It was late, storm tapping at the windows, fire burning low. You were tucked beneath his arm on the couch, legs over his lap, your hand tucked into the worn flannel of his shirt. He kissed you once, then again, then a hundred more times.

Short, sweet little things.

He kissed your cheeks, your eyelids, the corner of your mouth. You giggled, cheeks hurting from how hard you were smiling.

“Joel,” you whispered, nose scrunched, lips twitching. “What are you doing?”

His palms cradled your face like you were something delicate. Like he’d break if he didn’t touch you just right.

“Memorizing you,” he said. Then he kissed the giggle right off your lips.

Your hands curled in his hair, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, soft and slow, lips sliding together like they belonged there.

And when he finally pulled back, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice came out low and honest, barely above a breath:

“You’re everythin’ darlin’.”

He didn’t say he loved you.

Not with words.

But in every quiet moment, every gentle touch, every photo you took that he let you keep—he showed you.

And somehow, that meant more.

Love shows up in the quiet moments with Joel. Always has been.

Not in grand declarations or fireworks. Not in promises whispered beneath starlight or etched into stone. No, with Joel, love slips in softly—through the cracks of everyday life, in the pauses between sentences, in the silence he lets you share without needing to fill it. It’s there when the world is loud, and he chooses to be quiet with you. When everything aches and he doesn’t try to fix it—just stays.

It’s the way your hand always finds his, especially when he’s got that look about him—brows drawn low, eyes shadowed, body still as a storm about to break. You’ve come to know it well, that kind of tension that settles in his shoulders like he’s bracing against something only he can see. The kind of stillness that doesn’t feel like peace, but like he’s waiting to run or fight or fall apart.

So you reach for him.

You don’t announce it, don’t make a show of it. Just slide your hand into his, palm against his rough calloused skin, fingers curling between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Because it is. Because you’ve done this before, countless times. Every time the ghosts get too loud or the silence feels too sharp. You hold his hand and he lets you, and that’s how you know—how you always know—he’s letting you in again.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first. Just breathes out slow, like your touch takes some of the weight off, even if it’s just a fraction. His jaw unclenches. His shoulders drop a little. You can feel it—the shift, the surrender, the trust.

“Y’okay?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper, soft enough that it could be mistaken for wind slipping through the seams of the old house, rustling the curtains just enough to remind you that the world is still turning outside these walls.

Joel looks at you. Not a glance. A real look. The kind that lingers. The kind that says more than words ever could. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else there too—something quieter, gentler, something that only ever surfaces around you.

His thumb moves in a slow arc across your knuckles, and when he answers, it’s not just with words. It’s in the way his grip tightens slightly, not desperate, just present.

“I am now,” he murmurs, his voice low and warm, frayed at the edges. Like maybe he’s been holding it in all day, maybe even longer. Like your hand in his unlocked something he didn’t know he needed to say.

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. You lean into him instead, resting your head on his shoulder, letting the weight of you press gently against him like a tether. Like a promise. His arm slips around you, steady and sure, palm settling at your hip. He presses a kiss into your hair—right at the crown of your head, like a seal, like a prayer, like he’s trying to memorize the feeling of you.

The room around you is quiet save for the ticking of the clock on the wall and the crackle of the fire. Outside, snow falls soundlessly, blanketing the world in soft white. And inside, it’s warm. Not just from the fire—but from him. From this.

From the way he holds you like you’re something he never thought he’d have again. Like the simple act of your hand in his might keep the darkness at bay for one more night.

With Joel, love doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to.

It just stays.

And that’s always been more than enough.

The mornings are always slow.

Time feels syrup-thick when the sun hasn’t fully crested the horizon yet, and sleep still clings to your limbs like molasses. Your body is heavy, cocooned in the tangle of sheets still warm from the man who slept beside you. The air is cool beyond the bed, but the mattress holds the echo of his heat, and it makes you reluctant to move, even as your senses start to stretch awake.

You shift lazily, one arm reaching across the bed to where Joel had been moments ago. It’s empty now, his absence a soft dip in the mattress, but the scent of him lingers—cedarwood, a trace of leather, the faint hint of salt and earth from yesterday’s long walk back into Jackson. Comforting. Familiar.

You pry one eye open, squinting into the low light. Joel’s already sitting at the edge of the bed, the muscles of his back broad and bare, catching a gentle glint from the early morning haze seeping in through the window. He’s halfway through pulling on his shirt, slow and steady, the way he always is in the mornings. A quiet man doing quiet things.

Without thinking, without even fully waking, your hand slips out from beneath the covers and finds him.

Your fingers wrap loosely around his wrist—barely a tug, just enough to let him know you’re there, still tethered to him. And then you shift closer, burying your face against the small of his back, pressing a soft, languid kiss to the warm skin just above the waistband of his jeans.

“Mmm... good mornin’, Joel,” you mumble, voice thick with sleep, muffled by the skin beneath your lips.

He pauses. Still for a moment, like the warmth of your kiss stopped time. Then he breathes out, slow and fond, and turns slightly—just enough to glance at you over his shoulder. His eyes crinkle at the corners, soft with affection, and that familiar crooked smile curves beneath the rough scruff of his jaw.

“Mornin’, sweetheart.” His voice is rough and low, like gravel soaked in honey, warm enough to melt straight through your bones.

You hum in response, already halfway to sleep again, forehead resting against his back. The bed creaks softly as he shifts, brushing his hand over your tangled hair in a slow, affectionate stroke. His thumb lingers at your temple, then trails down to the curve of your cheek, gentle and grounding.

“Go on,” he murmurs, bending down to press a kiss into your hair. “Sleep a little longer. I’ll get the fire goin’.”

You don’t answer, not really. Just let out a sigh that sounds like peace and contentment all wrapped into one. He stands slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb the blankets more than necessary, and as he moves toward the hearth, you stay curled in the warmth he left behind—your hand resting in the space where his had been, eyes slipping closed again.

You listen to the familiar rhythm of him moving through the room—boots being tugged on, the scrape of kindling, the gentle snap of a match. The softest clink of metal on stone. And through it all, the quiet knowledge that this is what love is.

Not always words. Not always fire and thunder.

But this.

These mornings. These moments. Him.

Sometimes, when the world gets too loud—even in Jackson—you find yourself gravitating toward him without a thought.

It doesn’t matter if it’s the bustle of the market, the chatter of passing patrols, or just the quiet hum of a too-long day catching up with your bones. Something in your chest tightens, overwhelmed and aching for something quieter, something still. And so you find Joel.

He’s usually somewhere close—he always is. Maybe talking with Tommy, maybe checking the perimeter, maybe just standing there with his arms crossed like he’s holding up the whole damn sky on his back again. But the moment your arms circle around his middle, everything else seems to fall away.

You press yourself into him, chest to his back, arms around his waist, and your face buries instinctively in the crook of his neck. That space between shoulder and jaw where you swear the whole world could stop and you wouldn’t mind. The smell of him hits you instantly—faint cedarwood, worn leather, a trace of smoke from the fire pit, and something else too. Something warm and steady and Joel.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away or ask what’s wrong. He just lets out a quiet hum, low in his chest, and leans back into your touch. His hands find yours where they’re linked around his stomach, thumbs brushing idly over your knuckles. You feel the weight of his chin as he rests it gently on top of your head, and then the press of a kiss into your hair—soft, unthinking, like muscle memory.

It’s the kind of affection that doesn’t ask for attention. Doesn’t need an occasion. It just is.

You breathe him in like you’re trying to anchor yourself. Let your eyes flutter shut. Let the rest of the world blur into background noise.

“I missed this,” you whisper against the warmth of his throat, the words barely more than a sigh. You don’t even mean the moment, exactly—you mean the peace of it. The quiet. The him of it all.

Joel turns his head just a little, enough for the edge of his beard to scratch gently against your forehead. His voice is soft when he replies, but there’s something thick in it, something full.

“You’re right here,” he murmurs. “Ain’t gotta miss a thing.”

You shift your face closer, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. “Sometimes I still do,” you admit.

He nods once, like he gets it without needing you to explain. “Yeah,” he says, his hand trailing up to cup the back of your head. “Me too.”

And for a long moment, neither of you say anything more. You just stand there, wrapped up in each other, while the world spins noisily on around you—too loud, too fast, too much.

But here, in the shelter of his arms, in the crook of his neck, everything is quiet. Everything is enough.

Crowds were never your thing.

Too many people pressed in too close, too many voices overlapping, footsteps echoing off wood and brick. Even in a place like Jackson—safe, familiar—it could still feel like too much. You were used to being on alert, always aware of exits and shadows, always bracing for what could go wrong. Old habits from the world outside didn’t die easily.

Joel wasn’t much better with crowds. Maybe a little quieter about it, a little more practiced at hiding the way his shoulders stiffened when someone brushed past too close. But you’d seen it. The way his jaw would flex when he was trying to be polite but already had one foot out the door in his head. The way his hand sometimes hovered near his belt like he was missing the feel of his rifle.

And yet, here you were.

The town hall was full to bursting, the whole place humming with life. It was some kind of celebration—maybe a harvest, maybe a birthday, maybe people just needed a reason to dance and drink and pretend that the world hadn’t ended outside those walls. Whatever it was, it was loud. Laughter spilled from every corner. Music vibrated through the floorboards. Glasses clinked together and boots stomped in time with the beat.

You stood near the far end of the room, half-heartedly nursing a cup of water, swaying just a little in time with the song playing—more to keep your nerves from buzzing than for enjoyment. You scanned the room like you always did. Faces. Movements. That unconscious search for something familiar, something grounding.

And then your eyes found Joel.

He was on the opposite side of the room, shoulder leaning against a wooden support beam, arms folded loosely across his chest. He hadn’t joined the dance, hadn’t made a plate from the food table. Just stood there, scanning the crowd—and you knew in your bones he’d been looking for you.

When your eyes met, the noise dulled. Not all at once. It didn’t go silent or freeze like in the movies. But it faded. As if the current of the room moved around the two of you instead of through.

You were mid-sip when it happened, your fingers curled around the cool tin cup, lips barely brushing the rim. But as soon as you caught his gaze, you paused.

It wasn’t a grand thing. No sweeping declarations. Just a glance. A quiet, steady look that said you’re here, and I see you, and that’s all I need.

You tilted your head a fraction, the corner of your mouth twitching upward into the kind of smile you only saved for him—small, but true. Your chest softened. Your breath eased.

Across the room, Joel’s lips quirked into that familiar little half-smile, the one that never quite reached both corners of his mouth, but you knew what it meant. He gave a subtle nod. Nothing flashy. Nothing for show.

Just,  I see you too.

You held that look for a second longer, your body still surrounded by the warmth and noise and movement of the room, but none of it really touched you. Not in that moment. Not with his gaze wrapped around you like a thread pulled taut across the distance.

And even though no one said a word, something passed between you.

You smile again, this one a little wider, a little softer. A silent message of your own: I’m not going anywhere.

And Joel’s eyes softened like he heard it loud and clear.

You hum sometimes, without even knowing you’re doing it. It just slips out—soft and low, the way wind moves through tall grass. A half-remembered tune from before the world went sideways. Maybe it was from the radio, maybe from your childhood, maybe your mother’s voice singing over the hiss of boiling water. It’s not the melody that matters. It’s the feeling that comes with it—warmth, familiarity, something that once meant home.

Sometimes, when your mind is far away, you whistle it instead. Just a few notes, carried on your breath.

Joel never interrupts. Never tells you to stop or asks you to hush. He just listens—quietly, carefully, like the sound of your humming settles something in him too. Like maybe the song is stitching him back together in places neither of you can quite name.

He’s usually out on the porch when it happens, sitting on the old wooden steps with one of the guitars he’s been fixing up. Strings stretched taut, frets worn smooth by time and hands that once knew chords. His fingers—rough and weathered—move slow and steady as he tunes it. Every so often, he plucks a string, listens, adjusts. The sun casts a soft amber glow across his forearms, painting the scars in gold.

You’re nearby. Always. Curled up with your legs folded beneath you, back resting against one of the porch posts. A blanket draped over your shoulders. You hum like peace lives in your chest and is trying to find its way out.

Joel glances up when he hears it—mid-strum, his brow relaxed, lips parted just slightly like he’s about to say something but doesn’t. He just looks at you for a moment, and everything about him softens. His shoulders drop. The line between his brows disappears. Like the sound of you is the first deep breath he’s taken all day.

“What’s that song?” he asks after a while, his voice breaking the silence like it belongs there. Low and warm, barely above the hush of wind.

You pause, the melody tapering off in your throat. Your eyes flick toward the sky, as if the answer might be waiting somewhere in the clouds.

“Not sure,” you murmur, a smile tugging lazily at the corner of your mouth. “Mama used to sing it when she was cooking. I think it used to be on the radio, too. One of those songs that just… stuck.”

Joel nods, the kind of slow, thoughtful nod that doesn’t need words to follow. He strums another chord, something soft and sweet, and leans back on his elbows.

“Well,” he says, glancing at you with that familiar flicker of something unspoken in his eyes. “Keep goin’. I like it.”

There’s something in the way he says it—something that makes your chest ache in that soft, full kind of way. The kind of ache that’s not about pain at all, but about being known. About being seen and loved for the quiet parts of yourself you didn’t think anyone else noticed.

So you hum again, picking up where you left off. Joel doesn’t look away. He keeps strumming, matching your rhythm now. Not quite harmonizing. Just being there with you, in it.

And for a little while, the world feels like it’s made of nothing but warm wood, old songs, and two people learning how to feel safe again.

You’re curled up together in bed one night, everything quiet except the low pop and crackle of the fire burning in the hearth. The room glows in soft amber and gold, the shadows on the walls swaying like they’re dancing to the rhythm of your breathing. Outside, wind brushes against the windows, but inside, it’s warm. Safe. Still.

Joel lies flat on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped loosely around your waist. You’re pressed into his side, head resting just below his collarbone, your hand lazily combing through his hair—fingertips tracing gentle, aimless patterns. His hair’s soft tonight, freshly washed and still carrying the faint scent of cedar soap and woodsmoke.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s no need. Just the hush between heartbeats and the sound of Joel’s steady breathing, slow and even beneath your ear.

“I could stay like this forever,” you whisper eventually, your voice thick with sleep. Each word melts into the warmth of his skin. Your eyes are already slipping closed, lashes brushing his chest. You don’t even know if he hears you.

But then you feel it—Joel’s arm tightening around your waist, his hand sliding up under your shirt just enough to rest against your spine, warm and grounding.

“Then don’t move,” he murmurs, voice rough with tiredness and something gentler, deeper. The kind of softness he only ever shows in moments like this, when the world is quiet and his guard is down. “Ain’t no one tellin’ us to go anywhere.”

You smile into the dark, into the skin of his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath your cheek. His heartbeat thumps slow and steady, and you swear you could fall asleep to that sound alone.

Joel shifts slightly, just enough to press a kiss into the top of your head. His lips linger there—like a promise more than anything spoken.

“You’re warm,” he mumbles.

“So are you,” you say, voice feather-light.

A comfortable silence settles in again. Your fingers slow in his hair, curling around a soft wave near his temple. His hand stays at your back, thumb drawing idle shapes you’re too sleepy to name.

The fire crackles. The wind hums. And you drift off like that—wrapped up in him, hand still in his hair, the weight of his love wrapped around you like a second blanket. Nothing else matters. Not out there. Not tomorrow. Just this.

Just him.

The temperature dips before the sun even brushes the horizon. The last of the daylight clings to the sky in hazy streaks of orange and violet, but the wind has already turned sharp, biting through the seams of your jacket. You and Joel walk side by side down the path back toward Jackson, boots crunching over patches of frost-laced grass and half-frozen dirt.

You don’t say much—patrols tend to leave a certain kind of quiet between you, a silence that doesn’t need filling. But you can feel the chill starting to settle deep in your bones, your fingers stiff and cheeks raw from the cold. You try to rub your hands together for warmth, but it’s useless. The wind is relentless.

Joel notices, of course. His eyes flick over to you, worried in that subtle way he is—more tension in the jaw, more silence than usual. You know he’s about to offer you his coat or tell you he should’ve brought that extra scarf.

So before he can open his mouth, you reach out and grab a fistful of his jacket.

Without a word, you tug him in. Joel stumbles the smallest step forward, surprised but not resisting. You pull until you're chest to chest, until the warmth of his body bleeds into yours. Your frozen hands slip under the back hem of his coat and find the soft flannel of his shirt underneath, palms pressing flat against the heat of his spine.

“Jesus,” Joel mutters, letting out a breath that puffs white between you, his arms automatically sliding around your waist. “You could’ve just asked for my coat, y’know.”

“But then I wouldn’t be this close,” you reply, chin tilting up, a smile tugging at your lips despite your chattering teeth. “You’re warmer than any jacket.”

Joel huffs a soft laugh, the kind that melts around the edges. He leans in, resting his forehead lightly against yours. “You’re a damn menace,” he says—but his voice is warm and low, thick with affection.

You can feel his fingers pressing into your back, holding you tighter. His nose brushes yours as he tilts his head, and then—soft as snowfall—he kisses you. Once. Then again. And a third time, his lips barely touching yours, quick little pecks that make you laugh and shiver all at once.

“Joel,” you whisper, still grinning, your breath fogging between you both.

“I like the taste of your lips on mine,” he murmurs, the words brushing against your mouth like silk. He says it like a secret. Like it’s always been true.

Then he kisses you again—this time slower, deeper, his hand cradling the back of your head as he pours warmth into you one soft press at a time. The world falls quiet. No wind. No cold. No patrols or gates or the threat of anything waiting in the dark.

Just Joel.

Just this.

When you finally pull apart, you don’t go far. He keeps you close, your fingers still tucked against his back, his breath brushing your temple.

You smile into his collar. “Can we stay like this a little longer?”

He kisses your hair, voice barely above a whisper. “Far as I’m concerned, we can stay like this forever.” 

And in that moment, time slows. Your heartbeat settles into the rhythm of his, safe and steady. Warm, despite everything. Because love—real love—isn’t just in the grand gestures. It’s in this. A quiet winter dusk. A jacket shared. The taste of his kiss. The way he holds you like you’re something worth braving the cold for.

Then there’s Ellie.

