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zaldritzosrose · 4 months ago

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Nepenthe (Aemond x Wife!Reader)

Nepenthe – something that makes you forget grief or suffering.

Summary: In the aftermath of the death of Lucerys at Aemond’s hand, Daemon was dead set on vengeance. ‘A son for a son’, that was how the phrase went, and Daemon intended to live by that. It was known that you, Aemond’s wife, were pregnant with your first child. And there was no limit to the revenge Daemon intended to take.

TW: PLEASE READ THESE BEFORE CONTINUING! Mentions of child death (including Lucerys), descriptions of miscarriage/traumatic birth (A special divider has been placed around this scene), strained marriage, depictions of grief and suffering, there is no happy ending here. You have been warned. dead dove, do not eat. MINORS DNI. AFAB Reader. Baratheon coded reader.

Word Count: 3484

The day Aemond had returned from Storm’s End had been nightmarish. You had hoped he would return successful, your marriage to him and the child in your belly enough to persuade your father, Lord Borros, to bend the knee to Aegon.

But the news Aemond returned with was anything but.

Yes, your father had kept his promise and would support Aegon. But everything that happened afterwards was a disaster. While not unexpected, the arrival of Lucerys had sent Aemond on a downward spiral of rage and revenge. Seeing the young Velaryon had brought back the horrors of losing his eye. Of the lack of punishment his nephew had received. Aemond had seen red, threatening the boy and chasing him through the skies over your family home.

So many times, you had cautioned Aemond on his need for recompense. Short of making him vow to forget the slight and focus on you, your marriage and now your child, he had tried his best to leave it behind.

And he had, for the most part. Rarely speaking of it unless prompted. Focusing on aiding his brother in his ascension as King, and you as the mother of his child. Everything had been as calm as it could have been.

Now, it was not.

The tension in the Keep was palpable. Between Aemond and his family. Between Aemond and you. You had taken the death of Lucerys to heart. Not for any affection held towards the young prince, though you harboured no ill will either. But for the slight to your home and your House. You felt embarrassed. The letter you received from your father, that did nothing but berate and insult Aemond’s actions did not help.

Aemond, to his credit, had not spoken of it to you until you would bring up the topic. And today was one of those days.

The council had discussed it, his first time sitting there and the Lords in attendance had done nothing but whine and complain about the war he had now started. Aemond had returned to your chambers seething, pacing the room as he waited for your return.

You were followed by your maid as you entered, the young girl quickly disappearing at the sight of your agitated husband. As the door closed behind her, you watched him. His whole body tense, like an animal circling a cage. The longer you watched, the more you heard him muttering in anger to himself.

“Sit.” you said softly, all but commanding him.

Aemond surprisingly complied. Taking a seat by the fire, his fingers clenching and unclenching on the leather covered armrest. You took the seat opposite, your hand resting gently on the swell of your stomach as you shifted to find comfort.

“The council had words for you, I presume?”

It was only then that Aemond looked at you. Eye raking up from your rounded stomach to your face, etched in concern for him. If there was one thing he adored about you, it was your perceptiveness. Knowing him well enough for him to rarely need words to express his feelings.

“They did.” he answered shortly, though his anger was not directed at you.It rarely was.

You did not expect much more from him. In every instance, Aemond was one to bottle up his feelings until they were unable to be contained, spilling over like lava from a volcano, burning everything around it.

“They did nothing but berate me! As though I sought to kill him, as though I am a child?” Aemond finally let his anger free.

You understood his feelings, as you understood the council’s. This would no doubt plunge the realm into war. The Blacks would never let Lucerys’ death go unpunished.

“Did you intend to?”

Your question made him tense. It was not something that had really crossed his mind. His sole focus had been preparing to return home, and whatever came with that. He had barely considered the consequences until they were laid out before him

When he remained silent, you asked him again.

“Did you mean to kill him, husband?”

You watched the muscle in his jaw clench, knowing your question was only adding to his anger. But you were not going to leave the topic be. His eye bored into yours as he found the words to answer.

“I only wanted what I was owed.”

There it was. The hurt little boy. But you had heard him complain time and time again that vengeance would get him nothing. That it would never be as he expected. And you did not have the same sympathy you had at the start.

You sat higher in your chair, preparing yourself for the argument you knew would come.But the words needed to be said.

“What did you think would happen, Aemond? You chased a boy on a war dragon!”

You rarely raised your voice, but your tone was enough to spark the fire in him.

“I did not intend to kill him!” Aemond snapped back, wrenching himself from his chair and resuming his angered pacing.

He may not have intended it. But he had done it, and your joined families were now at risk.

“You may not have intended it, but you could have made different choices.” You replied, remaining seated but watching him intently as he paced up and down.

“Not only have you plunged us into war without a doubt. The Blacks will want vengeance for this!”

When he remained silent you continued.

“Do you have any idea what this means for my House? To have a prince killed over our waters?"

Aemond froze mid pace. He had not and a fresh wave of guilt licked at his heart. He had never considered the consequences to you. His wife, the mother of his child.

“I..I did not think…”

But his words did nothing to stem your anger. It was one thing to hear him imagine taking his revenge, but to now have to live with the consequences was another.

“You never do.”

Aemond said nothing. The mask of cold indifference returned as he turned on his heel and stormed from the room. You had no desire to follow him. Knowing he would return when he was calm.

Though the two of you never spoke of that night again, it was never forgotten. It was a dark cloud on your marriage, on your family, and the realm. It was only a matter of time before the Blacks sought their revenge.

You would go to bed at night, dreaming of all the possible ways they would seek retribution. Aemond, however, would play that moment over and over again in his mind as he slept. A different outcome each time. None of them good.

It had been a few weeks now. The Keep remained on edge. Aemond had demanded extra guards at your door, and he never left your side where duty allowed him to. In any other circumstance, you would have relished in his attention. But the way he seemed to always hover just to your periphery soon had you feeling claustrophobic.