She was nineteen now. Strong. Sharp-tongued and guarded in the way Joel used to be. You weren’t her mother, and she never treated you like one—but she was curious about you. Distant at first. Then, little by little, she started asking questions. Sitting with you on the porch. Bringing you a book she found and thought you might like.

She and Joel… there were things left unsaid between them. You could feel it like a splinter under the skin. Something tender and unresolved.

He finally told you one night, long after you’d both settled into the quiet comfort of shared sheets and a life you thought might last.

It was after dinner. After the guitar and the laughter. After you’d kissed the corners of his mouth and pulled him into bed.

“I lied to her,” he said, voice hollow.

You blinked in the dark, still half-tangled in sleep. “What?”

Joel’s face was turned toward the ceiling. Still. Tense. “I lied to Ellie. About the Fireflies. About the hospital.”

The room chilled. Your fingers reached for his without hesitation.

“I killed them,” he continued. “Every last one that stood between me and her. ‘Cause they were gonna cut her open. To find a cure.”

He didn’t cry right away. He spoke through gritted teeth, like the guilt was a weight he carried every damn day and had never quite set down.

“She would’ve died. She didn’t know—still doesn’t really. I told her there were others. That she wasn’t the only one. But it was a lie. It’s all a lie.”

You didn’t speak. Just curled into him. Held his hand like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“She hates me for it,” he whispered.

“No,” you said. “She loves you. She’s angry, but she loves you.”

He shook his head. Silent tears rolled into his hairline. You kissed his shoulder. You stayed up all night, fingers running through his graying hair until his breathing steadied again.

That was the last night he told you something he’d never said out loud.

The screams had long gone silent. All that was left now was smoke. Gunpowder. Blood soaking into snow.

Your boots crunch through it—through the aftermath. Bodies, both friend and foe, lie crumpled like broken marionettes. The streets of Jackson, once humming with quiet life, are now a graveyard.

Tommy had held the line at the south gate. You saw him, blackened with ash and soot, flames dancing in the reflection of his eyes as he lit up a bloater with the last fuel of the flamethrower. His scream—raw, furious—cut through the chaos like a knife. You’d joined the others in the streets, turning bullets on the infected… and eventually, on the bitten.

Some of them you knew by name.

You don’t remember pulling the trigger. You only remember the stillness afterward.

The quiet after the roar.

By the time the last runner was put down, your hands were slick with blood—some of it not your own. And when they called for the dead to be gathered, you helped. You counted.

You lost count.

They winched open the gates sometime after. You were still standing by the old greenhouse-turned-morgue, watching Tommy collapse into Maria’s arms, his body shaking with the weight of what he’d survived.

And then—

The hoofbeats. The shuffle of footsteps. The drag of something heavy behind them.

You turned.

Jesse and Ellie rode in first. Dina followed, all their faces hollowed out by exhaustion and something far worse. Behind their horse trailed a shape wrapped in canvas, dark with frozen blood, limp in the snow.

Ellie’s eyes met yours.

Red-rimmed. Wide. Empty.

And you knew.

You knew.

Your legs gave out beneath you before the thought could fully form. The cold didn’t register. Only the scream that tore out of your throat—animal, guttural. You clawed at the snow, sobbing into the dirt and ice, your lungs heaving like they were trying to break through your ribs.

“No—no—no—!” It came out broken. Like you could undo it just by denying it hard enough.

Tommy grabbed you. Held you back. His own face soaked with tears.

You screamed again. You didn’t care who heard. Didn’t care that you were on your knees in the blood and the snow with your heart ripped open.

Maria stood nearby. Hands pressed to her mouth. Silent.

The bag didn’t move.

He was in there.

Joel.

You want to tear the canvas open. You want it to be a mistake. You want to see his face, alive. Cranky. Loving. Whole.

But you already know.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. How long your sobs echo off the ruined walls of Jackson. You only know this: he felt like home.

And now home is just… gone.

They carry him to the chapel. Ellie disappears inside, Dina trailing her silently. Jesse catches your eye and looks away.

You follow the corpse. Your legs move on their own. There’s nothing left to protect now, no fight to win. You’ve survived—but at what cost?

The snow keeps falling.

And somehow, the world keeps turning.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind. No birdsong, no wind. Just the thick, suffocating kind of silence that wraps around your ribs and squeezes until it feels like you might shatter from the inside out. The kind of silence that doesn’t leave room for breath, or hope.

The makeshift morgue is colder than outside, colder than anything should ever be. Too sterile. Too still. Too many bodies of people you once smiled at in passing. A metal table stands at the corner of the room, and he’s there—Joel—lying beneath a white sheet that feels far too thin. Like if you peeled it back, he’d stir. Grumble about the draft. Ask where his jacket went.

But he doesn’t move.

He doesn’t fucking move.

You sink to your knees beside the table. Wood floor biting into your bones, your hands trembling as they hover just above the edge of the sheet. Your throat burns like it’s been scraped raw from the inside out, but you haven’t said anything. Not really. Not yet.

Tommy sits down beside you, legs bent awkwardly, arms crossed over his chest like if he doesn’t hold himself together, he might fall apart right here with you.

“I don’t wanna say goodbye,” you choke out, voice so broken it barely sounds like yours. Your hands finally touch the edge of the table, and you grip it like a lifeline.

“I know,” Tommy murmurs. He doesn’t say more. Doesn’t try to fix it. Maybe because he knows there’s no fixing this.

You press your forehead against the cold edge of the metal, like maybe if you’re close enough, you’ll feel his warmth again. But there’s nothing. Only the chill of a world that kept turning without him in it.

“I needed him,” you whisper. The words break on your tongue like glass. “I still do. I need his voice—I need his arms. I need him to tell me this is all gonna be okay.”

A sob claws its way out of your chest, jagged and ugly. “He was supposed to be here.”

You think about the way he used to hold you—how his hands fit so easily around your waist, how he’d tug you close like the world outside didn’t exist. You think about his voice, low and rough, whispering “I got you, baby,” when the nightmares got bad. About the way he looked at you, like you were something worth protecting. Like you were home.

He was home.

And now he’s gone. And you’re nothing but a house with the roof torn off, standing in the rain.

“I don’t know how to be in a world that doesn’t have him in it,” you admit, tears falling freely now, soaking into your sleeves. “I was never scared of tomorrow when he was with me.”

Your head turns toward Tommy, eyes rimmed red. “How do I do this?”

He doesn’t answer. He just puts a hand over yours, squeezes it tight. It’s all he can give you, and you take it, even though it’s not the hand you want.

You close your eyes, breathing in like maybe you’ll catch some trace of him. Leather. Cedar. That soap he used when he tried to be fancy. But there’s nothing. Nothing but the dull antiseptic of this godforsaken room.

“I thought I knew grief,” you whisper. “But this… this is a whole new kind of broken.”

And it is. It’s grief with no bottom. No edges. No map. Like walking into a fog and never coming back out.

You reach up, finally, trembling fingers lifting the edge of the sheet.

You don’t pull it back.

You just press your palm over where you know his heart used to beat.

And you stay there, frozen in time, whispering his name like a prayer. Like if you say it enough, he might come back.

“Joel…”

He doesn’t.

And you know—no matter how many tomorrows come—you’ll miss him in every single one.

Because he wasn’t just the love of your life.

He was your life.

And now, all that’s left is the silence.

It’s three days later when Tommy finds you.

You haven’t spoken much since that day. Just shadows under your eyes and silence on your lips. People leave flowers near the mailbox. You go through the motions—eating when someone puts food in front of you, lying down when your legs give out—but you’re not really here.

You’re sitting on Joel’s porch when he approaches. Your knees are drawn to your chest, your hands wrapped in the sleeves of a jacket that still smells like him. It’s too big, and it doesn’t make you feel any less hollow.

Tommy stands in front of you for a moment, quiet.

Then he lowers himself to sit on the step beside you.

“I ain’t sure if now’s the right time,” he says, voice low. Rough. “But he… he asked me to give you somethin’. If…”

You look at him. He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to. You both know how it ends.

Your heart stops. And then starts again, slower. He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small envelope—folded and worn soft at the edges like it had been carried for a long time.

Your name is on it.

Your handwriting. Joel’s writing. It’s him. It's him.

Your fingers are shaking as you take it.

“I didn’t read it,” Tommy says, eyes on the horizon. “Didn’t wanna. Figured that was for you.”

Inside the envelope is a single piece of paper, folded once.

And a gold band.

Simple. Plain. No diamonds or carvings. Just a ring. One he probably bartered for quietly. One he probably kept in his pocket, maybe touched it when he thought about you. One he never got to give you.

Your vision blurs instantly.

The paper trembles in your hands as you unfold it. The ink is smudged in one corner—Joel had probably written it with those big hands, careful and slow. Trying to say something final in a way that didn’t feel like goodbye.

Your eyes find the first words.

Hey, baby.

If you’re reading this… then I’m not where I should be. I’m sorry.

God, I didn’t wanna write this. Been puttin’ it off for weeks. But the way this world is… well, you and I both know it don’t always give you time to say things out loud.

So I’m writin’ ‘em now.

First thing—I love you. You probably know that already. Hell, I’ve said it in a hundred different ways without ever sayin’ the words. In the way I hold you. The way I listen to you hum that song. The way I breathe easier when you’re near.

You gave me something I thought I didn’t deserve. Peace. A second chance. A home.

I hope I gave you the same.

Second thing—you’ll find a ring with this letter. Nothin’ fancy. I wanted to give it to you proper. Maybe on the porch. Maybe by the fire. Just… you and me. I had all these words planned. But none of ‘em matter now.

Just know this—I would’ve asked you to be mine. Not ‘cause I needed to prove anything. But because you already were. In every way that counts.

And I wanted the world to know.

I wanted to grow old with you. Wanted to find out what your hair looks like when it’s all grey. Wanted to kiss you goodnight a thousand more times.

I wanted all of it.

But if I didn’t make it—if you’re readin’ this now—I need you to do something for me.

Live.

Please. Don’t let this break you.

You got too much light in you to burn out now.

So wear the ring, if it helps. Or don’t. Keep it in your pocket. Toss it in the river. It’s yours, either way.

You’ll always be mine.

Forever and then some,  

Joel

You don’t realize you’re sobbing until Tommy places a hand on your back, steadying you as the weight of the words crushes you from the inside out.

The ring glints in your palm, catching the dying light of the day.

You bring it to your lips, kiss it once, then curl it into your fist and press it against your heart.

“I would’ve said yes,” you whisper into the air, broken and breathless. “I would’ve said yes a thousand times.”

And the wind moves through the trees like it’s carrying the words to him—wherever he is.

Because love like that doesn’t die.

It just waits.

It lingers in the quiet. In the echo of footsteps that aren’t his. In the smell of cedar and leather that still clings to the collar of his coat. It stays tucked in the corners of every room he touched, every breath he took beside you.

You will mourn him forever. You will miss him every minute.

Your hands will grow old holding a photograph of the two of you—sunlight on your faces, his arm around your shoulders like he always meant to keep you safe. Your bones will ache with the shape of him, your soul carved hollow where he used to be.

And when your time comes, when the world fades soft and slow at the edges, you’ll go with his name dancing on your lips. A whisper. A promise.

Because some loves aren’t meant to end.

Only to be found again.

[odileeclipse]

“Still, the Garden Grows”

Pure Vanilla x Reader  Angst | GN Reader

You always flinched when he smiled too softly.

It wasn’t his fault. And you knew that. Pure Vanilla had a way of looking at the world like it was still worth saving, like even broken things, even people like you, deserved light. That was the problem. You couldn’t stand being looked at like that. As if you were something gentle. Something that wouldn’t shatter in his hands.

He never pushed. Never questioned why you stiffened under kindness, why you never stayed long in the same place. Why you ghosted out of rooms the moment his eyes lingered a second too long.

Instead, he waited.

And you hated him a little for it.

You told yourself he was foolish. That someone like him didn’t understand what it meant to be ruined, to carry memories like splinters under skin. But that wasn’t true, was it? Not really. He knew loss. He knew pain. You just didn’t want to be seen through, didn’t want anyone, especially not him, to know how much you longed to be held anyway.

“Why do you keep running?” he asked you one twilight, voice low and careful, as if he already knew the answer.

You stood with your back to him, watching the moonlight stretch across the garden’s path. The flowers you planted weeks ago had bloomed despite your absence, silly things, stubborn and bright, like you used to be.

“Because I’m afraid,” you admitted. The words fell like a cracked glass, loud in the hush between you.

He didn’t speak. You didn’t look.

You wanted him to chase you, maybe. Or maybe you didn’t. Maybe the idea of being caught terrified you more than being left alone.

So you left.

Not with drama. Not with tears. Just with silence.

You left a note folded into the soil of the garden he tended, and you vanished before dawn.

And Pure Vanilla, true to his nature, didn’t follow.

But he read every word you left behind. Every scratched-out sentence. Every pause where your hand must’ve trembled. He held your letter like a prayer, and he didn’t look for you, not because he didn’t love you, but because he finally understood why you needed him not to.

You grew in places he couldn’t see.

You learned to water yourself. To sit with your fear. To stop confusing kindness with danger. You met people who didn’t need you to be perfect. You wept when no one was watching, and sometimes you laughed too hard in little bookstores and thought of him.

You stopped looking over your shoulder.

And Pure Vanilla? He learned to stop waiting.

He poured his heart into the lives around him, nurturing others not as a way to fill the space you left behind, but because he realized he could love without losing pieces of himself. He learned that being good didn’t mean always giving himself away. That boundaries weren’t the opposite of compassion.

He healed, in his own quiet way.

He still carried the memory of you in the way he spoke to wounded strangers. But he didn’t carry it like a wound anymore.

When you met again it wasn’t magical.

It was two people, older and softer around the edges, standing across from each other in the very garden that once bloomed without you.

He didn’t ask why you left. You didn’t ask if he had waited.

You both smiled. Not because it was easy now, but because it was honest.

“Hello,” you said.

And he replied, “It’s good to see you.”

That was all.

That was enough.

You watched the back of him disappear into the light, and understood.

 Some people don’t leave you. You just lose the version of them that waited.

A/N not my usual writing style, but I'm practicing for when I submit my writing portfolio. No ITPOT update today but perchance tomorrow <3

anyways...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

[heartlogan]

living to lose

✮— logan x f!mutant!reader (set in worst wolverine’s universe)

✮— summary: logan won’t wear the suit.

✮— a/n: this is gonna be kinda short, but i am in <3 w the concept. (i wrote this in less than an hour bro) i haven’t seen this before so .. lmk if yall want a longer version . perhaps a series ? if yall do, let me know what power reader should have !! and perhaps a nickname 🫡

✮— warnings: DEADPOOL & WOLVERINE SPOILERS, humans vs mutants, and all the prejudice that comes with that, talk of mutants being killed for being mutants etc, xmen bonding, angst, canon typical violence (kinda? mentioned?), logan being stubborn, lmk if theres more!

masterlist | part two

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

Life in the X-Mansion wasn’t what it once was.

If you were honest, life itself had begun to lose that glow that it once had. You supposed that it was hard to retain it when every day you were faced with the reality that humans wanted you all dead. And sure, it wasn’t like you hadn’t known that before, but each day you saw news stories coming out about mutants killed in the street, the X-Men were called out constantly to assist in human and mutant matters, and were always met with hatred.

You just wished that people could coexist. Would that be so difficult? For the humans to realise that mutants weren’t that much different from themselves, not really. Everyone had the fundamental building blocks of human DNA, mutants just so happened to have the X gene thrown in the mix.

Still, there were positives to life. Such as Logan, for you, because you were pretty sure Scott wouldn’t categorise him as a positive.

There had been something unspoken between the two of you for almost a decade, stretching across hundreds of battles and memories. Neither of you had actually brought yourselves to talk about it, both too afraid of loss.

But every night when he struggled to sleep, he joined you in your own bed. An incredible progression of your relationship, really, because it wasn’t like Logan to actually ask for help. Not that he did much talking on those nights. Every time you needed comfort after a painful mission, he was there, brooding silently at your side. A hand on the small of your back, or around your shoulders, if you were lucky.

He refused to acknowledge his role in your life, or his role on the team, no matter how much everybody begged him to.

The infamous Wolverine was so intimidated by the idea of admitting he cared, so scared that it would turn out like his past relationships, that he couldn’t bring himself to accept his place in your lives. He was stubborn, and wouldn’t allow anybody to have leverage over him.

It was another afternoon call out, a mutant in distress, and humans harassing whoever it was. It was bound to get violent, which was why everybody was suiting up.

“C’mon, Logan, just wear the suit.” You said, brows furrowed as you held the folded suit out towards him, watching him roll his eyes. “You’re a part of the team. Wear it.”

“She’s right, Logan.” Storm agreed, already clad in her own suit, much like yourself. It presented a united front, a symbol for other mutants that there was hope out there for them, no matter how dire the world seemed.

“Fuck, no.” Logan responded immediately, voice gruff and dismissive, barely sparing the yellow spandex a glance before he was turning away, grabbing his own jacket from its hanger. “Yellow ain’t my colour, bub.” He grumbled when he felt your eyes still on him, practically carving a hole in the back of his head.

“Logan.” You said pleadingly, feeling disheartened. “We all wear it. You’ll look as handsome as you ever do, I swear.” You attempted, although you weren’t naive enough to believe that the almighty Wolverine could have his mind changed via flattery.

He might have admitted, in another life, that you made the yellow work extremely well. That he knew the team looked good in it, looked put together, almost untouchable. But that wasn’t this life. And he refused to let anybody believe he actually wanted to be a part of this godforsaken self-righteous team that named themselves the X-Men. That wasn’t him. It wouldn’t be him.

Scott wandered in, clad in his own suit, matching visor and all. “It’s not gonna work, guys. I’ve tried. Logan’s far too stubborn.” He said, and none of you could see his eyes, but his disappointment was palpable. Logan only grunted in response.

“Fine,” You said, and he could hear the disappointment despite this not being the first time he had denied the suit. It had been a debate for a long while, by now. “I’ll leave it with you. Just in case you change your mind.”

“I won’t.” Logan said, with an air of finality. You said nothing.

The four of you headed out to the distress call not long after, three in cohesive suits, one decidedly not.

It turned into a fight, as most calls do nowadays, which lasted for what felt like ages. You returned, feeling more exhausted than you had in days. The humans only got more violent with time, inventing new and more powerful ways to hurt mutants. Weapons were being developed against mutant-kind with every day that passed, and it wasn’t lost on the X-Men. Your job was only getting harder and harder. And it was taking its toll on all of you.

“‘M goin’ to the bar. You coming?” Logan asked you, standing in front of where you sat on the couch with Storm, both still in your suits and equally tired. He raised his brows at you, indicating that this was a timed offer. You knew he would be out most of the night, getting as drunk as his healing factor would allow him. It wasn’t that kind of night for you.

“No, thanks. I’m gonna stay with the others.” You answered quietly, wanting nothing more than to marinate in your frustration with the rest of the team.

Logan looked at you for a second longer, hesitating for only a moment, before he grunted and stepped away. You could’ve sworn that he looked disappointed, as though he was hoping you would join him, or maybe ask him to stay. But you knew better, had become familiar with the sting of his rejection each time you had asked him to stay.

You wanted him to be a permanent feature of the X-Mansion, to stay after long missions, to not disappear for weeks at a time. You wanted the whole unspoken thing to become spoken at last, even if it hurt, but you knew he wasn’t ready for it. And despite you feeling similarly, feeling that exact same fear he felt, you knew he wasn’t willing to take on the challenge. To try. Hell, he wouldn’t even wear the suit.

If he had asked whether you wanted him to stay, you would’ve said yes without thought. Without hesitation. But Logan wouldn’t put himself in that situation, so he never did ask. He only hesitated. And for you, that wasn’t enough.

He knew it, too, which might have been the worst part of it all.

You watched him leave, heard the slam of the door behind him not long after, and could only sigh to yourself.

“Everything okay?” Storm asked you from the opposite end of the couch, tilting her head towards you from where she had been idly staring at the ceiling. She looked as though she knew the answer, whether she had already known, or had gotten it from the look on your face, though, you weren’t sure.

“D’you think he’ll ever stick around? Wear the suit?” You questioned her in response, fixing your eyes on the fireplace in front of you for a few moments before her silence became too much. You looked at her, confused and slightly concerned.

She looked as downtrodden as you felt, which was saying something. “I… don’t know. I hope so, but… hope is a feeble thing, in this world. I’m not sure it means much anymore.”

Beast wandered in, with Scott at his side, blue fur still singed from a battle a few days prior. “I’m sure he will come around. Logan is a stubborn man, but a good one.” He commented, pushing his glasses further up his nose, but still squinting through them as he found his place in an armchair.

“We’ll see. Maybe we can make an X-Man of him, yet.” Scott added, sinking into the sofa cushion between you and Storm, wearing his glasses rather than his visor, for once. You thought could almost see the shape of his eyes, through the red lens.

“Either way, I’m sure he’ll linger. If not for us, then for those poor kids. We have all seen how much they idolise him.” Storm said, which was true, but still stung slightly. You wished that Logan would linger for you, too, but you knew it wasn’t likely. But for the kids… well, he might just look back for them.

“He’s their hero.” You agreed quietly, before resting your head on Scott’s shoulder. He said nothing, but you felt his quiet appreciation of the touch. The team needed comfort, in times like these, you included. Beast reached over and took Storm’s hand not long after, and you saw her squeeze him in response.

Jean wandered in not too long later, having been busy helping to look after the new mutant in the medbay. You made space for her between you and Scott, and resumed your position on her shoulder. She rested her head on your own, and the five of you breathed quietly, not speaking. There was nothing much to speak about, nothing that could comfort you, anyway. The world continued its descent into chaos and hatred, and despite the X-Men’s best efforts, nothing any of you did would be changing it.

✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶⊶⊷⊶⊷❍⊶⊷⊶⊷✶

It was Beast raising the alarm that woke you up, and Jean jolted awake soon after you.

“The humans, they’re here!” He shouted, diving into action, with Storm and Scott following soon after while you and Jean shared a single glance, her eyes filled with terror.

“Get the kids!” You yelled to her, as you jumped from the couch, heading to confront the humans with Scott, Beast and Storm. All the while, you were wondering where Logan was.

It was a thought that remained present in the back of your head, a wish that he was safe, unharmed. You couldn’t decide whether you wanted him to show up, to be the hero all of the kids knew him to be, or whether you wanted him far away, safe from what you were certain would be a lethal encounter.

The humans wouldn’t just come to the X-Mansion lightly. They would be prepared. Armed to the teeth, you were sure. And the moment you caught a glance outside of the window, seeing the crowds outside, glints of machinery and weapons, you knew you were right.

For a moment, you thought you saw him out there, until the two humans stepped apart, shattering the illusion of their shadows. The call of his name died on your lips.

“X-Men, to me.” Scott called out, and his grave expression told you that he had already had the same realisation as you. Most of you, if any at all, wouldn’t be getting out of this alive.

“Together?” Storm questioned, eyes glowing that bright white that only added to her ethereal look. She locked eyes with you, and you nodded firmly.

“Together.”

[coichii]

101 DEGREES FAHRENHEIT ✭

—(🎧)—> when your sick, he always knows just how to take care of you

pairing - bf!minho ♥︎ fem!uni student!reader

genre: sickfic, angst, and comfort

word count: 1.9k

warnings: cursing, unhealthy habits, self deprecating behavior & thoughts.

You grab a sip of your water for what feels like the 1000th time tonight.

Somehow, throughout the day, you had picked up a cold. You knew there was some strain of flu spreading throughout your school, but man this one spread quicker than ever.

There’s no time for that though, especially not with midterms coming up right around the corner. So with heavy eyes and a sore throat that you swear is getting worse within a matter of seconds, you continue studying.

You didn’t live on campus. In fact, you lived in a small apartment with your boyfriend, Minho. It was close enough to both your university and his company, so it worked out perfectly. Not having to deal with pesky, disgusting roommates and getting to live with the love of your life instead was the dream.

The sound of keys ringing and the door cracking open was enough to pull you out of your thoughts. Your lover had just came home.

You smile gently as you hear his quiet footsteps grow ever closer to the door, heart bubbling with same excitement as it had when you first moved in. The feeling never went away, not even a little bit.

“Hi baby.” He says, walking in to your shared bedroom and sitting down on the bed behind you. “Still working this late?”

“Well yeah. Couldn’t sleep.” You reply. You wonder if your voice gave your illness away, because you can see his eye brows furrowing as you speak. “Are you sick y/n?”

“I just came down with it. My throat hurts, that’s all. I may not even be sick.” You try not to worry him, lying as you speak. If you’re being honest, your throat hurts like a bitch. But you know him well enough to know that if he knows how bad your feeling, he’ll focus all his energy on making you feel 110% and push off practically everything else.

He hums in response, eyes still searching yours before he’s moving to stand up. “Let me make you some tea then hmm? that should make you feel better.”

“Are you sure? It’s still super later Minho.” You respond, but you know it’s a loosing battle. He could be stubborn when he needed to be, and he is when it comes to you and your health.

“It’s fine. Besides, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t take care of you. Do you want chamomile?” He asked, not taking no for an answer. You smile as you feel yourself giving in, eyes feeling even more agonizingly heavy.

“Please” you groan out, and he’s leaving to the kitchen. You feel grateful for him as the day and pain catches up to you, finally deciding to close your textbooks and change for the night. Thankfully, you had already showered and brushed your teeth, so there was no worrying about that.

You grab the book you had been reading from your nightstand as you tuck your self into bed, silently waiting for the tea your boyfriend had prepared.

Even though you put up a slight fight about it, you can’t help but enjoy when he treats you like this. You love when he takes care of you, it makes you feel special and loved. It fills you with a special kind of warmth that can’t be described in words. Just pure love.

Just as the pain in your throat felt as if it was getting impossibly worse, your boyfriend came in with a steaming cup of hot chamomile tea, placing it down on the coaster next to you. “It’s really hot so be careful okay? I’m going to go shower now.” He dotes on you, placing a chaste kiss on your cheek.

“Ok, thank you so much baby. I’ll probably be sleep by the time you’re done.” And he hums in response, giving you one last kiss on the cheek before heading to the bathroom, clothes in hand.

The tea does a good job with soothing your throat, the sweet, honey taste dripping down your throat perfectly remedying the itchy, scratchy feeling.

You decide to finally get some shut eye as midnight comes around quicker than you thought, placing your book back on the nightstand and trying to get comfortable.

Key word : Trying

It’s hard, especially with the small cough that creeped its way into your throat all of a sudden. It’s keeping you up, the hacking noise disrupting the peace your body needed to finally fall asleep.

It takes longer than you wish it did, but eventually the tea is able to coax your body into sleep, eyes finally getting the rest they desperately needed.

Moments later, Minho joins you in the bedroom, clad in nothing but breezy pajama pants. Getting into bed with you and snuggling close, he knows you’re asleep, but he can’t help but begin to pepper small kisses upon face and hold you tighter.

“Get better, my love.” He drifts off, falling into sleep alongside you.

And you wish you could say you did.

You woke up smoldering hot but shivering at the same time. You look at your clock, groaning as the bright light amplified the small headache that had spread through your entire face. 10 am. You’re usually up by seven.

You silently say a quick “thank you prayer” that you don’t have classes on Wednesdays. Taking a day off of school during exam season is a whole death wish. But with how things are progressing, you’re not sure if you can even go tomorrow without getting 9-1-1 called.

You open your phone, groaning again as the light messes with your headache, but reading who the message is from still causes a weak smile to take form on your face.

—

new message from “linoo❤️🐰”

linoo❤️🐰: Good morning y/n.

linoo❤️🐰: Are you feeling better?

linoo❤️🐰 : I know you don’t have classes today, so you should take it easy.

linoo❤️🐰 : If you want to call or need me to come over, tell me. You know I won’t mind.

you : hey, I just woke up❤️ im fine though.

he texts back within less than a minute

linoo❤️🐰 : your symptoms are gone?

you : well no… they’re worse. but I’m fine !! i promise

linoo❤️🐰 : you’ll call me if it gets worse right?

you : yes :) I promise

linoo❤️🐰 : okay, have a good day. I love you

you : I love you 2 !!

—

You sigh as you place your phone down, mentally deciding to go take a shower. Surely that’ll fix the headache right?

Your head spins as you get out of bed, the world looking blurry and dizzy with specs of gray. It’s hard to walk.

“How the actual fuck did it get this bad so quickly?” You mumble to yourself, stumbling towards the bathroom and turning on the water.

The steam helps a little bit with the tension in your head and the congestion of your nose, but it’s not doing much. Atleast not as much as you need. Your throat was still burning for some relief, and the dizziness hasn’t stopped either. You’re thinking if it gets any worse, you’re probably going to have to go to the hospital.

The shower itself helps a little bit more with alleviating the pain, the warm water cascading down your skin and warming it up inside. But you can still feel it.

You can still feel the pounding of the headache you swear is forming into a migraine practically tearing your head apart, your throat is still screaming you for something warm, and to make matters worse, you think you’re developing nausea too.

Yup, definitely the flu

The flu never stopped anyone though, and midterms are still right around the corner. So with a dry cough and constant sneeze, you were popping advil, and taking a seat at your desk.

“A little sickness can’t me from doing this” you thought to yourself, but it was much harder than you thought.

Suddenly the sun had already set. The moonlight creeps its way inside through the slits in the blinds, but you hadn’t seemed to notice. You didn’t notice the way your eyes were blurred with unshed tears either. Your mind was absolutely buried in the thought of midterms.

I’m not prepared. Im going to fail. I’m a disappointment. I’m so useless, one fucking cough and I end up like this? I don’t even know why I try anym-

“Y/n!” Minho’s voice cuts through the mess swirling through your brain. You look over to where the voice came from and you swear you can see his face crumble the moment he looks at you.

To be fair, you hadn’t looked in the mirror since you took your shower in the morning, but Minho saw something different. He saw disheveled hair, droopy and tired eyes, beads of sweat drooping down your shivering body, and most importantly, tears.

“You told me you would call me if it got worse.” He bitterly spoke, and you felt that cut right through your heart. “I-It didn’t. I’m fine min-“ but he’s cutting you off immediately.

“You’re not fine y/n. You’re literally crying!” He booms, and you can’t help but feel extremely guilty. “Have you ate today? Or at least took medicine?!”

“Uhm, once at like n-nine. Look min I’m sorry! I’m so sorry for not calling you when I was supposed to. B-but my studying. If I stop, I’m not going to make it. I can’t fail min.”

His expression softens at your admission, eyebrows de-furrowing and eyes being replaced by compassion instead of anger and hurt as he walks closer towards you.

“Baby, you don’t need to push yourself so hard. I get it, I love that you want to study. But baby, is it really worth your life?”

Crack

“I know it means a lot, but so do you and your mental health. You can’t push yourself this hard and expect good results. You need to rest.”

Crack

“I love you so much. I can’t stand seeing you like this. Please let me take care of you okay? That’s all I want to do for you love.”

Shatter

You’re sobbing all of a sudden, burrowing your head in his sweatshirt as tears pour as of your eyes like faucets. It’s making your head hurt more, but you didn’t care. You just needed him.

He let you stay there for a while, he knew you needed it. He shushed the small sorries coming out of your mouth, telling you that you didn’t need to apologize. He only pulled you away when you calmed down completely.

“I’m going to get the thermometer. Stay here, my baby.” and he’s off to grab the thermometer you kept on hand from one of the cabinets in the bathroom, coming back with a concerned look on his face.

He quickly rubbed the thermometer along your forehead, reading out your temperature with a sharp ‘beep!’

“101 degrees.” He sighed. “Baby, if this gets any worse, you’re going to have to go to the hospital.”

Your breath hitches and tears spring to your eyes again, which Minho notices immediately.

“Hey, look at me.” He says, using his pointer finger to make you face him. “I’m not going to let that happen. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you feel better okay?”

You nod along, resting your body back into his comforting arms as he massages your tense shoulders. He’s whispering small praises as he does this, and you swear you can feel your headache dissipating slowly.

While even though it’s going to be a while before you’re completely better, or even a little bit, you knew with him, it would all be okay.

As long as you have him taking care of you, comforting you, and loving you, you know you’ll be okay.

back to masterlist

[bones4thecats]

What If Their S/O Died During Ragnarok?

Characters: Thor, Odin, Loki, and Heimdall Inspired By: My wish to write angst A/N: I have nothing to say so read the angst. ⚠️ Spoilers/Trigger Warnings for: Death, fighting, details in death, murder, and just pure angst no fluff. ⚠️

Disclaimer: F! Reader in Odin's part because of Thor being his son

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Thor ═════════════════════════════════╝

🌩️ Thor always adored your strength. You weren't as strong as him but you were quite a threat when you needed to be, so when you were called for Ragnarok, he wasn't surprised

🌩️ You stood before the human named Julius Caesar, and if you were being honest, his cunning nature was starting to annoy you even before your fight began, but now that you were far more advanced into it, it was beginning to make your anger come out

"I'm gonna tear your arms off your body and use them to beat you senseless!" You screamed, raising your weapons to strike him down.

"Bring it!" He yelled back.

🌩️ As you swung downwards, the male disappeared, making your eyes widen and you feel a pain hitting your midsection. Staring downwards, a large gladius blade poking through your body

🌩️ The sound of everyone gasping made Thor look up from his hammer in the private room. His eyes locked with the screen and his grip tightened around the handle, launching up from his seat, he began to practically run outside to the ring

🌩️ Thor ran as fast as he could go up the stairs, his sudden stop between you and the former Roman dictator causing a mass amount of sand to fall upon him. He looked back at you and saw how you fell to the ground

"Y/N..."

"I love you, Thor... after death does us part..."

🌩️ Your body began to shatter as your husband kept his grip on your body, trembling as you died. You, the love of his life, died in his arms

🌩️ He turned around as your green-shattered body began to float away, he then dug his fingers into his weapon, it almost shattering the object he held onto. Thor then looked back at the human, rage in his eyes as he let out a deep warning as thunder wrapped around them all

"You'll pay for this, human."

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Odin ═════════════════════════════════╝

🪶 Vlad the Impaler, former Voivode of Wallachia, well-known blood-thirsty monster, and current-opponent against the co-leader of the Norse Pantheon, Goddess of the Afterlife, Y/N stood before one another, weapons drawn as Heimdall yelled for the round to start

🪶 Thor watched as his mother walked to the human, shook his hand, and readied to fight. Normally he would be just as calm as his father, but after the loss of Poseidon in the third round, it was worrying that they could possibly lose another God, specifically his own mother

🪶 Odin, his father and your husband, just sat there with a blank face as saw how your weapons clashed, leaving sparks behind as you danced around him

🪶 During your time ruling over those who have passed on in Valhalla, Hel, Fólkvangr, and Landscape, you would be able to move around their wispy-like forms with ease, as if you were a dancer. And while it was beautiful in those times, right now it was helping you survive

🪶 Odin's eyes narrowed as Vlad lifted his kilij and sent it smashing down onto your own spear, successfully smashing it in half while you flew back and sent attack after attack at the human who tried killing you multiple times

🪶 It only lasted 20 minutes when you knocked Vlad the Impaler down, causing him to cough up blood and see his blade get smashed underneath your foot. While he did have a Völundr, it was of no use, your skill in battle rose far above his own

🪶 Holding your blade to his throat as he pressed against the wall, he took the final attempt at hitting you by throwing his blade at you, though you dodged and allowed it to fly past you. You scoffed and chuckled at the action of the human

"How amusing, even after so long of trying to stay alive you still don't understand that I cannot and will not allow myself to be taken down by a man with longer hair than my nutcase-nephew. Now, accept your fate. Any final words for your fellow parasites?"

"Yes... I made sure I got my final head."

"What?"

"Y/N, look out!"

🪶 In the matter of a second, time stopped. A large mount of black hair launched in the air with shock while the rest of the beings all froze in fear. It was the leader of the Norse Pantheon, it was Odin who had gone blind in rage so quickly

🪶 Jumping down from his seat, Huginn and Muninn swarmed around your body, now holding a blade within the head and squawked in agony. Loki and Thor stood in complete shock as Odin held his hand up and sent a blast at the human male, killing him slowly and painfully while he picked up your body without any emotion and carried you away

🪶 All Gods watched silently as the humans just looked down or stayed with their eyes glued on the events. The Gods felt ashamed at the loss, yes. But seeing such a kind and loving part of their society fall in such a hurtful manner broke some hearts while Humanity just shook their heads with either shame or pity for the Norse Family

🪶 When Odin fought soon, everyone knew that he wasn't going to go down easy... not after this...