Soon, though, the Keep settled. War still loomed, but the focus shifted from its catalyst to the path to its end. The guards at your door remained, but you soon stopped noticing them. You tried to return to normal, but the fear still lingered. You knew something was coming.

Aemond had a permanent seat on the council now, a way of earning forgiveness for his actions by helping plan the war he pushed the realm to. It was a fair price to pay, he wagered. Though his thoughts often drifted to what you had said. What a mistake he had made, how he had let his temper cloud his judgement.

The rain outside was usually a welcome sight for you. Reminding you of the constant storm that would batter the walls of your home in Storm’s End. But when Aemond had returned to you, soaked to the skin in that very same rain, it had lost its happy memory. Tainted.

It was now a physical manifestation of the darkness that lingered around the Keep and your family. Like the heavy cloud had pulled its way from your consciousness to your reality.

Today was one of the days you spent in your chambers. The stiffness in your body weighing on you as your babe grew. More often than not, you were brought soothing teas mixed by the Grand Maester to soothe your aches and pains. The warm, herby liquid was always a welcome reprieve.

Six moons of your child growing inside you. The most recent times coloured dark with war but you were happy nonetheless. Your marriage to Aemond was never going to be simple. He was not an easy man to love, he had warned you of that himself. But you loved him nonetheless.

And your child was the fruit of that. A child that might now be in danger for its father’s actions.

You were sat at your window, ignoring the rain and focusing on the sound of Vhagar in the distance. A sound that should have roused fear in you. But it reminded you of Aemond, so it brought you comfort.

Aemond was sitting in the council and your only marker of time was a servant bringing your tea. You did not recognise this one, but the Keep’s staff changed so often now it barely brought you concern.

“Your tea, my lady,” the maid said softly, placing the stone cup on the sill before you before stepping away.

You thanked her with a smile, taking a sip of the hot liquid and letting out a satisfied sigh. At first, the taste had made you wince, but it was welcome now. Knowing your body would soon ease and relax.

Your eyes remained locked on the city below as you drank. Feeling the warmth trickle down and seep through your joints. Your hand rested on your swollen stomach, stroking soft patterns to soothe your child. If you tried, you could almost feel them through your skin, but you were likely imagining such things.

You did not know when you had fallen asleep, but the searing pain in your stomach woke you with a scream. It was as though your entire body was aflame, your skin clammy and your muscles tight.

You forced yourself to stand, almost dragging yourself to the door and calling for your guard.

“Get the Maester…get Orwyle now!” you panted out, clinging to the door frame like it was your lifeline.

The knight hurried away, loud footsteps bringing him to the council door as fast as he could. His fearful expression the one thing that forced the doors open.

“Grand Maester, you are needed.” The guard’s tone was serious enough to have the entire council turn to look at him.

Orwyle walked quickly to him, but Aemond knew the guard as one he had posted at your door. He knew immediately something was wrong. The guard’s eyes met Aemond’s as he crossed the room behind Orwyle.

“Speak plainly, ser.” Orwyle said gently, before Aemond could speak.

“It is your wife, my prince…”

Aemond heard nothing else, storming from the room and running down the halls to your chambers. He could hear the guard and Orwyle behind him, but he cared little.He could hear your screams before he reached the room, screams of pain.

The door had been left open and you had managed to find your way to your bed. Clammy hands clutching at the bedpost to steady yourself. You heard people enter and you could just about hear the sound of the maester’s voice.

“The babe…it hurts…”

You remembered nothing else, the pain too much as your eyes slipped shut.

Aemond could not bring himself to cross the threshold. The Grand Maester had called for midwives to assist and the room was a flurry. You floated in and out of consciousness, and when you were awake, you did nothing but scream out your pain.

He barely heard the midwife inform the Maester the babe was being born. He scarcely registered your cries of despair. It was too early, even he knew that.

The Maester instructed the midwives to tend to you while he looked around your room. It was only then his eyes landed on the tea cup. The shake of his head did not go unnoticed by Aemond. Something had happened.

Orwyle quickly lifted the cup. It was too early for the tea, the routine never faltered. There was something very, very wrong.

On the bed, you were in agony. Midwives circled around you and every single one looked terrified.

“My lady, you have to push.” The midwife instructed and you shook your head.

“No…no it’s not time. It is too early…” you whined, but your body began to do what was necessary.

Aemond finally moved, making his way to your side. But your reaction was not what he wanted. Your hands pushed him away, stopping him from even touching you. The action was like a knife to his heart. You were in pain and you did not want him. Aemond backed away slowly, watching silently as the midwives tended to you.

What felt like hours passed, your screams and cries never subsiding until the midwives informed you that your babe was born, a boy. But the silence that followed was haunting.

“Why is he not crying?” you whispered, your voice hoarse and broken.

The midwives remained silent and that only angered you.

“Tell me!!”

Your shriek was a mix of anger and despair, but it was Orwyle who answered you.

“Your son did not survive. I am so very sorry, my lady.” Orwyle spoke softly, the pain evident in his words.

You refused to believe it, demanding your son to be placed in your arms. The midwife holding him opened her mouth to refuse, but Orwyle silenced her and took the babe himself and handed him to you.

It was only when you held him, did it hit you. Your child was gone.You had not even noticed Aemond was still in the room until he moved closer to you. But you refused him again, wanting no one to touch you including your husband.

Aemond was at a loss at what to do, hovering at your side while you refused to look at him.

It was only when Orwyle said his name did he move.

“My prince,” the Maester whispered, “I fear it was not natural causes that brought this about.”

Aemond’s head turned to look at the Maester in confusion, silently asking for an explanation. Orwyle continued on, holding the stone cup for Aemond to see.

“The tea I brew for her pains, it was not due for an hour if not more. Whoever brought her this…”

The implication was clear. None of this was natural, outside forces had caused this loss. Aemond nodded, taking one last look at you before he left. If you did not want him here, he would not stay.

It had taken a lot of convincing for you to allow your son to be prepared by the Silent Sisters. Barely holding back your anguish as he was taken from your sight. You had watched Orwyle and Aemond speak, even through your grief you were able to deduce what they were speaking of.

The tea. You should have known. When you thought back, you did not recognise the face of the maid who delivered it. Aemond always told you of new staff. It should have aroused your suspicions immediately.

And now your son was gone. Taken from you.You called for a guard to bring you the Maester. You had to know.

When Orwyle arrived, he saw the determined look on your face.

“What did you tell my husband about the tea?”

Orwyle blinked in shock before answering, not having expected that to be the reason he was called.

“My lady, I…” he began and you knew he was going to skirt the question.

“Truth. Now, Orwyle.”

Your tone was harsh, and he knew he had no choice but to answer.

“The tea, I fear, was tampered with.”

He was not entirely sure of the exact concoction used, but he was certain the two events were connected.

“So I was poisoned, is that what you are saying?”

Orwyle could only nod, tears stinging his own eyes as they did yours. Your next request surprised him.

“Tell my husband I need him.”

Aemond was quick to follow your invitation, surprised at Orwyle being the one to deliver it but he went nonetheless. As he entered, his heart almost stopped at the sight of you. Sat before the fire, having had it lit not long ago.

Your back to him as you held a small blanket in your arms. A blanket you had embroidered when you first learned of your pregnancy.

“Orwyle told you?” he asked, fearing what would come next.

You still did not turn to him as you spoke.

“I warned you. I warned you they would take revenge.” You spat the words at him, nothing but hurt and venom on your tongue.

“I warned you nothing good would come of vengeance and now…”

You could not bring yourself to utter the words. Speaking them would make them final and true. You brought yourself to your feet, rounding on Aemond with a fury he had never seen in you before. Your grief had moulded itself into anger. Anger at the gods for taking your son this way, anger at Aemond for causing it, anger at the Blacks for being the bringers of such vengeance.

“You did this.”

Aemond could feel his very heart shatter. You were blaming him? He wanted to argue with you,but he knew you were in pain, grieving. Channelling all of that against the only person you could.

He listened to your screams and rants, his face never changing from its stoic mask. But inside, he felt sick. Was this his fault? Was this the revenge you had warned him of? Would his half sister and her people really commit such a foul act?

Of course they would, he thought. Not they, however, one person would surely stoop to this. His uncle had the ability for such cruelty, there was no doubt. Daemon was the epitome of rage and vengeance.

His attention wandered back to you when you uttered one hurtful line.

“Was the murder of one child not enough?”

The nausea that ate at his insides turned to fire.You were outright blaming him. Placing all of this tragedy on his shoulders.

“Mind your tongue, wife.” he spat back.

Angry that you were blaming him and no other. Angry that you were acting as though he had not also suffered a loss in the child’s death.

“You are not the only one grieving.”

The scoff you let out in response only fuelled his rage more. He could see the fire behind your eyes. Nothing should be feared more than a grieving mother.

“None of this would have happened if it were not for your age old grudge, husband.”

You wanted him to hurt as you did. To feel the pain you did. You were the victim here, not him. Not in your eyes. Aemond’s jaw clenched and unclenched, wanting to match the vitriol you spewed at him in kind. But it would get him nowhere. He knew that.

Before any words could leave his mouth, you spoke words that felt like a hammer to the already fragile glass of your marriage.

“Get out. I do not want to look at you.”

He felt like he was in Driftmark again. Watching his injury go unpunished. He was losing you, and there was nothing he could do. His mouth was dry, his heart near still in his chest. If you had looked closer, you would have seen the unshed tears in his eye before he turned and stormed out of your rooms.

The door had barely closed behind him when he let his own tears fall. A mix of anger and pain stinging his cheeks. He wanted nothing more than to burn down the world. To force others to feel the pain he did. The pain you felt.

He would not lose you. Not like this.

There was a phrase, hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But whoever spoke those words had never met a grieving mother. The anger would burn you from the inside if you let it. And the Baratheon words rung in your mind.

Ours is the fury.

You were to live by those words now. Fury for your child. Fury at your husband. Fury at the ones who had hurt you.

Aemond on the other hand, let the rage burn. Fire and Blood. The Targaryen words had never tempted him more. The world would burn for the pain he had wrought.

No tag list purely because I don't want to unintentionally make people see something they don't want.

If you read it, thank you. I will appreciate any feedback you have.

There will be a part two, thanks to some lovely moots who let me bother them with ideas.

#house of the dragon #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen angst #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond one eye #aemond targaryen fanfiction #x reader #x reader angst

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violentdelightsandviolentends · 6 months ago

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Honey Girl. Chapter Nine.

Chapter One. Chapter Two. Chapter Three. Chapter Four. Chapter Five. Chapter Six. Chapter Seven. Chapter Eight. Chapter Ten. The Playlist. Series Masterlist.

Chapter Synopsis - You and Bucky are holding it together. Until you aren’t.

Pairing - DadsBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au

Warnings - cursing. hospital setting. talk of illness/health issues. panic attack.

Word Count - 3k

Authors Note - I probably sound like a broken record, but… thank you all so much for your patience and support. couldn’t do it without you. can you even believe that next chapter will be chapter ten? thanks for sticking with me. sorry for this rollercoaster of a chapter. there is still more to come - don’t worry!! <3

as always, if you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging!! reblogs are the only way to circulate my writing, which generates more of it. feel free to send me a comment or an inbox, too!! thanks, my loves!! <3

Masterlist. Inbox.

You don’t remember the journey.