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Loki ═════════════════════════════════╝

🐍 Loki and you have been amused watching the humans and Gods fight. At first, the fights went by smoothly, the loss of Lü Bu and Adam not fazing either of you, but as the humans began to rise in power, resulting in the loses of Heracles, Poseidon, and Hades, your nerves slightly grew when your name was called

🐍 Walking around the ring amusing yourself was easy, but standing in front of those they called 'History's Greatest Military Mind', did bring your ego down slightly, much to his surprise

🐍 As you clashed in the arena, your husband of many years, Loki, floated around and laughed at the futile attempts against you. It was pointless, with your mindset and similar, to his, abilities, you were practically invincible

🐍 Loki smirked as you fought, ignoring the calls of his Uncle Odin's birds. And while they were annoying, if he had to endure them to see his lovely spouse win, then so be it

🐍 His face only began to darken the Alexander began to advance with his Valkyrie-bond. Now his attacks were starting to land more often, and that was not good at all

🐍 You were a Deity who has fought in many wars, you knew how opponent's thought, but every time you knew what he was going to do, he'd switch it up on the spot. Now you understood his nickname to the fullest

🐍 Loki's eyes narrowed in worry as you lunged forward to stab him in the head, only for him to dodge, go behind you, wrap his legs around your neck, pin you to the ground, and speak his final words to you

"You were an amazing opponent, Deity of Order. And I wish you no pain."

"Why you-"

🐍 Dead silence.

🐍 With one blow, you had died. A stab wound to your heart, causing your once glowing, glimmering eyes to drown in a pool of darkness. Loki watched as your arms slumped down and as Humanity cheered for their heroine

🐍 But what he didn't know is that the Trickster God from the Norse Pantheon was standing right behind him, ready to make him feel the same pain he made his lover feel a couple seconds ago

╔══════════════════════════════════════════╗

╚═════ Heimdall ══════════════════════════════╝

📯 He has seen all either fall or stand in this tournament, but there was one that he did not wish to witness end with a Gods' non-victory, and that is Round 5 of Ragnarok, Hannibal Barca vs Norse-Deity of the Sound, Y/N

📯 You two have been together since the very beginning, growing from friends to full-on romance in just a matter of a couple thousand years, which is fast for any average Deity-relationship, which normally appears after around four-times that!

📯 He watched you two look at one another blankly, but he knew how you thought. You were coming up with every angle you could hit this guy and he could go down like a fly, and he hoped those plans worked

📯 Heimdall blew into his horn and the match began, the sound of metal clashing and grunts being all he could hear whilst everyone else conversed and made their own sounds in reaction to everything

📯 You could hear everything better than anyone, and using your daggers, you tossed them in the air before they came flying down, making the loudest screeching anyone could ever hear. After doing this many times and having Hannibal come back with his own attacks unique to himself, which made you smirk and laugh

"If you believe such minor attacks with a Valkyrie could kill me, you're wrong human."

📯 Hannibal smirked and raised his weapon once again for an attack set like a joust. You just scoffed and aimed your sword for his heart, but before you could hit him, a pain was felt the back of your head... a shield had come flying down and smashed your head down

📯 You fell to the ground in pain as he grabbed the shield and hit you once again in your head, making you wail in agony from the pain. Like mentioned earlier, your hearing was exquisite, so having this crashing your head while he hit it with his sword wasn't very nice

📯 He then pierced your head with his sword, causing everyone to freeze slightly. Humanity then broke out into a cheer of celebration while the Gods stood in shock... how did he bring you down in a matter of 32 minutes?! What had he done?!

📯 Nobody was more shocked than Heimdall. He had just witnessed his spouse of over four-thousand years die before him. Everyone knew he wasn't going to speak, so, in an effort to help the man, Zeus came down and yelled out the rounds' results

📯 While Humanity celebrated and the Gods just stayed silent with either rage or pain for you, Zeus looked back at the Norse God and spoke gently as to usher him into a room to relax

"Heimdall, wait for me in the room with a soundwave on it. I'll be there in a little bit and we can speak of this."

📯 Heimdall nodded as he rushed away, tears threatening to spill from his eyes as he ran. Why did you have to die... why did Zeus have to choose you... why was life such a pain...

[writerspirit]

Chapter 2

Pairing(s): Melissa Schemmenti x Fem!Reader

Series: Schemmenti Family Agenda

Synopsis: It seems Melissa’s baby fever has become contagious to another of the Abbott crew.

Themes/Warnings: fluff, angst

A/N: Part 2 after a long wait! I apologize for the delay. Enjoy ;)

WC: ~ 1.5k

Parts: Chapter 1

Taglist: @schemmentigfs @bravewithacapitalb @liliastriangle @casualfoxwitch @sebcheb @emeraldoceansstuff @milfslvr @sweetcheeksschemmenti @natasha29romanoff @notmeellaannyy @milfslover2 @dopenightmaretyphoon @jeridandridge

— — — —

“Good morning, everyone.” Barbara practically waltzes into the teacher’s lounge. She finds her way to her seat next to Melissa. “Oh, Melissa let me tell you about my dream last night.”

Melissa fixes the glasses on her face so that now they are resting atop her head. “Go ahead.”

“First, let me ask you a question, and be honest with me.” She lowers her voice as there are others in the room. “Are you two expecting?”

Melissa’s eyes shoot wide, nearly flying out of her head. “Why’d you ask?”

“Well, in the dream—and you know I recall my dreams vividly—the two of you were celebrating at your annual Fourth of July barbecue. Your hands never left her stomach.” Barb’s million-dollar smile shines brightly. “Oh, and Melissa, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you quite as giddy as when you were talking about expecting your own little blessing.” Her smile never falters.

Melissa can see the glint in Barbara’s eyes. Is she… hoping that what she dreamt is something of a message from the Big Guy himself?

“Some dream, there.” Melissa clears her throat, quickly pulling her attention to the stack of papers in front of her. She fixes her glasses, going back to what she was reading, in hopes Barbara would get the message to end the conversation.

The older woman just nods in understanding, studying the redhead’s demeanor. “Yes it sure was.”

— — — —

During the third period, you hear a quiet ding from your phone. The familiar sound notifies you that it’s a message from Melissa, as you’ve set a specific ring for her notifications only.

Mel: Can’t make it to lunch. Stuck in class grading science tests.

Weird. Melissa definitely would’ve said something or another about being backed up with grading.

“Avoiding me,” you mumble, sure that your students are too focused on their math worksheets to hear you.

— — — —

Waiting for your response, Melissa frantically taps her pen against the wood of her desk. “Lying, Melissa,” she utters. Her hands find refuge in her locks, searching for some stability in her mind racing with panic.

Her phone dings not two minutes later. As much as it pains her to have lied to you, your response doesn’t soften the blow of guilt.

Amore: Okay, well let me know if you need help. I’m a text or call away. <3

She audibly sighs, a wave of relief passing through her.

— — — —

During the teachers’ lunch break, Barbara makes it a point to ask you about Melissa’s shift in attitude.

“I think Melissa has a case of baby fever,” you divulge, leaning into the woman’s space so only she can hear.

At this, Barbara’s brows raise. “Really?”

“Last night, she brought up something that one of my students said to me.”

“Well, what exactly did this student say?”

“He told me that I’d make a great mother one day.”

Her face lights up, and you can recognize the lightbulb brightening at your words. “Well, why don’t you just leave this one to me, dear? Maybe I can talk to her some.”

You nod. A subtle smile grows as hope that a conversation between the work wives will clear the fog of last night’s episode of Schemmenti Family Values.

“Yeah, okay. But just a warning, she may get a little… testy. Last night she shot me down almost as fast as she started the conversation up.”

Barbara nods.

— — — —

“Melissa,” Barbara walks into her work wife’s classroom. Her voice is steady and inviting, as Barbara Howard is known to be. “How is your day?”

“Hey, Barb. My day’s goin’. What’s got you visiting me?”

“I was just stopping by the break room to see you, and you can imagine my surprise when Y/n tells me that you’ve decided to stay in your room and work on grading.”

“You saw Y/n?”

Barbara gives Melissa a smile and a slight nod. At this, Melissa sighs. “Barb–”

“Melissa Ann Schemmenti, I for one don’t see what could get you in such a tiffy about having a baby of your own.”

“Well–”

“In all of the years I have known you, it has been clear that you see these children as your own. From the moment they are admitted to this school, to the moment they are saying their goodbyes for high school.”

“Yeah, but Barb, that’s different. These kids have homes to go to at the end of the day. They got parents and other guardians that they have.”

“And so will your child.” Barbara takes Melissa in, just quietly sitting in her chair. Looking her over, Barbara notices a gleam in Melissa’s eyes that warns her of whether or not to continue. “But I gather that’s not what the hesitance is about.”

Melissa clears her throat, quickly washing down the dryness with her now cold coffee from this morning. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Barbara raises her hands in surrender. “Alright.”

“But just outta curiosity, did Y/n say anything about it? Ya know, just so I know what’s ahead of me when we go home later.”

“I’m afraid I did more of the talking than she did. What did she say yesterday?”

Melissa subtly shrinks into herself. Barbara doesn’t hold her tongue, and tsks at the redhead.

“Well, you need to speak with your wife.”

— — — —

The evening is quieter than usual, much like yesterday’s. The random clinks of the kitchen and living room are heard from the spare room, where you are sifting through boxes.

In your rummaging, you catch sight of a small envelope that you’ve never seen before. Melissa must’ve thrown some of her belongings in here.

You take a step back to look at the box’s side. A look over, in case you missed her name or initials written on it. Alas, you find your name, along with a small heart written in black sharpie.

You make your way to the living room, where Melissa is sitting, watching an early episode of Mob Wives.

“There are leftovers reheating in the oven.” She says. “If you’re hungry.”

You nod.

“Look,” you point to the poorly-written letter from her youth. Addressed to herself, Melissa quickly recognizes the handwriting as her own. “Melissa, 11. For grown up me.”

“Where’d you find that?”

“Box of old things. I was going through the spare room looking for something.”

Melissa’s fingers swipe over the paper, each word—barely legible—hits her with memory of her past. The joy she felt writing each goal. Each possibility as though with every wave of the pencil against the sheet, she had her fate sealed.

A few moments pass, when you hear a loud chuckle from her. “Sweetie, listen to this: a big red house with a yard for my dog.”

You hum at her nostalgic excitement. Her earlier sullen demeanor, now upbeat and relaxed gives the room a calming energy that was lost since yesterday.

Another laugh, this one hearty. “Oh, another… When I get marr—I’m guessing I meant married—I want all of my family there.” She skims over the page, likely skipping over details she’d wish to keep between her and her younger self. “Kristen Marie can sit outside.”

You giggle at her, your heart melting at her reminiscence. “Ah, how lovely,” you quip. “She almost was outside with how long it took you to let her in the venue.”

Suddenly, you see her face drop. Her smile quickly drops to a pout.

“What is it?”

In a fit, Melissa folds the paper, pushing it back into the envelope it had been buried into. “Nothing,” her tone flat, she stands up and heads for the spare room, ready to return it.

— — — —

Similar to yesterday, Melissa’s thoughts scream loud enough for the both of you to hear. Your eyes scan over her face as her eyes are once again glued to the television screen.

What the hell was in that letter?

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. I’m not going to force you to.”

“I want a baby,” she breathes out. Her chest loosens, along with the weight that she’s been carrying for as long as she can remember. “We should have a baby.”

Your smile feels like your lips have never stretched so much before. “We should have a baby.” You giggle, not able to contain the overwhelming happiness.

Melissa engulfs you in a hug. One you’re unable to let yourself out of, although you don’t want to. Shortly, you hear a sniffle. She’s happy!

“Since we’re saying what we should have… we should get that dog too. That’ll be something to cross off eleven-year-old Melissa’s list.”

She lets go of you, though her arms don’t leave from around you. Her eyes look as though they’re telling you not to push it.

“Yeah well, we don’t live in a red house, and we’re not getting a dog for it to pee on my plastic.”

“We’ll see,” you mock. “We’ll see.”

[mahgyu]

JJK MEN reacting to you asking for love advice about someone else to them

๑ featuring: Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Kento Nanami, Choso Kamo, Toji Fushiguro and Ryomen Sukuna.

๑ content: Unrequited feelings (they like you in case it wasn't clear from the title), manipulation of feelings in certain parts, light angst. No fluff, I'm back to my era of pain (*evil laugh, the return* )

๑ a/n: Actually, there's nothing to say, I hope you enjoy it

GOJO SATORU

"Well, if he doesn't notice how amazing you are, he's an idiot. But, you know, sometimes idiots need a little push. Maybe you should... show him."

As Satoru sat next to you, the woman he secretly loved, he struggled to maintain a relaxed facade, smiling as he took in your every word. Inside, however, your heart was beating wildly, yearning to be the man you sought advice from. Your every gesture and laugh only intensified his desire to be by your side, as he battled to hide his emotions and waited for you to realize the truth behind his rehearsed words and gestures.

GETO SUGURU

"Ah, you deserve someone who treats you like the queen you are. And if he can't see that, then rest assured he's not worthy of all your effort. But you know, there's someone out there who has always known your worth..."

Suguru, with his captivating smile and persuasive skills, listened attentively to your romantic dilemma, calculating each word in his mind as he weaved his suggestions with subtle persuasion. He highlighted the flaws of the man in question but discreetly praised your qualities, seeking to show his own interest deliberately. Behind his serene expression, Geto calculated every move in the hope that you would see in him not just an advisor but a potential lover, eager for the moment when you would recognize his true worth and choose to share your world with him.

KENTO NANAMI

"My suggestion would be to approach the situation calmly and rationally. Communicate your feelings in a clear and direct manner. After all, communication is the key to any relationship. If he is worthy of you, that will be enough."

While Nanami Kento listened attentively to your venting, he offered practical and direct advice, demonstrating his usual calm and clarity. However, internally, he grappled with his own unexpressed feelings, hiding his deep emotions behind a serious and professional facade. Every word of comfort he offered you was a painful reminder of his own unrequited desires.

Despite the intense internal struggle, Nanami continued to counsel you, keeping silent about his own pain. He wondered if he would ever overcome the fear of ruining your friendship by expressing his own feelings, remaining trapped in a cycle of anguish and doubt.

CHOSO KAMO

"I... know what it's like to feel that way. I think... maybe he just needs a little push to realize how special you are. If I were him, I wouldn't hesitate for a second..."

Choso couldn't hide his emotions, his gaze reflecting internal anguish as he listened to your love story. While offering advice, he was emotionally honest, sharing his thoughts and revealing the weight of his unrequited feelings. Choso saw in the situation an opportunity to perhaps get closer to you and show what he truly felt, longing for a deeper connection and hoping that his honesty would touch your heart, as he prepared to face any challenge to be by your side.

TOJI FUSHIGURO

"You're wasting your time with that idiot. Men like him will only make you suffer. If this guy is too blind to see how amazing you are, then you're better off moving on. But, of course, if you prefer to keep deluding yourself, I'm not the one to stop you. Just don't come crying later when things don't work out."

Toji, with his impatient posture and piercing gaze, doesn't hesitate to launch biting criticisms about the man in question while you vent to him. However, internally, he grapples with his own inability to express his feelings, using his rudeness as a shield to hide his vulnerability. While his sharp tongue continues to push away those around him, Toji yearns for an opportunity to truly connect with you, but fear of failure and rejection keeps him trapped in his role as a solitary tough guy.

RYOMEN SUKUNA

"Ah, so you've come to me seeking advice about that fool? Hmph, he's just another insignificant worm, don't waste your time with someone like him. You know, I'm not one to flatter, but you, you're too good for that piece of shit."

Sukuna, with his ironic smile and malicious eyes, absorbs every word that comes out of your mouth, carefully choosing each piece of advice to weave his manipulation web. His enigmatic words, full of double meanings, cast doubt on the man in question while subtly suggesting that he himself would be a better option for you. He delights in the control he exerts over the situation, using both you and the man as pawns in his power game, relishing the feeling of power it gives him, determined to achieve his own ends at any cost.

[bennyboyfics]

Soft spot || Ben Shelton x tennis player!reader

Summary: After a brutal night on the court trying to outrun heartbreak, you’re confronted by Ben Shelton—not with smugness, but unexpected empathy. What begins as sharp banter unravels into raw vulnerability, and for the first time, you let someone see the pain you’ve been hiding.

Wc: 1,478

Warnings: slight angst

MASTERLIST

-

The court lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the empty arena. It was nearly 9PM, but you were still out there—sweat-soaked, tense, and utterly relentless. Pop. Slam. Pop. Slam. Pop. Your racket met the ball with such force that it echoed, sharp and jarring in the still night air.

You hadn’t said a word in nearly half an hour. You didn’t need to. The language of fury was universal, and right now, you were fluent in it. You’d lost track of how many serves you’d taken. How many times you’d cursed under your breath when your shots weren’t precise enough, brutal enough. It wasn’t about practice anymore.

It was about pain. Quieting it. Outrunning it. Hitting it until it bled out onto the court. Behind you, a voice broke the silence. “Jesus Christ. That poor tennis ball.” You didn’t even need to turn around to know who it was. Ben Shelton. Always perfectly timed. Always with that goddamn voice that grated on your nerves like sandpaper—smooth one second, cocky the next.

You tossed the ball in your hand high and served again, putting everything behind it. The net quivered. “I’m flattered you stayed to watch,” you called out, breathless. “Or do you just enjoy seeing me kick ass?” Ben chuckled, the sound light but hollow. You could hear it in his tone—he wasn’t here to trade jabs like usual.

He wasn’t laughing with you. He wasn’t even smiling. “I’m not here to watch,” he said, stepping closer. “I’m here because I heard.” You turned, expression stiffening. “Heard what?” Ben gave you a look—steady and unreadable. You rolled your eyes, wiping sweat off your brow with the sleeve of your shirt. “If you’re talking about him, save it.”

He said nothing. You walked past him and into the lounge room, each step weighed down with an exhaustion that wasn’t physical. You slumped down on the edge of the couch, dropping your racket with a loud clatter that made a few players at the far end glance up before quickly looking away again. Like they knew.