One minute, Bucky’s grabbing your hand and bundling you into the passenger seat of his truck, buckling you in as your hands shake. The next, he’s undoing your seatbelt, telling you that you’ve arrived as he puts the car in park. You don’t recall speeding across town and into the city. You can’t even think back to the roads flying past in a blur as your thoughts run at a hundred miles an hour.

The only thing that’s on your mind is your Dad.

You and Buck take the stairs two at a time, hands clasped together tightly. When you reach the reception desk, you try to speak, but nothing comes out. Your words have dried up, dissolved and evaporated into thin air. Your soulmate saves you, once again.

“We’re here to see a family member in cardiology. Can you tell us where to go, please?”

The receptionist looks up at you both, before nodding her head in the right direction.

“Follow that hallway, then through the double doors and up the stairs. Go left, and you’ll see the sign.”

You’re on autopilot, heading straight towards the doors. Bucky follows you quickly, throwing a chaste but genuine thanks to the lady behind the desk as he goes.

“Baby,” he calls after you when you reach the top. “Baby, hold on.”

You spin around, looking up at him with glassy eyes. Your bottom lip quivers as he tucks some hair behind your ear, fingertips brushing your cheek gently.

“Take a breath, please. You’re gonna faint before you get there.”

You inhale as deeply as possible, your lungs only filling to half capacity. You grab onto his hand for a second, squeezing as hard as you can.

“Okay. Breath done. Let’s go.”

You take off down the hallway, leaving Bucky to jog after you. Finding the big blue sign that reads Cardiology, you storm through the doors, looking around frantically. You spot Room 4 and head straight into it.

The room is all white, clinical and clean. There’s sunshine beaming through the window, but it doesn’t seem to warm the space. It’s cold, almost ominous. It makes it hard to breathe.

The bed is empty, crisp sheets tucked tightly into the plastic sides. Your Mom is sat in the chair beside it. She looks small, swallowed by the blue material.

“Mama.”

You don’t recognise your own voice. It’s choked and strangled, foreign to your ears.

She practically jumps up, striding across the room to wrap you in her arms. Inhaling the familiar scent of home, you hug her back as tightly as you can.

“Where is he?”

“He’s in surgery.”

You breathe a half sigh of relief. You’d feared the worst, when you’d walked in and seen the empty bed.

“What happened?”

Bucky’s been leaning against the door frame, watching you both carefully but giving you space. The tone of his voice is calm, collected. He’s holding it together for you.

“I honestly couldn’t understand it all. They were telling me so much information so fast.”

She sits down in the chair while you and Bucky perch on the edge of the bed, facing her.

“It was supposed to just be an appointment, wasn’t it?”

She nods.

“They did the EKG and weren’t happy with the results, so the nurse put us in this room while she waited for the Doctor. Then the Doctor burst in, talking about blockages and bypasses and emergency surgery.”

Her hands are trembling, neatly manicured nails being picked at repeatedly. Bucky reaches over and links his fingers with hers, all grounded and reassuring.

“They put him in a gown,” she continues, “and all of a sudden they were wheeling him away. I can’t even remember what I said, or if I said goodbye or I love you.”

“Mama, you will have said I love you. I promise you that.”

“She’s right, Lori. You will have said exactly the right thing. You always do.”

She squeezes his hand gratefully, taking a deep breath.

“The Doctor said he had a blockage, and they were worried about blood clotting. That’s why they rushed him in. The nurse said she’d update me when she knew anything, but I haven’t spoken to anyone yet.”

“I’m sure he’ll be back soon. You know what Jack’s like,” Bucky laughs. “He’s the toughest guy I know.”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom, freshen up a little. Call me if a nurse comes in, won’t you?”

You nod, clasping her hand tightly for a moment.

“Promise, Mama.”

She stands up carefully, inhaling before leaving the room. Your posture instantly crumbles, faked bravado leaving you as soon as she’s out of view.

“I’m so scared,” you whisper.

Bucky hears it clear as day.

He slides closer to you, wrapping both arms around your frame. Pressing a kiss into your hair, he runs his fingertips up and down your spine gently.

“I’ve got you, baby. You’re allowed to be scared. But everything is going to be okay. I know it will be.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” you mumble into the cotton of his shirt. “It should, but it doesn’t. That scares me, too.”

Bucky traces the features of your face gently with his thumb, his ocean blue eyes never leaving yours. He dances his finger over the slope of your nose, your cheekbones, the curve of your lips. His skin is warm and calloused against yours, polar opposite to how cold you feel.

“I’m your soulmate,” he murmurs, “but I’m not a miracle worker. Fuck, I wish I was. There are gonna be some things that I can’t fix for you, no matter how badly I want to. We just have to ride them out together, sweet girl.”

You nod, leaning in to rest your head against his pounding heart.

It still beats to the rhythm of your name. Even after all this time.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You don’t jump apart when your Mom walks back in.

Upon first glance, the picture is simple - a girl being comforted by her Dads best friend. A hug. Reassuring words.

If you look closer, the image becomes a little more complicated - her fingers tangled in the front of his shirt. His hand cradling the back of her head. Familiar lips softly pressed to her temple.

Any other time, someone might question the sheer intimacy of the moment. But not now.

Now, all focus is drawn to the nurse in sky blue scrubs that appears in the doorway.

“You’re all Jack’s family?”

You all spin to face her, nodding frantically.

“Thought so. He’s out of surgery, and he’ll be brought up here shortly.”

“Is he alright?” your Mom asks, standing up. You can physically see the tension rising in her body.

“He’s doing okay. The Doctor is going to come up and talk to you a little about some… complications. But he’s okay.”

The reassurance at the end of the sentence doesn’t make any of you feel any better. You’re stuck on the word complications.

As if on cue, your Dad is wheeled in, all laid up cosy in crisp white sheets. He has oxygen tucked up under his nose, tubes and wires attached to his hands. He looks fragile, which is a state you’ve never seen him in before. Usually, he’s larger than life, braver than a bear, with a booming laugh that can make anyone smile. In this current moment, he looks like a little boy again, put to bed softly by his mother on a school night.

They get him situated as the Doctor approaches the three of you, huddled by the chair to stay out of the way.

“The surgery went well. The blockage has been fixed, and hopefully shouldn’t reoccur. We’ll put him on medication for the future, blood thinners most likely, to prevent anything further.”

Your Mom nods, lips pressed together.

“The nurse said there was complications?”

Bucky’s voice is low and careful, the timbre of it reverberating next to you.

“We ran into some trouble with the anaesthetic. We struggled to wake him for quite some time, and then his blood pressure completely bottomed out. We managed to get him steady again, but it was a little touch and go for a minute.”

Your Mom sits down slowly, holding onto the arms of the chair with taut knuckles.

“Your husband is going to be just fine, ma’am. We’ll manage any future worries with meds. Some people just don’t respond well to anaesthesia, especially if they’ve never had it before. We’ll monitor him over the next few days, keep him under observation just in case. But it looks positive. I assure you.”

She inhales, leaning back and exhaling the breath.

“He’ll probably just sleep it off for the rest of today, so don’t worry if he’s barely conscious. His body has been through a trauma, and he needs some time to recover.”

You all nod, Bucky’s hand reaching out to squeeze yours momentarily. He subtly presses a kiss into the nape of your neck, as if to melt the tension away.

You all breathe a collective sigh of relief.

“If you need anything, there are always nurses walking around on this floor. They’ll call me if necessary.”

She smiles before leaving, picking up her clipboard as she goes.

“Thanks, Doctor!” Bucky calls after her, making both you and your Mom laugh softly.

The three of you remain still for a while, scared to make any sudden moves. Eventually, Bucky stretches his legs.

“I’m gonna grab some coffees. The usuals?”

You both nod at him.

“Be right back. Call me if you need anything.”

You can’t take your eyes off him as he leaves. You miss his warmth instantly.

“He’s a good guy,” your Mom whispers to you from the chair, where you’re perched on the armrest. She’s watching him go too.

You hum in agreement.

“He looks out for you.”

You hum in agreement once again, albeit this time a little quieter.

“You guys are close, these days.”

You inhale calmly.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “He’s got my back.”

“He likes you a lot.”

Before she can continue, your Dads eyes flutter open slowly. You both jump up, standing on either side of his bed.

“Hi, honey.”

“Hi, Dad.”

He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust to the harsh lighting.

“How you feeling, tough guy?”

He smiles softly, and the relief that fills your body is so overwhelming, you feel as if your legs might give out. You hold onto the metal bars of the bed for support, praying you stay upright.

He groans a little, throat hoarse.

“Water?”

Your Mom puts the straw in his mouth, nodding in approval as he sips.

“I’m good,” he croaks. “Got my girls with me.”

You both laugh.

“Jack, as much as I’d love to be your girl…”

Bucky is stood against the doorframe, keeping a careful distance from the family moment. Your Dad chuckles, shaking his head.

“You’re the prettiest one, Buck,” he says with as much conviction as he can muster. You all can’t help but laugh even more.

“How you feeling, honey?”

“Fine. Tired, though.”

“The Doctor said you’d most likely just sleep it off all day. Go back to sleep, if you want to. We’re right here.”

He nods, closing his eyes instantly. Your Mom settles back in the chair as Bucky hands her a coffee. He goes to give you yours, but you place it down on the side table.

“I’m gonna get some air. Be back in a minute.”

He gives you a look that says are you sure?, but you’re already out the door, not glancing back.

“She doesn’t like hospitals.”

Bucky nods in recognition, but can’t focus on anything except the severe levels of rising anxiety in his chest.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

You can’t find your way out, and it’s making you panic more.

You’re throwing doors open, running down sets of stairs. Eventually, you see an exit, and barge through it with no regard for your surroundings. You’re at the front of the hospital, somehow making it to the main entrance.

Your lungs feel like they’re burning, white hot heat filling them with each weak inhale that you manage. The world is turning, suddenly, the entire axis of the Earth shifting on its head. Gasping, you grab onto a railing, desperate to just take a full breath and calm down.

The more you try to breathe, the worse things seem to get. It feels like the non existent walls are closing in, claustrophobia settling into your weary bones. Your legs buckle as your surroundings spin.

You don’t even register the impact of your knees hitting the ground, nor feel the pain that follows. You’re only minutely aware that you’re even on the floor because you can feel the warm tarmac underneath your palms.

Suddenly, there are two strong arms wrapped around your middle, pulling you into a solid chest. You relax against it, tired of fighting.

“It’s me, baby. Shit, it’s me.”

The voice is panicked, almost frantic in the way it hits your ears. There’s a hand stroking over your hair, strumming over your cheekbone, squeezing your shoulder. You wonder for a second if anyone has ever died from something like this. You feel as if you’re pretty close.

“You’ve got to start slowing your breathing, honey. Can you hear me?”

You think you nod. You assume you do, because the voice continues.

“Put your hand on my heart,” he says as he does it for you. “Just like that. Can you feel the beat of it, underneath your palm? It sounds like a drum, right? One two, one two, one two. Can you focus on it?”

You try to hone into the sound. You think you might be able to distantly feel it, where your hand meets his shirt.

“How about if we create a pattern together? And we’ll both follow it? Like this.”

The voice tilts your chin upwards, so you’re looking into his eyes.

“Bucky,” you choke out.

“Breathe when I breathe, okay? In, and out,” he inhales and exhales. “In, and out. There we go, atta girl. In, and out. You got it.”

You stay collapsed on the sidewalk for what feels like hours, breathing when he tells you to. You focus your vision on his ocean blue irises, finding your home in them. Eventually, you feel like you’re somewhat filling your lungs, and the world stops spinning.

“There she is.”

You drop your head onto his chest, warm tears soaking into the material of his shirt.