Like they’d been talking about it, too. Ben followed you in, lingering by the door. Arms crossed, jaw tense. “Let me guess,” you said with a smirk, pretending to fiddle with the cap of your water bottle. “You came to gloat? Tell me I should’ve seen it coming? You have been waiting for me to get knocked off my pedestal.”

“No.” You looked up. The way he said it—it wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t smug. It was simple. Honest. You raised an eyebrow. “No?” “I’m not here to kick you while you’re down. Even if you are a pain in my ass.” You barked out a laugh. “Wow. A genuine moment of concern from Benjamin Shelton? You feeling alright?”

Ben stepped forward, and for the first time, you noticed how serious he looked. How tired. His brows were furrowed slightly, and there was a quiet weight in his eyes. “I heard what he did,” he said softly. “And… I’m sorry.” You blinked. That wasn’t what you expected. From anyone, let alone him. You sat back, crossing your arms in a lazy shrug, forcing the smile.

“It’s not a big deal.” “You don’t have to pretend,” he said. “I’m not pretending.” “You’re smashing balls like they slept with your boyfriend. You’re definitely pretending.” You laughed again, high and dry. “Well, one of them did.” You met his eyes. “Or, I don’t know—was it two girls? Three? I lost count after the second tagged photo.”

Ben didn’t react to your snide tone. He just stood there, hands on his hips, watching you like he was trying to figure out how you were still standing. You hated that. Hated the way he looked at you like you were breakable. Because you weren’t. You couldn’t be. “What’s wrong, Benny?” you teased, voice light, laced with that familiar mocking tone.

“Gone all soft on me?” Something flickered in his face. You expected him to roll his eyes. Throw something cocky back. But he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled slowly, like you’d taken all the wind out of him. “Maybe,” he said. “But I’d rather be soft than pretend like I don’t give a damn.” You swallowed hard. There was a long silence between you.

The kind that presses down on your chest, that pulls at the cracks in your foundation. And maybe it was the stillness of the room. Maybe it was the fact that you’d run yourself into the ground trying not to feel anything. But something gave out. Your voice dropped. “He made me feel like I wasn’t enough.” Ben’s brows pulled together. “You were.”

You shook your head, throat tightening. “Then why did he cheat on me like it meant nothing? Like I meant nothing?” He stepped closer but didn’t sit. Just stood over you, eyes dark with something more than frustration—frustration at him, maybe. Or at the world. Or at himself for not knowing what to say.

“You don’t deserve that kind of hurt,” he said, his voice low. “No one does. Least of all you.” That did it. The fight left your body all at once. You curled forward, elbows on your knees, head in your hands as tears burned hot and fast down your cheeks. It was humiliating. You didn’t cry. Not in public. Not in front of him. But right now you couldn’t stop.

“I hate this,” you choked. “I hate feeling like this. I hate him. I hate everyone knowing—” You broke off with a sob, hands shaking. And then, gently, Ben knelt down in front of you. He didn’t speak. Just reached for your wrists and slowly, carefully, pulled your hands away from your face. Your breath caught. He was close. Too close.

And you were sure he could see everything now—your blotchy cheeks, your red eyes, your mess. But he didn’t look away. He rested one hand over yours, firm and warm, grounding you. “Then hate him,” he said. “But don’t hate yourself.” You let out a shuddering breath and closed your eyes. “Why do you even care, Ben?” There was a pause. A beat. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I do.”

You leaned forward, your forehead bumping softly against his shoulder, and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t pull away. His hand moved to your back, tentative at first, then solid. And for the first time all week, you let yourself collapse. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel like someone had your back. Even if it was the last person you ever expected.

[missarchive]

the world needs more elle greenaway so i have an idea! how about if reader like puts herself in harms way or gets hurt protecting elle from an unsub and elle’s reaction? can be either pre established or established relationship! thank youuuu

hi lovely! thank you so much for the request <3

cw; angst, mentions of death, typical criminal minds violence, reader is madly in love with elle, comfort

"Are you fucking crazy? You could've been killed," Elle's eyes narrowed as she took in your form. Hues of purple and blue washing over the side of your face like water colour.

"I'm fine, Elle. I did what I had to do," you brush her off, rolling your eyes in distaste. You both knew of the dangers this job presents, you basically sign your life away as soon as you enter the contract. It had been a brawl, three against one. You'd never admit this to Elle, but if you weren't armed, you're not sure you would've been so lucky to have experienced the same fate.

"Fine?" she frowns, eyeing you up and down, bringing up a careful hand to rest on the side of your face, just below the newly forming bruise. "Yeah," she scoffs, "you sure look fine to me."

Pushing past her to open the door to your shared bathroom, you shrug off your vest and shirt, ignoring the look from Elle as you begin filtering through the medicine cabinet for your first-aid kit. You wince as you twist your body to reach the clear zipper bag in the back. You hear her sigh from behind you, then feel her pat your waist. "Sit down, please."

Exhausted, and knowing better than to fight against her, you take a reluctant seat on the sink, jumping slightly to make the distance. You look down at your fingers, picking at the bloodied skin around your nails. "Look, I'm sorry, I-," you pull your lip through your teeth, biting down into the pillowy flesh. A sharp reminder that you're home, that you're safe. "I couldn't just stand there and do nothing, Elle, you have to understand that."

You look up at her with glossed over eyes, the adrenaline rush from the pain blowing out your pupils. Elle thinks that while she's never suffered a broken heart before, this may be the closest she's ever been to it. She can practically feel her chest constricting around the organ, forcing it to beat into overdrive. She swallows before speaking, "do you ever think... about what it would be like for everyone else if we had watched you die there... if you hadn't come home? You made me your emergency contact, y/n, but God, I pray I never have to know what it feels like to answer that call."

The truth is, you hadn't thought about it like that. The impending fate of your corpse, the aftermath of it all. The identification, the funeral, the eulogy... what would Elle say? Would she say you were brave? Stupid? Cocky? Misjudged? The thought now weighing on you, slightly too much to bear. Salty tears prick at your bloodshot eyes, stinging as they form a path down your skin.

"I'll be more careful, I-I'll-," she cuts you off with a soft kiss, taking the burden of your tears between her lips.

Soft arms take you into your embrace, curling around you as an angel would with their wings. You don't need a near death experience to know heaven is her. To know Elle is to know God, after all, they're one in the same in your mind. And, to be honest, if it had been her in there instead of you, you're sure you would've been inconsolable. Tearing at your skin like a caged dog. None of this makes sense without her, and you think, in this moment, that is exactly how she feels, too.

[rowdyluv]

“I think I’m in love”

Summary: Trevor is having a hard time being away from you while he is with Team USA for the Men’s World Championship. Seeing his teammates and crossing paths with other teams with their significant others only intensifies all his feelings.

Warnings: use of pet names (babe, baby), angst, worry/anxiety, overthinking, fluff, I think that’s it

Word Count: 1.34K

It had only been 72 hours since Trevor had left the United States and he was truly miserable. He felt as if every where he looked when he was off the ice there was a couple. It was nearly impossible to not run into someone he knew from the league, just to be introduced to their significant other. “Seriously since when did everyone had their significant other with them.” Trevor asked Matt Boldy as he laced up skate. “Trevor, I think you’re over reacting. It just seems that way to you because your girl isn’t here.” Matt stands to walk off to the ice. Trevor shakes off his thoughts, or tries to shake off his thoughts.

Trevor wasn’t playing well, his focus was off. His heart really wasn’t in it at all. Cole and Luke had taken notice of how he was struggling and were off talking on the side in between drills.

“Do you think this has something to do with his girlfriend?” Luke asked Cole watching Trevor completely miss Brady for the passing drill. “I’m sure it does. I noticed him watching different couples when we were eating last night. I had to remind him it’s rude to stare. I also noticed Z hasn’t smiled like normal since we got here.” Luke couldn’t answer Cole as Trevor skated up and it was their turn to skate. Trevor’s head was lost in his thoughts when Coach dismissed practice. “Let’s go Z! We’re done” Luke yelled out.

After changing and heading back to the hotel the three boys were piled up in Trevor’s room. “Alright man talk. What’s going on with you? You look like you lost your long time pet or something.” Cole said flopping on his back next to Trevor. “I just miss her a lot. She couldn’t or wouldn’t come for some reason. And I’m worried we will grow apart. And, and” Trevor started to stutter over his words. Feeling a knot in this throat forming. Tears forming in his eyes. The pain in his chest that he wrote off as acid reflux earlier started hurting a bit more when his heart raced harder. “And what?” Luke pushed.

“God. I think I’m in love with her and I didn’t tell her. She doesn’t know.”

“What do you mean she doesn’t know?” Cole and Luke ask at the same time. The two boys share a look with each other then look back at Trevor. Trevor shrugs as if it should be the most obvious answer. “We haven’t told each other yet. She’s different you guys. I want to take care of her and provide for her. I look at her and I think about a future. A future where I don’t live in an apartment with in walking distance from the arena I practice and play in. It’s a future where I live in a house big enough for however many children she wants. With a yard so those kids can play outside instead of always being stuck inside. I don’t think about when I can get her naked in my bed. Actually she’s never been naked in my bed. I’ve never seen her naked. But for fuck sake I am in love with her.”

Trevor ran his hands through his hair and exhaled.

“I have never been this serious about anyone. I will go to hell and back for her. I think I am already in hell being this far away from her but that’s besides the point.” The last part earned a laugh out Cole and Luke. The two boys completely baffled by Trevor’s admission about his feelings for his girlfriend. He has always been an open book about most things but never about his feelings.

“Trev, I think it’s time to be honest with her. You need to let her know how important she is to you before she feels neglected.” Cole says giving Trevor a firm grip on his shoulder. “It’s late, we’re going to head out and get rest for tomorrow. Think about telling her and how you want to tell her before you just call her and yap it out there. If she’s endgame, plan it out.” Cole gives Trevor a quick hug before heading out of the room. Trevor feels better letting it all out but he can’t help but mope in loneliness, wondering what you’re doing back home.

While listening to Trevor, Cole was working magic. He had already purchased you a ticket through the US Hockey foundation for a flight. Explaining how down Trevor has been in just the last 72 hours and that he believed you could potentially be the cure all. You were shocked. Confused at best. You kept asking Cole if Trevor had put him up to it. Cole kept assuring you that Trevor has no idea that you have a flight out in the next couple of hours. He asked you, more like begged you, to not say anything to him either. By the time Cole got you your ticket and you had woken up you had 5 hours to pack and get to the airport to be on time for security.

As you were getting ready to turn your phone off Trevor’s face illuminates the screen. He was calling. You quickly decline and shut the phone off. ‘Better safe than sorry’ you tell yourself as your boarding the plane.

When you didn’t answer and then the next calls for the next 14-15 hours. Trevor’s mind was reeling the worry he felt set in deep making him sick, he needed a trash can multiple times. He couldn’t focus anything a while the team was at practice. Trevor ended up leaving practice early from being so sick and his inability to focus on anything. He isn’t one to really leave early, usually he would ride the bench until the end of practice but he couldn’t make himself do it. His anxiety over your safety was much too high. The panic was really starting to set in now that he was alone. Trevor had started thinking of all the possibilities of what could have happened.

1) You had starting ghosting him, he was gone and you realized you didn’t want him.

2) You were in the hospital for some reason or another.

3) Your ex-boyfriend came back around.

He was beside himself with all the thoughts running through his mind. Trevor laid curled up in a ball. Physically sick, a few tears shed, worrying over your well-being when there was a knock on his door.

“Guys I’m really not in a place for—“

“Baby?” Trevor’s voice cracked just as it did when he was going through puberty.

His knees buckled and he all but collapsed down on to his knees wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. “Babygirl. I love you so fucking much. I don’t know how you’re here but I’m glad that you are. I was… I was so worried something happened to you or you were leaving me when you didn’t answer your phone. I just. Fuck. I love you. I’m sorry I never said it before now.” Trevor still on his knees down in front of you, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist.

“T. You..you love me?” You choked out wearing a huge smile on your face. He looks up at you from where he is at on the floor. “Yes baby. Today, tomorrow. Next week, the rest of your life if you’ll let me.” His eyes shining from new tears threatening the fall as your tears weren’t stopping. “T stand up so I can kiss you silly boy.” He quickly followed what you said. Grabbing his cheeks softly and pulling his face to your’s until his lips are just close enough to touch when you speak. “Trevor Zegras, I love you more than you understand.” He groaned in response pulling you into his room. Before the outside world could be forgotten Cole had to run and yell “you’re welcome Zegras” from the room door until he was acknowledged. All Trevor wants to do is lay in bed holding his precious girl, and tell her how incredibly grateful he is that she is there in Ostrava. He can’t wait to have his chance to show her off to everyone tomorrow.

authors note: hi I’ve been sitting on this for a while. I didn’t have a chance to finish the ending for a while and I didn’t go back and read over the actual story part so if it’s bad I’m sorry don’t hate me don’t judge me it’s been like a month

[silverskye13]

rns angst prompt: something to do with evil beesuma and helsknight? And argument? A particularly bad fight? Maybe this was when hk wasn’t champion yet?

The Champion didn't like him. Of that much, Helsknight was certain. Which was a shame, because if Helsknight were being completely honest, he would have to say he looked up to the Champion. Sure Evil Beesuma was sharp and prideful, and seemed to walk around with a permanent chip on his shoulder, but he was also the brother of the man who ruled hels. It was a long, dark shadow to live under, yet he somehow still managed to burst out of it like a second sun rising. When people talked about him, they didn't talk about his brother. They talked about him. His strength. His perseverance. The fact that he built himself from nothing, with no help from Evil X. All his success, he earned himself. It was magnificent. His fights were legendary, all form and poise and bloodless efficiency. Mechanical. Perfect.

[It was a shame, too, that Helsknight was admiring that perfection from the ground.]

Helsknight's mouth tasted like blood. His head swam. There was an ache so deep in his teeth, he wondered if his jaw was broken. Above him, the hels ceiling shifted with phosphorescent colors as stars receded from his vision. Helsknight groaned and slowly, painstakingly, he turned onto his side and spat.

"Alright," Helsknight said raggedly, "give me a few minutes."

The showrunner coaching him relayed his request to the metal goliath standing over him. Evil Beesuma made a loud buzzing noise that Helsknight had come to associate with contempt. On his shadow on the sand, Helsknight watched him sign a dismissive motion, and while he couldn't hear what was said, the intention seemed obvious.

"Give the fool a few minutes. It won't change anything."

The showrunner helped Helsknight stagger to his feet, and together they limped to the stone bench in the practice arena. The broken nose and busted jaw were not the only hurts this particular bout had earned Helsknight. There was a wicked gash on his hip that was bleeding pretty badly, and he had a collection of bruises on his arms and chest that ached deep in his muscles.

"Listen Hels," the showrunner sighed, handing him a health potion.

"Helsknight."

"Whatever. Listen, I know you did well in the starter bracket--"

"Undefeated," Helsknight hummed, licking blood off his lips. It took him a few tries to get the potion uncapped, but when he managed it, he tossed it back. It warmed him all the way down his throat, and as the pain eased away from him, he felt tense muscles relax.

[Gods alive these things were good.]

"And I know you showed promise in the championship tryouts--"

Promise. He'd won eight out of ten of his matches. To get a sponsor, most only needed to win half. Helsknight didn't know who his sponsor was yet, but he knew there was a waiting list involved. A waiting list for him. A waiting list of people who hoped to outbid each other just to buy his gear, and sit in his box, and maybe shake his bloody hand after the match. It was ridiculous.

"But maybe going after the Champion is a little much for you still, yeah?" The showrunner asked pleadingly. "You're clearly outmatched, and a bad starting round can end your career if you're not... Mindful."

The showrunner did not say, if you lose your temper in front of the stands. The showrunner did not say, if Evil Beesuma wipes the floor with you, and it's a bad fight. He did not have to say these things. Helsknight was very well aware.

"We have two weeks before the match." Helsknight said steadfastly. "That's two weeks to prove I can take him."

The showrunner hissed out a long breath and pinched the space between his eyes. "Aren't you tired of getting your ass kicked?"

Anger, hot and quick, flickered to life in Helsknight's chest. It must have showed in his eyes, because the showrunner took a step back, hands raised in exasperation.

"Fine. Far be it from me to keep you from breaking all the bones in your body. Champion." He signed to Evil Beesuma, who had by now cleaned the blood off his knuckles, and retrieved a new sword to practice with. His other one had grown dull against Helsknight's armor and blade. "He still wants to train. Would you--"

Evil Beesuma buzzed something. It was a loud, long, grating note, nearly a roar. The lights of his eyes were narrowed in a glare, all four fists clenched. There was vicious humor there, and no small amount of loathing.

Helsknight didn't blame him. He was a threat to the Champion. The showrunner couldn't tell. It wasn't his job to tell. But Evil Beesuma knew, in the same bone-deep way Helsknight knew, that Helsknight was learning. Perfecting.

When they had started, Helsknight had lasted, oh, about half a minute. Compensating for Evil Beesuma's multiple arms was, unfortunately, the least of his problems. It was the efficiency of movement, calculated dancer-like grace, that was the real trouble. It was the fact that every swing of his sword was always just as strong as the last. No room for error in mechanics. Once a pattern was recognized, it took a fluke to flaw it, and Evil Beesuma was just person enough to compensate for flukes where computer efficiency failed.

But Helsknight was efficient too. He was not the perfect brawler. He was not the perfect gladiator. But he was the perfect knight. At least, he was the perfect knight by his Hermit's standards. His perfection included strength of arms, and a cunning blade, and a thirst for battle that could not be slaked. It apparently also included the ability to adapt and learn. And Helsknight was certainly learning, and learning well.

Two and a half minutes that last round had lasted. Two and a half minutes of dodging, and parrying, and figuring out what hurts he could fight through and what he couldn't. Two and a half minutes of pain tolerance, and the limits of adrenaline, and muscle memory. Two and a half minutes of learning what made a perfect warrior perfect, and adapting it into something he could achieve.

And he would achieve it. Like the sun rising. Like a wave devours a cliff. Helsknight would learn. It was only a matter of time.

Helsknight got to his feet. He took a moment to drink some water, and rinse his mouth, and wash the drying blood from beneath his nose. He made sure the buckles on his gauntlets were tight, and checked the guard on his sword.

Helsknight and the Champion met again on the sand. They were vicious; limbs and teeth and steel. Helsknight imagined someday he would go deaf from the ringing of metal. Someday. Today though, he was going to lose to the Champion again. It would take less than two and a half minutes. Even if the health potion revitalized his muscles, it didn't take the weariness out of his mind.

The Champion got him in a headlock. The movement was so baffling, Helsknight didn't even know how he'd managed it. He'd simply twisted, and what once had been freedom, and the shiver of stung nerves as blade met blade, turned into a vice around his neck and arms tangled in his, holding him still.

[Cheating. Helsknight thought scathingly. That's cheating.]

It was cheating for a knight. There was a certain amount of honor and decorum he was held to that the Champion was not.

The Champion was a brawler. He hadn't spawned into this world strong and implacable, a diamond and netherite wall. He had built himself this way, piece by piece and code by code. It was admirable. Enviable. He turned Helsknight feeble with flippant assuredness, and Helsknight had started strong. It was part of why Helsknight admired him. The Champion had achieved his greatness by building himself into something better.

It hadn't made him kind, and that too, Helsknight envied in its own way. The Champion was a weapon that was blunt and unyielding as a club, and he broke people precisely. He did not grieve his actions. He took pride in their efficiency, no matter how ugly it was. That was the nature of violence.

Evil Beesuma held him still, choking, until stars devoured his vision and novaed black. It was not a slow squeeze. There was no threat of slowly strangled air or struggle to wrench his arms into place. Evil Beesuma had closed on him like a bear trap, and did not release his iron jaws until Helsknight was sure he intended to suffocate him to death.

Helsknight awoke on the sand, gasping like a hooked fish, his throat refusing to open completely even when freed. It hurt. His lungs burned, and his throat was bruised, and the simple action of swallowing was thick and unbearable. He tried to turn onto his side, to help his damaged muscles move, but the Champion landed a foot in the center of his chest, pinning him on his back. Evil Beesuma looked down at him, arms crossed over his bent knee as he leaned his weight down on Helsknight. For someone already struggling to breathe, it was a cruelty. Helsknight felt his chest fall when his breath was squeezed out of him, and he felt every muscle in his chest protest as it struggled to rise against the weight.

"I ought to kill you," the Champion said, his voice a bored drone that seemed to leap into Helsknight's head when their eyes met. "You seem to think some passing skill with a blade entitles you to something. It doesn't. I don't owe you anything, knight."

Helsknight gripped at the Champion's ankle, a new burst of adrenaline spiking him as fear at his situation sank in. Stars, slow pinpricks, were gathering on the edges of his vision again. His entire world narrowed to the effort of breathing. The Champion reached down, and doing so pressed what was left of the air out of Helsknight's lungs. Cold metal splayed against the side of Helsknight's face as the Champion forced him to meet his eyes.

"You are a waste of my time," Evil Beesuma said, cold and inflectionless. The contempt of someone convinced they were watching someone far beneath them try to struggle upwards.

Helsknight realized he was scared. It surged to him through the stars devouring his sight again, followed swiftly by the darkness beyond. He was scared. Scared and cornered. Cornered. And angry. Rage filled the gaps in his lungs, consumed the stars in his vision. The world in front of him went briefly red, consumed by the determination to be spiteful and petty, and to make the Champion think twice before belittling him like this again.

Helsknight punched Evil Beesuma as hard as he could in the knee, the only thing he could really reach. His gauntlet saved him the sharpness of the metal around the Champion's legs, but he felt his knuckles break. He also felt the Champion's leg slip away from him. He fell like a tree, landing halfway on Helsknight's legs.

Helsknight gasped in a breath of air so deep he had to cough it all back out again. Everything about him to do with air and breathing rioted, tangled with the wash of nausea that came in the aftermath of adrenaline, and he nearly gagged. Helsknight tried to stand, made it halfway to his knees, when a shove to his side sent him back over again. Helsknight braced himself as best he could, waiting for some show of cruelty. He glared up at the Champion in ragged defiance, trying to find his breath.

The Champion was laughing at him. Elated. Surprised. Wholly unbothered. Helsknight had probably broken his hand on Evil Beesuma's knee, and it had all the effects of a bird landing.

"I'll give you one thing knight, you've got some fire," the Champion laughed, his voice cloyed with the derisive affection one might reserve for an arrogant child. "But you need to learn when a fight is lost." He made a dismissive motion with his hand, sweeping the idea of Helsknight aside. "Try me again in a few months, when you've figured out how to bend iron."

The Champion turned away from him. He was leaving. The tide of Helsknight's rage at the dismissal surged him to his feet. He reached for the dagger on his belt, determined to do something, anything, to chip away at that iron wall. Just a scratch would do. Proof the Champion was fallible. Mortal. Beatable.

He threw the dagger.

Later, months later, when Helsknight and EB were friends, EB would teach Helsknight how to properly throw a knife. It would be a game they played fondly, friendly competition, where they could get fierce safely. Where they learned how to challenge each other to be better. Now though, Helsknight didn't know how to throw a knife. He still felt vindicated though, when the handle hit Evil Beesuma squarely in the back of the head.

The Champion stopped in his tracks, turned with red eyed fury on the impudent knight. Helsknight's lip curled in a sneer. He moved his hands rapidly, in the only sign language he knew.

[He had meant for it to be a good thing, learning sign. Helsknight knew the Champion had a sizable crowd of deaf and mute fans; people who saw in him a brighter future, where they were seen and understood and appreciated equally. A world where people listened to them. Helsknight thought it was unfair then, that only the Champion bothered to incorporate sign into his sets. They should be able to hear the Champion's challenger without the help of an interpreter. And, just like they did, Evil Beesuma deserved to be met where he was, with words he could follow easily. He shouldn't have to memorize stage directions, and distant indecipherable mumbling, just because his challenger was lazy.]

[The showrunner Helsknight had been assigned told him it was a bad idea. He said he would be learning a language just to insult it's Champion with it. Helsknight had argued Evil Beesuma was the Colosseum's darling. For all his prideful shortcomings in the privacy of the cells, outwardly, as much as he could be to a crowd of thousands, he was just and strong and kind. If Helsknight was going to depose him, he was destined to be the heel anyway.]

[When Helsknight had told the Champion what he wanted to do, Evil Beesuma had actually considered his challenge. It was probably the only reason he'd humored him this long.]

[Helsknight really was stupid when he was angry.]

"Pride comes before the fall," Helsknight signed, and then he shouted, because Evil Beesuma was looking at him, and he didn't know the signs for his next words: "You absolute piece of shit!"

It was not his brightest moment.

It wasn't Evil Beesuma's either.

The Champion's eyes reddened and narrowed with anger. His hand flew to his sword, and he lanced forward in a flickering of color.

Helsknight respawned in his room in the cells, gasping in sucking breaths around a hole in his throat that was no longer there. He was still angry. Angrier, now that he'd faced a terror of respawn, and it had shaken him far more than he thought it would. When he rolled off his bed, his hands were shuddering, his nerves jangled. His only sword and armor were in the training yard, and he bolted for them. He shoved past gladiators in his way, pounded up the stairs, tore through the mess hall. When he burst onto the sand, Evil Beesuma was waiting for him, all wrath and stung pride.

He at least had the grace to let Helsknight grab his sword.

The moment their swords crossed again, Helsknight knew something was wrong. It took a few minutes for that wrongness to bash its way past his fury, but in a bone-deep way, he noticed it. Evil Beesuma was moving too slowly. Inefficiently. There was a jerkiness to his movements that hadn't been there before. Imperfection. A crack in the iron wall.

At first, Helsknight chalked it up to a loss of composure. He'd managed to piss the Champion off, and so his poise was slipping. Helsknight didn't lose his composure in quite the same way when he was angry and fighting. He slipped deep into muscle memory, and turned into a creature of reactions and instinct, all conscious thought fled in the wake of emotion and brute strength. It had won him more than one match. He was ready for it to win him this.

Helsknight slammed his blade into the Champion's near the hilt, and Evil Beesuma, strong as a hoglin with hands like vices, didn't drop it, but he backpedaled. It was not the appropriate response to what Helsknight had done. Imperfect. The wrongness Helsknight's conscious brain noticed needled at him again. He lifted his sword into a guard position and waited.

[He will spring for me, Helsknight thought. He is stronger, and his skills are more finely tuned. He works best when he overwhelms.]

The Champion did not spring forward. He took a step back instead, and seemed to catch his breath. The Champion was made of metal and redstone. He did not breathe. He did not bleed. And from what Helsknight could tell, nothing on him was broken. Helsknight wasn't strong enough, harmful enough, good enough, to break the Champion. He wasn't even sure he'd hit him once.

Helsknight narrowed his eyes, and let out a long slow breath, and dragged his anger down, called it to heel.

"Champion Beesuma," Helsknight asked, trying not to grind his teeth, trying not to be spiteful. He was a knight. He needed to act like one. "Are you well?"

Evil Beesuma laughed. It was a haughty thing, meant for bravado, but it too sounded off. Shaken. Yes, something was wrong. The Champion looked down to one of his hands, which Helsknight realized was shaking. Evil Beesuma blinked down at it. His sword lowered, and then dropped from his grasp. His sword hand, too, was shaking. He said something, speaking to himself, soft inflection. A question. The Champion wasn't looking at him, so Helsknight couldn't decipher the words, but the tone was dread.

Not here. Not now.

Helsknight sheathed his sword. He held out a hand, trying to show he meant no harm. "Champion?"

Evil Beesuma, the Champion of the Colosseum, collapsed. It happened so slowly, he almost seemed to fold in on himself. Not a swoon. Not a faint. Just a slow sink first to his knees, and then to the ground. The only sign the movement wasn't intentional was from the continued shaking in his hands, and the way the bright screen that made his face flickered and jolted through expressions, breaking into off-color pixels.

Helsknight's first worry, as he sank down beside him, was that in his anger he'd broken something irreparable. He didn't think he had, but he knew the Champion was different than a regular helsmet. More fragile, in odd ways. Redstone and mechanical pieces, much like his armor and weapons, didn't mend on respawn. The soul of a person did, the bits that made them work, but a broken ax didn't regain durability just because you died holding it. Evil Beesuma was subject to that; his mechanical parts more often than not needed mended and replaced after heavy matches. He had a small fleet of drones to help with this, little bee-shaped helpers who flew around him when he went about his business. But whatever was going wrong with him now seemed to infect them too. The two or three that had even managed to flit over to him flew in dizzy, decaying circles overhead, bumping into each other. One, simply dropped out of the sky.

"Champion, can you speak?" Helsknight asked as calmly as he could, trying to meet the Champion's eye, but finding it hard to know where to look when the screen was glitching so badly. "Can you tell me what's wrong, or how I can help you?"

[If he could help at all, besides simply holding the Champion's hand and saying useless platitudes about how all things pass.]

The showrunner, who had until that point, apparently, been content to watch them kill each other, materialized at his side in a rush.

"You can't help him," he said nervously. "I'm surprised you've never seen this before. It's--" he looked away and cleared his throat. "The Champion isn't well."

Helsknight blinked. His first instinct was to snap yes, of course he isn't well. He just blacked out, or fell into whatever equivalent an android could have for a seizure. Obviously he wasn't well. Then the statement sank in, the implication beneath digging hooks in.

The Champion was dying.

Helsknight, very stupidly, found himself on the verge of asking why. Why him? Why now? Why this? Why like this? Helsknight had only seen someone on the verge once before, the Universe temporarily dithering over someone's mortality. It had been when he was still a squire, and one of the knights had... It wasn't a fit exactly. They'd been training, and she became lightheaded and shaky, and had a hard time breathing. At the time, Helsknight thought it was heat stroke, or maybe that she'd overexerted herself. When she sat down to cool off, she'd fallen asleep.

It had taken her three days to wake, and when she did, she was quiet, and meek, and scared.

Helsknight sighed, and he swore. "How long has this been happening?"

"Last I heard it'd only happened once," the showrunner answered skeptically. "Then again, he hadn't wanted anyone to know."

"Well. They're going to know now," Helsknight said grimly. "Make yourself useful and get me a strength potion." Then he snapped, when the showrunner blinked at him in exasperation, "Unless you'd like to carry him down to his cell yourself?"

They scampered off. Helsknight sighed again, running a hand through his hair. Respawn had done him one good turn at least; he wouldn't have to take any armor off before trying to drag the Champion downstairs.

"Alright then," Helsknight grunted as he got his arm beneath Evil Beesuma's shoulders and started lifting him. He was heavy and unwieldy, with too many limbs that were all too long. The Champion was taller than Helsknight by just enough that it made a difference when trying to carry him.

It was hard work getting the Champion downstairs. It was even harder work trying to be discreet about it. People saw him. Helsknight couldn't help that. But he at least stuck to the less traveled stairways, so news would travel slower. When he finally made it down the long, loud hall to Evil Beesuma's cell, he was relieved and grateful. He deposited the Champion into his bed, and arranged his limbs into a position that seemed comfortable. Then, not entirely sure what to do, Helsknight left.

It took the Champion a day and a half to wake. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't very long. Helsknight had heard of helsmets nearer to death falling asleep for days or weeks. The idea was terrifying to Helsknight, that he might, out on the streets one day, simply pass out and never wake again, smothered in the jaws of the Universe. This was not nearly so dramatic, Evil Beesuma might really have only suffered a handful of the episodes.

But it was enough time that people noticed, and they talked. They talked about whether the Champion was fit to fight. They talked about whether they would risk killing him. Some people were even so bold as to talk about him like he was dead already. They talked about what his statue would look like in the Colosseum hall. What they would do if he perished before a new Champion could be made. It made Helsknight angry hearing it. When he stumbled into those conversations, he found himself glowering and looming until the discussion broke off.

The day after Evil Beesuma woke, Helsknight gathered his courage and visited him. The Champion didn't like him, probably wouldn't appreciate him coming. Helsknight didn't blame him. It would sting someone's pride to act so high, and so cruel, and so triumphant, only to be felled a moment later by the hels equivalent of a lightning strike.

Evil Beesuma was alone when Helsknight entered his cell. He was sitting on his bed, face held in his hands, papers spread out on the sheets beside him. Helsknight caught a glance of a missive with the Colosseum seal on it.

"Your sponsor is concerned that, should you die in your next match--"

Helsknight averted his eyes quickly. He quietly backed out of the room, awkwardly considered his options. He thought, probably, the Champion might appreciate the chance to save some face around someone he didn't like. He sighed.

[Respect the honor of your fellow helsmet, he repeated to himself, trying not to feel ridiculous.]

Helsknight retreated up the hall a ways, and then made his footsteps loud when he came back again. He knocked obnoxiously on a few doors, and asked loudly and stupidly for directions to the Champion's cell. The walls in the cells were thin. He was easy to hear, even if the Champion couldn't catch the words. He would at least know someone was coming.

Sure enough, this time when he answered, Evil Beesuma was standing. The missives were collected in a neat, face-down pile on the bed. A dozen of his little buzzing drones hovered around his shoulders, scanning and doing maintenance. He had put on a practiced air of disdain and unconcern. Good. He didn't know his moment of despair had been witnessed.

"What are you here for?" Evil Beesuma demanded, all four of his arms crossed.

Helsknight briefly considered the best way to be respectful. He decided the best thing he could do was treat the Champion like nothing had changed. Enough people were treating him like he was fragile.

"I came to ask if you were well," Helsknight said simply, and when he was met with stony silence, begrudgingly added, "and I came to apologize for losing my temper."

Evil Beesuma side-eyed one of his drones, as though they were passing secret messages between each other. Helsknight thought it was a handy little trick to make people feel scrutinized. It added to the Champion's air of skepticism and disdain.

[Don't get angry, he hissed at himself, when the burn of emotion flickered in his stomach. Don't get angry.]

"Generally speaking, my Order is against outbursts like that," Helsknight continued, valiantly pretending he was unphased. "And it was arrogance on my part. I'm well aware I'm beneath your skill, and you offered me a kindness in using your time to train me."

Briefly, Helsknight considered kneeling. It would be a very knightly thing to do. He also thought his pride would eat him alive if he did it. He was still a bit too resentful of that foot planted on his chest, squeezing the life out of him. Helsknight settled on a small, stuff bow. It made Evil Beesuma laugh, a sharp derisive noise. Helsknight stubbornly ignored the thorn of anger pressing deeper into his side.

"I humbly ask you continue training me," Helsknight said, "and you consider accepting my challenge for the Championship."

"If you think just because you carried me down here I owe you something, I don't," Evil Beesuma said sharply.

"I don't think you owe me anything," Helsknight said, trying to keep both hands on his patience. "I'm asking politely for your time."

"And why in hels should I give it to you?" The Champion stepped towards him, towering. Anger, and the soft touch of nervousness, pulled a little harder against Helsknight's restraint. He wasn't used to being intimidated. He decided immediately he didn't like it. "As you've clearly noticed, I have little enough of it to go around. What makes you think you deserve it?"

"Because I'm a knight."

"Because you're a knight?" Evil Beesuma laughed. "Am I supposed to be impressed because you walk around in a fancy cape all day?"

Helsknight scowled. He clenched his fists at his sides, and for a long, cold moment, considered punching the Champion as hard as he could in the face. It probably wouldn't do anything besides wound his own knuckles, but gods alive it would feel great. And then he would wash his hands of the stupid gladiator, and all his spiteful, biting pride.

[Saint help me. Saint keep my temper somewhere else.]

"Being a knight means I will treat you with honor and respect, Champion," Helsknight said, trying to keep the aggravated growl out of his voice. "No matter what state you're in when the fighting starts."

The Champion narrowed his eyes at him.

Helsknight took that as a... positive sign.

"The showrunners aren't going to want to risk you in the Colosseum now," Helsknight said quietly. "Your fellow fighters will be tempted to stay their hands, to take it easy on you, because they're scared they'll be the ones to kill you."

"And you're not?" Evil Beesuma snorted skeptically. "I suppose you'll take pride in being the one that finally kills me."

"Don't insult me, Champion!" Helsknight snapped fiercely, taking an angry step forward, so they were chest to chest. "I would never take joy in something like that. Losing you would be a greater sin to this world than anything my winning would gain. People look up to you. They aspire to be like you -- at least the kind show you put on for the crowd."

Evil Beesuma made an uncomfortable noise, guilty.

[Good, he should be, for how he'd been acting.]