“I’ve got you, sweet girl. I’ve got you. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You finally let yourself relax, sagging against his body as he holds you close.

“Fuck, you scared me. Are you hurt?”

You don’t even know the answer to that question yourself.

Bucky starts checking you over, looking for any visible injuries. When he reaches your knees, he inhales sharply.

“Shit, baby. We’ll have to get some antiseptic on these grazes of yours. You’ll have some badass bruises tomorrow, tough girl.”

You realise, slowly, where you are. You’re on the sidewalk outside the hospital, sat on the floor, wrapped in Bucky’s arms. You try to stand up too quickly, and wobble backwards.

“Woah, easy. There we go. Come sit over here with me.”

There’s a wooden bench not far from the entrance, tucked in between a hedge and a flowerbed. You take a seat, surveying the bloody mess of your knees as you do.

“They look worse than they are, baby. Promise. We’ll fix them when we go back upstairs.”

You rest your head on his shoulder as he throws an arm around you and tugs you into his side.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, hmm?”

“Don’t like hospitals,” you whisper. “Never have.”

“Is there… any particular reason? Or is it just one of those things?”

“Spent a lot of time here when I was younger,” you admit quietly. “I was kind of a sick kid. Had my own set of issues. Lots of appointments and stuff.”

Bucky nods against the top of your head, pressing a kiss into your hair.

“You never mentioned anything.”

“Didn’t think it was relevant.”

He hums.

“I’m sorry,” you confess. “For causing a scene. Being dramatic.”

“Honey,” he scolds. “You’re not dramatic. We’ve all got our fears, the things that make us tick. I promise you, no one thinks you’re dramatic. You feel how you feel, and that’s okay.”

You sigh in defeat, pulling your knees up under your chin.

“I think I was holding it together until I saw he was okay. When I knew he was fine, I just… crumbled.”

“That’s a perfect reflection of your character, you know. Keeping it together for everyone else.”

You chuckle dryly.

“Maybe. I suppose.”

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The two of you sit outside for a while longer, breathing in the fresh air and revelling in each others embrace.

“We should probably go back up. They’re going to wonder where we are.”

You go to stand up, but Bucky pulls you back down onto the bench.

“Honey, wait. There’s something we need to… talk about, before we go.”

You turn to face him, and instantly tense up. He looks worried.

“Buck, what is it?”

“I… I don’t know what we’re supposed to do. Or how we’re meant to handle this. I really, really don’t know what the best angle is here.”

“You’re scaring me,” you say as you cradle his face. His scruff tickles your palm, and any other time, you both would have laughed.

“Before I came down to find you, your Mom raised a question with me.”

“… which was?”

He takes a deep breath. Exhales it shakily.

“She asked me how long you and I have been soulmates.”

tag list part one

@lillytracy6996 @securegorgon @roostersforevergirl @povlvr @val-writesstuff @dreadfulxives18 @1deadpool26 @abbygraceasd @nyutasgirl @mavrellover91 @winterslove1917 @f-this42 @skewedcherries @noisesinthedark @kandis-mom @black-cat-2 @harrystylesandthegoobs @vladsgirlxx @h0nestly-though @arienotari @nash-dara @wandaneedstherapy @galaxy-dusk @justherefortheficandsmut @cremebruleequeen @cjand10 @buggy14 @avengers-fixation @blueberrybambi @beautiful-loserr @sarah1barnes @miss-rebel-without-applause @ragingrainbowshipl @shamrockqueen @savemeroman @jenn-f @8crazy-freak8 @daddyjackfrost @openup-yourmind @adangerousbalance @mandijo17 @daddylorianisastateofmind @rcarbo1 @casa-boiardi @spideegwen @navs-bhat @mssbridgerton @asuni921 @middle-of-the-earth @mfrnchsk

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empresskylo · 2 years ago

Note

Hi！I really like ur story.And I was wandering if u could write about konig or ghost being jealous 🫂

my call of duty masterlist

reader referred to as a girl, called feminine terms, and afab.

Ghost

♡ ghost is an aggressive jealous. especially once you've been together for a while and he gets really attached. its definitely romantic but sometimes can drive you mad.

♡ one time, you and the rest of 141 were out at a bar, taking a load off after an intense mission. you went off to the bar to grab drinks for everyone and of course, ghost kept his eyes locked on you the entire time. as you stood there waiting, you rocked back and forth on your feet. a somewhat attractive man approached you and started up a polite conversation. the man didn't even have any ill intentions, he simply saw a pretty girl at a bar and decided to try and flirt... it's literally the whole point of bars. ghost watched with clenched fists, ready to storm over there and drag you back to their table, but soap convinced him to calm down. you were allowed to talk to other people. he hated the way you were laughing at whatever the prick was saying to you. you must have said something hilarious because the man laughed, reaching out and placing his hand on your shoulder. you immediately felt your gut sink, knowing what was about to happen. "might want to remove your hand before i decide to break your wrist." it was ghost, looming behind you. the man quickly retracted his hand, holding it up in defense. you turned to face the giant brute, "simon, he was just being nice," you whispered to him. "s'not nice to touch ladies without their consent," he growled, his eyes still locked on the poor man behind you who should have ran out the door by now if he had any brains. your eyes darted sidelong to soap, silently pleading for his help. within seconds, johnny was grabbing the man behind you and edging him out of the bar, telling him it was for his own good. you blocked simon's way, grabbing his sleeve and pulling, making him look down at you finally. "please, simon," you said breathlessly. "can we not ruin this night?" his face softened, his big hand coming up to caress your cheek, his thumb stroking you. "m'sorry," he said before placing a kiss on the top of your head. safe to say, he was glued to your side the rest of the night.

♡ ghost had gotten jealous of your relationship with the other members of 141, though this was more towards the beginning of your relationship, when he still didn't trust the guys with you--but now, of course, he trusts them with your life.

♡ ghost wasn't keen on the nicknames the guys would call you. but sometimes, he didn't really have much of a choice. when price would call you "doll", he would just silently glare at him. soap liked to call you "lass," and while that wasn't anything out of pocket, it still infuriated ghost. gaz sometimes called you "love," which drove ghost mad. you had to remind him that these were just terms of endearment because the guys cared about you, not because they were interested in you. he still didn't like it. and even months later, when he learned to trust them with you, he would still clench his jaw and fist whenever someone referred to you by anything but your name.

♡ he would even get jealous before you were together. one time he had overheard johnny inviting you out. he was in fact inviting you out to join him and the rest of the crew (including ghost), but ghost didn't hear that part. later that day, he slammed johnny against a wall, his forearm crushing him with such force even soap was surprised. "words, ghost. use your words," soap choked out, trying to shove the taller man off of him. "the hell you think you're doin?" he reluctantly released him from his hold. "what the bloody fuck are you talkin' about?" "invitin' her out?" he managed through gritted teeth. soap couldn't help the smirk that played along his lips. "whats it to ya?" ghost moved to step closer to him, his fists clenched. soap raised a hand in defeat. "bloody hell, mate. i was invitin' the lass to come out with all of us." ghost awkwardly shifted his stance, making soap crack a grin. a plethora of snarky comments rose in soaps throat, but ghost stopped them before they could come into reality. "not a fuckin' word about this, johnny, or I swear to god."

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖

♡ ghost was occasionally known to fuck the jealousy out of his system. (im sorry, but this idea is just so hot to me…)

♡ simon was not happy when he found out you had a "work husband." and i feel like thats a pretty fair thing to get upset over. “No, no, simon! He’s married! It just means we bicker and act like an old married couple at work. It has nothing to do with actually liking each other,” you pleaded. That didn’t really help your case. Like at all. It was a silent car ride all the way home. And once you got inside, simon had you pinned against the door, your hands trapped beneath his over your head. You let out a sharp gasp. “Ever imagine him while you’re fucking me?” his voice was low and scary, his lips coming down to tease your neck. You knew he was just trying to get himself worked up. “No! God, no, Simon. I would never–” he rolled his hips against you, cutting your sentence short. He nipped the skin along your neck making you hiss. He dragged you to the bedroom, tearing your clothes off, not being gentle at all. He didn’t have the patience to be. “Bet he wonders what color underwear you got on,” he mumbled more to himself than you. His fingers hooked along the band of your panties, teasing you. “Too bad for him, he’ll never know.” you gasped when simon abruptly shoved two fingers inside of you with no warning. He smirked. “And he’ll never know what kind of sounds you make.” he climbed up between your legs, intensely watching your face as his fingers pumped inside of you. “Only i get that honor, don’t i, pet?” You’d be lying if you said this side of simon didn’t turn you on. Your mind was already blanking as you panted, simon’s magical fingers working wonders. He stopped moving. “Dont i?” he asked again with more aggression this time. “Yes. only you!” you whined, bucking your hips up into his hand. Normally simon would chuckle, admiring how desperate you were for him. But right now, all he felt was jealous rage. Simon settled himself above you, his pants shedded. He peeled your panties off, licking his lips as he did. “Gonna fuck you so good so that prick never crosses your mind.” “He already doesn’t cross my mind, sim–oh fuck!” simon thrusted inside you, cutting off your rambling. He wasn’t gentle as he began to rock against you. “Say my name, love,” he demanded. “Oh god, Simon,” you babbled, already cockdrunk. “That’s right, baby. I own this pussy, don’t i?” You nodded your head hurriedly, your nails digging into his back. As much as simon’s jealousy drove you crazy, you fucking loved moments like this. Simon pounded into you, relentless as he claimed you, coming inside you just to prove to himself how you were his. And only his.

König

♡ konig my sweet gentle giant. I do think he’s a bit insecure so when he gets jealous it more so makes him sad rather than mad. (i hate to paint him like a helpless, sappy baby, but i cant help it im so sorry.)

♡ “konig, what’s wrong?” you’d ask him, seeing him act more reserved than usual. You stood between his legs as he sat on a barstool. He was always shy in public, especially when you all went out to the bar, but he was acting it more so than usual. “nothin’ , liebling.” he takes a strand of your hair and twirls it in his fingers. “Konig,” you plead, clearly seeing something is bothering him. His eyes drift, unable to look at you when he speaks. “Jus’ didn’t like seein’ you talk to that guy at the bar.” Your face would heat up, upset that you might have hurt him, but also warming at the idea of konig being jealous. You rested your hands on the tops of his thighs, pushing yourself up so you were inline with his lips. “He’s not my type.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. he’s no where near tall enough.” konig’s ears pinked. “And he doesn’t call me liebling in that god damn accent.” you’ve managed to turn konig into a blushing mess. Even if you’ve been together for awhile, whenever you compliment him, he gets all bashful.

♡ he’ll do simple things when he’s jealous. Like if he starts to get annoyed that some guy is acting a little too touchy or comfortable around you, he’ll come up behind you and wrap his arms around your chest. He would literally engulf you. Just that simple action would send any smart man running as he loomed over you and stared them down.

♡ he is also not one to be into PDA, however, that is not the case when he’s jealous. Especially at base, with so many deprived men around, he tends to get overly protective of you. Whenever he spots you talking to someone that’s not him, he’ll come up to you, give you a kiss even if you’re in the middle of talking, and walk away. You always get flustered when he does that, but it gets the message across that you’re his. No one would dare mess with something that belonged to konig.