"And despite your ruthlessness teaching me," Helsknight said, trying again to regain control of his emotions, at least enough to keep from yelling quite so vehemently, "I respect you. For your strength, and perseverance, and what you've built. You have a legacy here. Something you are rightly proud of."

Helsknight huffed out a tense breath through his nose. "I think it would be a shame to be robbed of that legacy, and the vindication of the works of your hands, because someone else is too scared to accept your challenge. You should have the choice to fight, and keep fighting. Not to rot at the top because ambition fails. If I were in your place, I would hope someone would offer me the same."

Helsknight stepped back from the Champion, breathing intentional, slow breaths through his nose. Embarrassment was starting to chase him, the feeling of stupidity at his fervency, and his vulnerability. Evil Beesuma's gaze slid away from him, some of his previous spite and fire gone. At the very least, he didn't loom threateningly anymore.

Helsknight sighed. Perhaps... A tactical retreat was best. Before he opened his mouth and said some other ridiculous thing. He offered the Champion another stiff bow, silently dismissing himself. Just before he crossed the threshold, buzzing filtered towards him, low and weary. Helsknight turned to look at him.

"Tomorrow, first thing in the morning," the Champion said quietly. Then, with a bit more of his former bite, "Bring your dagger. That throw was trash."

Helsknight nodded. He exited into the hallway, wandering with ever quickening steps back to the stairs that would take him to his cell. Halfway up the stairs he sighed, and stopped, and leaned his forehead against the wall. His hands were shaking.

"If I'm the one who kills the Champion, they'll hate me," he whispered to himself. Between hels and his Hermit, and the spiteful Champion below, he supposed he would have to get used to being hated.

"Nowhere in your tenets does it say you need to be loved," Helsknight murmured. He sighed again, and ascended the steps.

[Some things were more important than his image anyway.]

[keyboardsmashess]

The Siren, or The Heart of the Matter

Chapter Thirty Three: The Miracle, or Ten Words and a Thousand Kisses

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

Warnings: language, fluff, angst, canon-typical violence, smut, implied abuse MINORS DNI. A/N: Well, this is it, bbs. The final chapter of Cleo and Bucky's story ❤️ CW for some bonus smut Chapter one of my next work should be coming next week, but it's going to have a slower (read: more reasonable for me) posting schedule. Expect one a week or so, but I'll try to be consistent. I'll be posting a sneak peek here in a few days, though ❤️

Summary: Cleo and Bucky have one final mission.

Chapter Directory

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Bucky nods, glancing nervously between me and Steve. “Positive. I can’t have this hangin’ over my head for the rest of my life.”

Steve nods decisively. “Alright, then, if you’re sure.” He glances at me nervously, but I give him a reassuring smile. I know in my bones that everything is going to be fine, but I understand why Bucky’s being cautious, just in case.

I press my hand to the glass. “Whatever happens, James, I love you.”

He presses his own against the other side of the glass, mirroring me from within the padded room Tony built to contain my screaming practices all those months ago. “I love you, too.”

Steve takes a deep breath.

“Longing.” 

Bucky winces, but it seems more pavlovian than a genuine reaction to pain. He gestures for Steve to continue.

******

I groan frustratedly, flipping onto my side. For the first night since Bucky and I started taking turns at each other’s apartments, I’m having an insomniac moment.

“Cleo, what’s wrong?” he mumbles, face still soft from sleep. 

I sit up. “Does… does it ever get easier?” I ask, voice small and wobbly. “Knowing that… you took someone’s life?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Bucky sighs, propping himself up on one elbow to look at me. “How long has this been bothering you?”

“Since the moment I had you back,” I say, frowning. “When I agreed to join the team, I never thought I’d… I didn’t realize I had that in me, you know? Now I’m wondering if it was the wrong thing to do. I mean, they were horrible people and they were hurting you, so it isn’t like the world is going to miss them, but you know.”

He reaches up to cup my chin, stroking my cheek with a thumb. “Do you want the comforting answer or the honest answer?”

I look at him flatly. “Honest, obviously.”

“Right, should’ve guessed that,” Bucky says, heaving a sigh. “Honestly, Cleo… No. It doesn’t get easier, necessarily. But I think, over time, you start to make your peace with it. With knowing that you did what you had to do.”

I nod, wiping at my face.

“And for what it’s worth,” he continues, thumbing a tear from my cheek. “I do think you did what you had to do. There weren’t a lot of other options.”

I smile sadly at him, leaning down to kiss his nose. “Thank you. I think what I feel the worst about is that I don’t regret it - not really, not knowing that it led to this.” I take his hand and squeeze it. “But maybe you’re right, maybe I just need time.”

Bucky lays back down, yanking on our joined hands to pull me down next to him. “You’d be surprised what a little bit of time can heal,” he says softly, and I nod.

I rest my head on his chest and finally drift off to sleep, everything feeling just a little less heavy now that I’ve got someone to hold it with me.

******

“Rusted.” 

I hold my breath, but Bucky doesn’t react at all.

“Seventeen.” 

Bucky runs a nervous hand through his hair and gives me a small smile when he sees me tracking the movement.

******

Bucky, Steve, and I enter the common room after our run. I make a break for the coffee machine, patting Betty fondly as I place my usual order. When I turn, mug in hand, I catch Bucky staring at my snug athletic shorts, a delicious heat in his eyes. I take a sip, returning his burning look over the rim of my coffee mug, and he grins wickedly.

“For crying out loud, could you two at least wait for me to leave the room?” Steve says, voice pleading. 

I blush, suddenly finding my mug incredibly interesting, and Bucky scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry,” he says, sounding anything but.

Steve sighs. “I need new running partners. You two are on your own.” I stifle a laugh as he grabs a drink from the fridge and stalks off toward our shared floor.

Bucky is around the bar the second Steve is out of sight, taking the mug from me and setting it down on the counter. “Careful, Barnes - come between me and coffee at your own peril.”

He gives me that wicked, wicked look again and heat pools instantly in my core. “On second thought,” I say, “I’ve heard that too much caffeine isn’t great for anxiety.”

Bucky grips my waist and lifts me effortlessly onto the countertop, putting me right at his height, and braces a palm on either side of me. He gives me a quick, teasing kiss before stepping back, and I whine and wrap my legs around his middle to pull him closer.

I kiss him deeply, encircling his neck with my arms, and he gives up his teasing act immediately at my touch. I sigh contentedly and he slips his tongue between my lips.

“Christ, Rogers wasn’t kidding,” Nat says, and Bucky reluctantly pulls back as I wipe my mouth self-consciously. She glares at us. “We have to eat here, you know.”

I blush and hop off the counter, and Bucky surreptitiously steps behind me to hide his reaction to our kissing. Natasha rolls her eyes, and I grimace. “Sorry, Nat. We were just, uh, talking about…”

“About each other’s lips?” she asks sarcastically. “Get out of here, you fucking degenerates. I’m about to hold another intervention.”

I blush furiously and Bucky places his hands on my shoulders, steering me quickly out of the room and toward the elevator. We don’t make it much further than that, as it turns out, pulling the emergency stop button before the elevator reaches our shared floor.

When it finally arrives and the doors open, Steve is standing in the hallway with a disappointed look in his eyes. “I’m starting to think Stark was right and we should have left you two on the damn submarine.”

I smile at him innocently as Bucky grabs my underwear from where they’d gotten stuck on the handle of the ceiling’s emergency hatch, and furtively stuffs them in his pocket. I cover my face when I realize what just happened, letting Bucky lead me into the hall. He pats Steve on the shoulder as we walk past him. “One day you’ll get a gal, Stevie, and then you’ll understand.”

Steve mutters something that sounds like ‘insufferable’ as Bucky and I make our rapid way to my apartment. 

******

“Daybreak.” 

His hands clench, and he squeezes his eyes shut. 

“Furnace.” 

I see the muscles of Bucky’s jaw working, and I turn to Steve. He ignores me, focusing only on his friend.

“Nine.” 

Bucky shakes his head, and I bring my fingers to my lips when I see the lines of his face etched in worry.

******

Laying in bed, tracing circles on his bare chest, I take a deep breath. “Buck?” He hums, looking down at me adoringly. “I have a stupid question.”

“No such thing as stupid questions,” he says. “Ask me anything.”

“What…” I bite my lip. “What are we?”

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together in confusion. “A very old supersoldier and a cosmic energy host, according to you,” he chuckles. I frown, and he clocks the expression, tipping my chin up to give me a sweet, small kiss. “Clearly that isn’t what you meant.”

I shake my head. “No. I’m asking… Ugh, I feel like a fucking teenager right now, this is so stupid. I’m asking what we are, you and me together. Like… what would you call this thing between us?”

His eyes soften in understanding. “Oh, I get it now. Cleo, that isn’t stupid - if I’d known you were worried about it, I’d have brought this up the second we stepped off that damn submarine.” I let out a little sigh of relief and smile up at him. “Sweetheart, we can be whatever you want us to be. Back in the day,” he says in a silly voice, and I can’t help but laugh, “I’d have called us ‘going steady,’ but that feels outdated and not nearly important enough to describe what you are to me.”

He kisses the tip of my nose, and I blush. “What do you want us to be?” he asks tenderly.

I turn my focus back to his chest, running my fingers through the hair growing there idly to avoid looking him in the eye. “I don’t know,” I say. “I’ve never felt this with someone before.”

Bucky makes a small noise of surprise, but when I look up at him he’s schooled his features back into a loving gaze. “Wellll,” he says, drawing the word out. “If someone asked me, I’d like to be able to at least tell them you’re my girlfriend.” He blushes adorably. “And… I’d prefer it if you weren’t going on dates with librarians, or anyone else for that matter.”

I grin at him, anxiety finally eased. “There was never a date with a librarian, Buck, because it’s been you since the moment we met.” He beams at me, and I can’t resist the urge to kiss him.

A few moments later, we break apart, breathing hard. “Monogamous girlfriend sounds good,” I say, hands trailing down his chest and lower. “But I think I’ll just call you my love.” He groans, and I can’t tell if it’s from my words or my wandering hands.

******

“Benign.” 

Bucky cries out in pain, sinking to his knees on the padded floor.

“Steve, stop,” I shout. “Stop - it’s hurting him.”

Bucky shakes his head vehemently, not opening his eyes. “No. Steve, you have to keep going. I have to do this.”

“Okay, Buck,” Steve says softly, voice full of his own pain.

“Homecoming.” 

Bucky grits his teeth, groaning through his clenched jaw. I resist the urge to cover my eyes, knowing I owe it to him to witness his pain - to hold it with him. 

“One.” 

Bucky screams sharply and waves his arm. I huff a sigh of relief, thinking he’s going to put an end to this. “Get her out of here, Steve. I don’t want her to see it if it doesn’t work.”

I blanch. “Are you crazy? I’m not leaving!”

He shakes his head. “Steve, you have to make her go.”

I place both hands on the window. “James Buchanan Barnes, you listen to me. You promised - swore - that you’d trust me to make my own choices. And right now, I’m choosing to stay here, no matter what happens, because I love you, you idiot.”

Bucky huffs a laugh through the obvious pain. “God, you’re fucking impossible. Alright, fine.” He winces. “Steve, please. Finish this.”

******

The rays of sun are hitting Bucky’s face just right when I blink my eyes open. I simply cannot help but lean over and wake him with a deep kiss. 

“Cleo?” he groans, blinking his eyes open. “What time is it?”

I pull back and look down at him with devotion. “I don’t know, like seven? We slept in.”

He grins up at me, and I become hyper-aware of the fact that I fell asleep before putting any clothes back on last night. “Well then, we may as well stay in bed a little longer.” His hand vines up my leg under the covers and I gasp when, without any ado whatsoever, he brings his fingers right to my core.

His head disappears beneath the blanket, and when his tongue makes its wicked way to my center, I find myself intensely grateful that the Tower’s apartments are sound-proofed.

“Oh my gods, James,” I moan loudly, and I can feel him grin against my skin as he plunges his tongue inside me. He brings a thumb to my clit, teasing it as he moves his tongue in devastating thrusts. I’m completely undone, head tipped back against the pillows and mouth open wide - no clue what’s coming out of my mouth except that, whatever it is, it’s loud.

I unravel so quickly under his tongue, finding my release with a cry that has my light bulbs shattering in every single lamp.

Bucky pops his head out from under the covers, hair adorably mussed and smiling smugly as he licks his lips. “We need to start buying light bulbs in bulk.”

I grin hazily and he presses a kiss against my temple, snuggling close to me as I recover. “That, or we just get rid of our lamps.”

His face grows serious as he lifts up on an elbow to look at me. “Absolutely not. Out of the question.”

I giggle and reach up to smooth the lines from his forehead. “Alright, my love, relax. We can keep the lamps.”

“Good,” he says, lifting my hand to his lips so he can kiss each one of my fingertips. “Although, I had a thought.”

“Oh no, that sounds dangerous,” I tease, and he rolls his eyes, suddenly looking quite nervous.

“What if…” he trails off, so I squeeze his hand and give him a comforting smile. “What if my lamps and your lamps were in the same apartment?”

My eyebrows furrow. “Then one of us wouldn’t have any lamps, which is apparently a problem for you.”

Bucky sighs deeply and bites his lip. “No, I’m trying to say… What if we didn’t have to go back and forth every night? What if - what if we just had one apartment. For both of us.”

My eyes go wide and, without even thinking, I pounce on him, straddling his waist and peppering kisses all down his face, neck, shoulders. He laughs, a sound of pure joy, and I sit up, looking down at him. “James, are you asking me to move in with you?”

He blushes, grinning furiously, and gives me a crooked grin. “Yeah, doll, I am.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m going to ignore that because I’m too fucking happy to be irritated with you right now.”

Bucky reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Is that a yes?”

I simply kiss him again. And again, and again, and again.

******

“Freight car.”

The three of us are completely still for a beat before Bucky blinks his eyes open, staring right into my soul.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, and a sob escapes me when the voice I hear is that of my love. 

“Cleo, you’re - you’re a miracle. You did it.” I cover my mouth with trembling fingers and loose a shaky laugh, grabbing Steve’s arm with my other hand. “You really did it.”

Steve whoops, pumping a fist in the air, and makes for the door, but for once I’m faster than the supersoldier. Before he’s taken two steps, I’m in the room, tackling Bucky to the ground in a hug. 

He kisses me hard. “You really did it,” he repeats, voice no louder than a whisper. He wipes an errant tear from my face.

Steve sniffles loudly, and we both look up. He wipes at the corner of his eye. “What?” he asks at our wide-eyed expressions. “You saved my best friend with the power of love. I’m bound to be emotional about that!”

I giggle and stand, pulling Bucky up with me. I pat Steve on the shoulder. “I know, Big Guy. It’s okay.” He gives me a watery grin, and I return it. “So what now? Do we celebrate?” I ask.

Bucky shoots Steve a significant look that I don’t really understand, and Steve’s eyes go wide. “Oh. Oh. Um, I actually have some… stuff to do. Real important stuff, so I’m just gonna go… do that. Right now. Probably for an hour.” Bucky clears his throat, and Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Really? Wow. I mean, actually probably for a few hours? Yeah. So. See you later.” 

He disappears through the door before I can respond, and I narrow my eyes at Bucky. “What was that about?”

Bucky shrugs, an innocent look plastered on his face. “I have no idea. Steve is a mystery even I don’t understand, sometimes.”

I roll my eyes, but I can feel my cheeks heating with a blush. “A few hours, huh? Someone’s feeling ambitious.”

Bucky smirks and takes my hand, leading me out of the room and practically running toward our apartment. “Hey, I have a new lease on life.”

“Whatever you say, Sergeant Barnes.”

Bucky groans, fumbling as he tries to open the door, and the second we’re inside he has me pushed up against the wall in a desperate kiss.

“So,” I say between kisses, unable to help myself. “Wanna watch Supernatural?” 

Bucky moves to kiss the sensitive spot behind my ear. “I had something else in mind - something that doesn’t involve you watching two other men.”

I laugh, voice breathy under his attention. “I don’t know,” I say, teasing. “Dean is pretty hunky.”

Bucky growls, capturing my lips in a deep kiss, and snakes his metal hand down my back to grip my ass. Hard. I moan. “What was that?” he asks, voice low.

I lift one leg to wrap it around his waist and he gets the memo, picking me up and pressing my back against the door. “Nothing,” I say against his lips. “My thing’s stupid. Let’s do your thing.”

He chuckles and backs away from the door, carrying me into our bedroom. “That’s what I thought.”

We undress quickly and lay back on the bed, but instead of giving in to a flurry of movement as per usual, I straddle his waist and lean down to place slow, delicate kisses along the gnarled skin where Bucky’s shoulder connects to his metal arm. He watches me with wide, reverent eyes, and when I meet them with my own loving gaze, the emotion I see bowls me over.

I cup his cheeks with my palms, just staring at him - at this stunning man who’s given me the startling gift of his love. “James,” I say.

He nods, tears pricking the corners of his beautiful blue eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

I trace the lines of his face with my fingers - an entire world I’ve already mapped every inch of, yet never grow tired of exploring. 

“James,” I repeat, grazing his nose, his cheeks, his lips. “Welcome home.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Final A/N: Wow! We did it, my loves. 33 chapters, 100,000+ words, so much angst, a little smut, weird stuff with lamps, and one complete story about two idiots healing from trauma and falling in love. Thank you all for coming along on this journey with me. When I decided to try my hand at writing fanfiction for the first time since I was fourteen - *mumbles* years ago, if you can believe it - I had no idea this was what would come from it. Thank you all for all your feedback, encouragement, and kindness. I love each and every one of you ❤️

[writerblue275]

How the Heartsteel members would take care of a sick/injured S/O.

Inspiration: Extremely self-serving, but I don’t care. I’m currently in the midst of a chronic illness episode. For me that involves an ungodly headache that can last for straight days, if not weeks, and other bs. All because my body can’t handle sodium 😭. If I don’t do something to distract myself, I’m going to cry, and I’d rather not do that, so here we gooooo.

Genre: Headcanon

Type: Fluff (very very slight angst in the concept [if you squint] just because you don’t feel good).

Gender: Gender Neutral Reader

Tw: None! This is pure fluff. 🥰

Aphelios

Aphelios would actually be a great caretaker.

I think a lot of this comes from an excellent example. We know Alune took care of Aphelios when he was injured/after his surgeries. Since he was the recipient of her wonderful care, he knows what to do.

Extremely prepared. He’ll work from your place as much as possible so he can be close by (he has that little mobile keyboard set up shown in his “what’s in my bag” pic). Excellent at running out to grab supplies/medication (I feel like he has an excellent memory so you just need to tell/show him something once). Also phenomenal at making sure you take your meds on schedule and changing any dressings/wraps.

If for some reason an extra set of hands is needed or Phel needs further advice on how to best care for you, you know who he’s texting? Alune! She is happy to help however she can because you’re her friend too and she hates knowing you’re sick/in pain.

I feel like Phel’s immune system is pretty strong so even if you were contagious, he’d cuddle you. If he was really worried, there’s always his mask. (Makes my public health heart sing.) He has many extras so you can snag one too in order to be doubly safe. You get those healing cuddles!

Ezreal

This is where Ezreal’s typical golden retriever energy is extra useful!!

Like genuinely I think Ez is a really really sweet “nurse” and will do an excellent job of taking care of you. Or at the very least, he’s great at distracting you and making you smile so you don’t feel as shitty/in pain.

I can’t see Ez cooking tbh (mood), but he is more than happy to order delivery/run to grab whatever carry out whenever you want it. If he can’t do it because he needs to stay with you for some reason, he’s texting Alune and the boys and practically begging them to help him out. (One of them always does. They love you and want you to heal.)

Also happy to run out to grab whatever supplies you need. This sweet green bean is so eager to help you heal that not only will he grab what you ask for, he’ll also grab other things that you might not need. He’s of the mindset it’s better to be overprepared rather than underprepared.

I can’t see Ezreal wanting to cuddle if you’re contagious, tbh, which is fair, but he’ll definitely make sure you have all the blankets and pillows you need. He will sit near-ish to you though and hold your hand. And if you’re not contagious? Oh he’s clinging to you as much as you want him to.

Kayn

Ok…so…this isn’t Kayn’s specialty as a partner, let’s be honest here.

Kayn is an amazing partner in so many other ways, but he’s not exactly...naturally nurturing? BUT that doesn’t mean he’s not going to try. He knows you need him, so he’s really going to put in a lot of effort to try and take care of you as best he can. (This secretly sweet rockstar!)

Kayn might fake grumble about it, but he will definitely go out and get whatever supplies you need. You may need to take a picture of a label/find one on the internet but he’s got you! (“Baby, there are so many CHOICES. How do I know which is the right one? I don’t want to get something you don’t need!”)

The first time you were sick/injured and he was with you, he texted the HS group chat for advice on how to take care of you and shocked everyone. (That was the moment the rest of HS knew Kayn was really head over heels for you. 🥹 <- Their faces as they read the texts.)

One thing I cannot see him doing is cuddling you when you’re sick (unless you’re not contagious). He doesn’t want to get sick himself. He will tuck you in and give you surprisingly soft forehead kisses though. He says they’re to check your temp but you know they’re to show he cares.

K’Sante

K’Sante is another member who just gives off such excellent and caring vibes. He has to come from a big, close-knit family, because he gives eldest brother vibes through and through.

Because of this, he’s perfect at taking care of you when you’re sick or injured. He’s done the same thing for his siblings/cousins many times.

Even though Sett is officially the best cook, I still fully believe K’Sante can throw down in the kitchen. Whenever possible, he’s making everything from scratch for you. You deserve it, after all. His meals alone will have you starting to feel way better.

He is fully stocked on OTC meds, ice packs, bandages, whatever you need. As a gym bro, K’Sante can get pretty sore, so he’s already got that stuff around for himself. Also, anything you need picked up, he’s got that taken care of.

As the eldest who took care of his younger family members, K’Sante’s immune system is PREPARED. Unless it is before a really big event, he would be fine cuddling you, even if you’re contagious. If it is close to a big event then he’s understandably a little more hesitant (he does have obligations to HS) but he’ll still be nearish to you and hold your hand so you know he’s there.

Sett

Ooooooh baby this is Sett’s time to fucking SHINE.

He was raised by his incredible Ma! Like of course Sett’s going to be really fucking good at taking care of you. (He already does an excellent job of doing that when you’re not sick/injured.)

We know he’s the best cook in the group so homemade soup/whatever comfort food you want/need you will have and it will be delicious. Really good about reminding you to take any meds you need to (he sets a reminder in his phone). Also fully stocked on OTC meds, medical wraps, ice packs, etc. Like he is PREPARED. (Perks of loving a gym bro.)

Happy to give you cuddles if that will help. I feel like Sett is another member that has an immune system of steel, so even if you’re sick, he’s still cuddling you if you want him to. (You definitely do like 95% of the time because how could you not?? Sett cuddles sound fucking elite!)

Worst-case scenario and you get sick while he’s traveling? He makes sure you are in the very best hands possible and sends in the big guns. That’s right, he has Ma come over to check on you/stay with you if need be (which she is happy to do because she adores you and loves how happy you make her son).

Yone

I think Yone would be a phenomenal “nurse!”

He might come across as cold/intimidating to those who don’t know him, but you always bring the soft side of him out. That’s totally applicable when you’re sick. Sweet Yone incoming!!

He cared for his younger brother Yasuo when he was sick or injured, so he is well versed in what supplies are useful for a multitude of ailments. Is well stocked on all of it too. If for some reason you need something and he doesn’t have it, he’s remedying that ASAP.

I’ve been thinking about whether or not Yone cooks. My gut says not really besides breakfast food. While he’s not going to make you homemade soup/your comfort food, you bet he’s asking Sett or K’Sante to make some for you. (They’re happy to do so. You keep your their producer sane. Helping you is self-preservation 😂.)

While he’s likely been injured many times, I feel like this beautiful motherfucker (affectionate!!) has never been ill a day in his life. His immune system is just that strong. Whatever the issue, he is down to give you whatever cuddles you desire. (I’m bringing back my headcanon of cuddly Yone and NO ONE CAN STOP ME 😋.) Enjoy the forehead kisses and sweet little verbal check-ins.

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝓘 𝓛𝓲𝓴𝓮 𝓨𝓸𝓾 (say it back): Soft 🔞

It's his favorite word to describe you.

Tags/Warnings: Girly!Reader, Introvert!Jungkook, non-idol AU, opposites attract AU?, established relationship, Angst, Major Fluff, some drama, Slice of Life (like Good Girl AU for example), mc is kook's biggest simp, kook is kind of overwhelmed by her love sometimes, but it's fine they both cute, smut in this, manhandling, he cums inside but she's got an IUD please practice safe bed-athletics thank you, we explore Jungkook's hidden kinks together haha

Length: 1.4k Words

Masterlist

A/N: There's still no taglist.

━━━━━━━━━━.~°♡°~.━━━━━━━━━━━

Soft.

It's the perfect word to describe you, in his opinion. From your skin to your hair to the way you smell or touch him. Soft.

It's been a little over half a year since dating you, and there's already been changes happening with him. His mom had noticed the way he carries himself changing, had told him earlier this week how much confidence he'd apparently gained- and it had been then that he'd told her he's finally found a girlfriend. He's never brought anyone over to his parents before, way too worried about how it might look like if he and his partner would change frequently, just because he's not good at choosing the right people to surround himself with. So, revealing that he's got a girlfriend had been a huge thing to his entire family.

But he doesn't actually feel worried at all. You're the sweetest thing he's ever met- it's just the first impression you give that can sometimes be a little too bold.

But he doesn't mind any of your antics. You're honest- and he appreciates that.

And he can't deny that your love isn't exciting in other ways, too.

You've made a joke about him being the best lover you've ever had up until this point- but from the way you arch your back and close your eyes, he's got to believe that there was some truth to it. You're completely out of it, underneath him as he thrusts his hips into yours, hands on your thighs keeping you in place for him. They're soft, too- just like the sounds you make.

He's become more comfortable and confident in that aspect, too. Sex.

It's been somewhat of a necessity almost in past relationships- something he'd want to have over and done quick with the lights off because it's just awkward. Everything about it was awkward to him- from the noises to the smell to the act in general-

But with you? It changed. Awakened something even.

You're addicting, in the way that you're just so raw and unfiltered. You don't hide any side of yourself, you're bold and bright and colorful and confident, and you're just so fucking pretty to him that it makes his head spin.

The first time with you had been a little awkward. The second time after, it was a bit more relaxed. On the third, he'd jumped over his shadow and eaten you out for the first time in his life.

And oddly enough, that had changed something within him.

Ever since then, he'd become experimental. Sex in the shower, a handjob in the bathtub, taking you in the back of his car, or buying a remote controlled vibrator for you online just because. He can never just leave it at something simple anymore, has to take you until his body gives out, has started to imagine things one dirtier than the next.

Especially after yesterday, when you'd told him nonchalantly how your IUD insertion had been the most cruel and painful thing you've ever had to go through- and after some questions of his own, he now knows that you still have it.

And right now, he's in bare, without any condom, and he wants, no needs to see that scene that had been haunting his dreams last night in real life for himself.

It had been a thought in his head for a while now. His main fantasy he'd think of whenever he was trying to get off by himself.

And it worked every single time.

"Can I-" He presses out between his teeth, slowing down for just a moment to lean down and kiss your neck, giving you a second to collect your thoughts back again as you squirm, legs wrapping around him as you try and move on your own. "Can I cum inside?" He asks, and you nod instantly.

"Yes, Jungkook just- just move!" You whine, trying to move your hips, but one of his hands instead pushes them down into the bed, your strength not enough to go against him. "Fuck you-" You start to complain, but he's got the audacity to chuckle.

"Though you wanted me to fuck you?" He jokes, and your eyes tear up in frustration, making him move his hands to instead hold your cheeks as he kisses you-

Hips slowly picking up pace again.

"Don't worry, princess-" he hums, making you hold onto his forearms as if to need something to keep you grounded. "-I never let you down, do I?" He wonders, and you nod, quietly. "I always take good care of you, don't I?" He asks, pushing his hips in deep before he stays there. "Right?"

"Yes!" You whine, nails digging into his skin a little as he laughs again, leaning back to straighten his back out, hands grabbing your thighs. He finally moves again, rolls his hips into yours while holding your legs again, skin slapping loudly against skin, but he doesn't care.

All he can see is your back arching, your head pushing back into the pillows, your tits rhythmically swaying up and down with every thrust he delivers. It's a sight he never wants to ever forget, a sight he knows he's blessed enough to witness.

It's a sight that's his to see. It's a sight that only belongs to him. He's never really thought about it, hasn't really been considering him possessive or anything- after all, you're a free spirit, and he allows you to do whatever, really. You can dress how you want, you can playfully flirt with your friends if you like, it's not a big issue to him.

Maybe because at least up until now, he's not really felt like anyone had truly challenged the idea of him being together with you. There's not been any instance of someone trying to take you away from him.

And maybe once that happens, his mind will change a bit.

But right now, he's got you, right in his hands. Right now, you're undeniably his as he clenches his jaw, watches you come undone underneath him, thighs trembling under the force of your orgasm, before he pushes himself in deep, throwing back his head himself for a moment as he reaches his peak as well.

The room is filled with the sounds of your shared heavy breaths, before he pulls out, his own chest still rising and falling with deep breaths. He can't help but reach out as he watches your clenching core, fingers spreading you open for him to see as you jump a little, still sensitive-

but he soon notices the way you move your hips again, toes curling as his thumb begins to more gently coax another, last orgasm out of you-

and then, it happens.

As soon as you come undone, he watches almost hypnotized how his cum starts to run down your core, and it's such a scandalous sight- no porn he's ever watched coming close to this.

"Kook, I'm gonna leak on the bed-" You whine tiredly, as he barely catches what's running down your leg, before his hand pushes it back in, while he leans over your body, kissing your lips, before he moves to your neck, making you giggle as the tips of his hairs tickle your skin.

"Better keep it inside then." He hums against your neck, and you dramatically whine at that.

"Kook please, I'm gonna die!" You complain, and he laughs.

"What?" He chuckles. "I'm just saying." He shrugs.

"You're making me horny again, please stop you demon!" You argue weakly, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Now get off me so I can go pee." You say, and he nods with a smile.

"You better keep it in though, or you might get it on your pretty carpet-" He teases-

a slap sounding through the room as you playfully hit his thigh, making him laugh while he watches you run to the bathroom with one hand between your legs.

[reirasheadcanons]

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

Tomioka Giyuu— Forever yours

Featuring: Tomioka Giyuu x reader ANGST❗

Cw: slightly depressing, mention of sh

Author's note: first time writing angst, English isn't my first language so I apologise If I make any mistakes.

Hope you enjoy!!

── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──

[Now]

Giyuu's POV:

I can't even remember the last time I saw her. It's probably been weeks, months, even years.

I still remember her face.

I was unable to save another loved one.

I indeed am pathetic.

It was all my fault.

[10 years ago]

Giyuu's POV:

"I can't believe I made it this far already!" I couldn't belive I was still alive in the first place. I didn't completely speak my mind.

"Sabito, do you think we will make it alive?" He was staring at me with that usual smile. Why did I even bother asking. I already knew the answer.

"Of course we will. And don't think about running away, I will catch up to you and kill you myself.

Yeah, yeah. He was trying to scare me again.

"As if you can catch me! Try me you idiot!"

Me and Sabito used to hang out all the time together. Training together, eating together. We were literally doing everything together.

Sometimes, master Sakonji went all furious on us for playing and joking around all the time. 'Till a new apprentice of his showed up.

She was a woman, around our age. Despite her petite body, she knew how to use a sword.

Master Sakonji ordered us to come closer so he could introduce her to us.

"This is Y/n L/n. From today, she will be training with you both. Try to make her feel loved. Now please go practice, I'll join you later."

The young girl joined us quickly. To be completely honest, she knew how to use the water breathing better than me.

"You are so good." I said to her with no hesitation. The way she looked at me, the way she spoked back, the way she just stood there all happily... She reminded me of someone.

"Want to fight?" She didn't even care asking for my name. She wanted to train with me. What an interesting person...

Y/n's POV:

He kept looking at me so puzzled, as if he has seen a ghost.

Was my request that bad? I just wanted to train a bit.

"It's fine if you don't want to-" The orange headed boy interrupted me furiously. "Aren't you afraid? I mean, you just met us and you want to fight."

I took a deep breathe and answered calmly, "We are the same age, same training done, same master. There is no reason for me to be afraid, but neither do you."

"Having the same master doesn't mean anything. Besides, Giyuu needs some more practice in order to perfect his skills." The boy kept talking but I didn't pay attention to him a lot. I just needed to talk to the other one. What was his name again? Giyuu?

I eventually got bored listening to the orange headed boy and stormed off. I decided to confront master about them.

"I believe they don't want me to be here. I don't blame them. After all, I would feel the same."

Master Sakonji tried to prove me wrong, telling me they needed more time to get used to me. I didn't believe him. To them, I was a complete burden.

Many days have passed and I kept trying to befriend the two boys. Although it was hard at first, he accepted me.

Just like that, Tomioka and I became attached to eachother quickly, which also meant Sabito could join soon. They finally accepted me.

Some weeks passed by.

The incident happened and my whole world changed.

Sabito died.

From that day on I made a promise to myself. I would protect Giyuu at all costs. Even if I was a complete stranger to him. Even if he didn't enjoy my company. I would always be there for him.

Protect him, take his pain away.

[4 years later]

Y/n's POV:

Who could have imagined the way we are right now.

I trained so hard back then. So hard just for me to fail my dreams. Giyuu became the water hashira and I, his fellow apprentice, his tsuchinoto.

His techniques got quicker and stronger by time and it didn't took him a lot to surpass my power.

I was so happy for him. Although I knew he wasn't proud for himself, I always made sure he could recognise his own power.

Meeting with him became more complicated as well. Matser Ubuyashiki—in other words the head of the demon slayer corps— started calling all the hashira more frequently.

That was somehow the chance for me to train more but I didn't.

I didn't lust for power anymore. It meant absolutely nothing to me now.

Everything was just fine. Fine until he found out I stopped training. It was my decision and not his to take.

Giyuu started underestimating both me and my skills. Back then, I used to be the most talented student of master Sakonji. But he became the star, not me. He changed, not me.

Giyuu changed.

After Sabito's death four years ago he changed.

By the time, he grew tired of me I could tell.

After all since he became a hashira he had more responsibilities than me. I was once again, a burden.

A pathetic burden.

Burden...

Giyuu's POV:

Guilt, responsibility, anxiety.

The three key factors that made me the person I am now.

I'm not happy with myself. I despise everything.

Sabito 'left' because of me.

He passed away because of me. I don't deserve being a pillar. And most of all, I don't deserve having Y/n under my protection.

I am weak.

[2 days later]

3rd Person POV:

It was a usual morning for everyone. Until the bad news arrived. Like a snake that wraps itself around the neck of its prey, pressing and hoping it will accept its destiny soon.

That's how Tomioka Giyuu felt after hearing the announcement.

Panic had prevailed throughout the demon slayer corps.

Y/n L/n disappeared, under unusual circumstances.

When was the last time he saw her?

He couldn't remember.

He could swear it was two or three hours ago...

...Or wasn't it???

.

.

.

Y/n L/n, passed away at the age of 25.

You will be missed by everyone. The demon slayer corps will forever bless your name.

[Now]

Giyuu's POV:

To my dearest Giyuu,

As I sit down to write this letter, my heart is heavy with all the words I feel but struggle to express. Saying goodbye is never easy, especially to someone who has been as important to me as you have. Don't get me wrong, of course you can think this letter as a love confession since I never got the chance to say it myself... I am pathetic aren't I?

I am grateful for every moment we shared and verything you eventually thought me. You are a wonderful person, Giyuu.

Although, that's my decision to make. Hope you will understand some day.

Promise me you will take care of yourself. Eat all your meals properly, practice daily, continue your life exactly how it is.

Promise you will fight for everyone, fight for me.

Goodbye Giyuu.

Y/n

Reading her letter makes me sick. I can't do it without her. I really can't.

I couldn't protect her.

If only I knew how she felt, maybe I could save her...

.

.

.

.

.

.

Hey Y/n, can you hear me?

I'm coming Y/n.

Wait for me, my angel.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Author's note: I'VE BEEN OFFLINE FOR QUITE SOME TIME!!! NOW I'M BACK! HOPE Y'ALL ENJOY THIS NEW POST<3