♡ there is a man on the team that takes interest in you, likely not knowing that you and konig are together. He begins to help you train. Eats lunch with you. Saves you a seat at meetings. And you think he’s just being friendly. You’re actually happy you made a friend. So it throws you off when konig confronts you about it. “I don’t like you spending so much time with that guy.” “What? Why?” you turn in his embrace to face him. “He’s clearly into you, liebling.” “Huh? No he’s not! We’re just friends.” you say, your mind going over your every interaction now that konig brought this up. “You’re naive if you think he just wants to be your friend.” he says it in such a soft way that you’re not even upset at him calling you naive. He’s clearly just concerned. You shake your head, not wanting to believe what konig is saying. “Have you even told him about me?” “Yes! I’ve definitely brought you up.” “But did you mention we were together?” You bit the inside of your cheek. “No… I guess I never specified.” you realized that konig was probably right. You had no idea you were leading this guy on because you genieuly thought he was just being friendly. “Oh, shit. Konig. I’m so sorry,” you said clearly upset now. Konig cupped the back of your head and pulled you into his chest, placing a kiss on the top of your head. You felt a chuckle rumble through his chest. “Don’t apolgize. You haven’t done anything wrong.” “I’ll make sure he knows i’m with you next time i see him,” you mumbled into his shirt. Konig spotted the man walk into the room you and konig were currently huddling in. perfect timing. “or…” he said, making you tilt your head to look up at him, arching a brow. The man looked over and spotted the two of you, so Konig bent down, lifting his mask so only you could see, and kissed you. It was more than a peck. He pulled you into him, his hands wandering down to your waist. When you pulled away breathless, konig smirked. “I think he got the message.”

♡ he often got jealous when others would gawk at you when you weren’t looking. There had been plenty of times where you were working out and konig watched as other man checked you out. He could feel his fists clench, trying to prevent himself from getting upset. It wasn’t your fault. And he wasn’t about to make you cover up just because men liked to be creepy.

♡ it isn’t until after one workout that you see konig huffing on the bench. “Bad workout?” you asked him, sitting across his thigh. His hands immediately went to your waist. “Jus’ sick of those guys oogling over you,” he muttered. You looked over to see the group of men konig was talking about. You were sporting a tight sports bra and tight spandex shorts, showing more than you usually would. “Let em’ look,” you replied. Konig looked at you, his frown deepening. “They can see me like this all they want. But only you can see me naked,” you whispered in his ear. Konig’s hands tightened on your waist, his pupils dilating as he stared at you. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, liebling.” his voice was darker now. Not with jealousy, but with lust. “Oh, I don’t plan on it,” you said, reaching down and palming him through his shorts. Konig immediately shot up, making you land on your feet, but his hands still firmly gripping you. “Your room. Now,” he demanded. He always got nervous when you spoke to him like that in public. But this was the first time you touched him in public. And konig was throbbing in his shorts, wanting you so desperately he already forgot about the other men.

𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐖

♡ after a night out with the gang, partying and drinking, you and konig found yourselves back at your hotel room. You had no idea he had been jealous all night long until he scooped you up as you entered your hotel room and tossed you on the bed. He had to watch as you danced and let loose, enjoying yourself, while the men around you watched you just as intently as konig was. Every time you bent over, he had to stop himself from punching every man in your vicinity. “Konig,” you said breathlessly. He loomed over you, grabbing the hem of your dress and pushing it up your thighs until it bunched around your waist. “You’re mine,” he growled. You were slightly shocked at his sudden change in demeanor, not as used to this side of konig, but not hating it either. You nodded your head as konig pulled your panties down. You were already so wet for him. It made him smile. He quickly connected his mouth to your throbbing core, his tongue devouring you. Your hands slid into his hair on reflex, your head falling back, silently mouthing his name. “I want everyone in the fucking hotel to hear you scream my name,” he grunted against you. Your eyes widened, looking down at the man buried between your thighs. His hands gripped your ass and pulled you closer to him, making you yelp. “Every. Single. Person.” You quickly nodded, calling his name out as he began sucking on your clit. His tongue teased your entrance, his cock throbbing as he listened to your pants. “Mine,” he said against your cunt, making you moan. “All fucking mine.”

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martyrlamb · 1 year ago

Text

✶ when the clock strikes / leon kennedy

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader

summary: you’re starting to think a certain agent might be faking his injuries to see you.

tags: sfw, pure fluff, a bit of angst as a treat, love at first sight basically, silly workplace love story, nurse!reader, 1 year post re4r!leon, no use of y/n, extremely mildly passively suggestive, leon takes his shirt off twice (woohoo!), kissing, swearing, leon is awkward as hell, you are too though so it’s okay, description of bruises, cuts and a muscle knot (not detailed), medical talk, slight mention of gore and blood, reader has a backstory, reader has a mother.

note: i blinked and suddenly there were 8k words in my doc idek how that happened. im actually so nervous to post because this is my first one shot ever!! my cherry has been popped… but also apologies if things are kind of all over the place bc im still trying to get the swing of it all. trying to write in the present tense was like being beat over the head repeatedly so im sure theres many grammatical mistakes in that department

word count: 8.5k (got possessed sorry)

Everyone thought you were crazy when you accepted the offer.

It is crazy—but you aren’t stupid. You knew what you were getting into a long time ago as a nurse; people get hurt, and then you save them. Clockwork.

Years ago, you started studying to be a nurse in some middle of nowhere midwestern school. You remembered the rolling hills and the ungodly heavy blankets of snow that fell during the winter months, the fallen leaves that the snow covered. It was all so peaceful for a while… until the outbreak.

You never saw it coming, no one did, really. At least, you hope no one predicted the atrocities that were about to be witnessed by thousands of innocents without warning.

Gnashing teeth and hands with dried blood that streaked down arms like veins plagued the memory of that point in your life. It was surreal to believe that you got up that morning and made your breakfast like any other day, you slid your shoes on and grabbed your keys, and then your foot hit the front porch and the trajectory of your life changed permanently.

The virus started as a woman with red-ringed eyes and pallid skin that reflected off of the blinding overhead lights—she looked visibly ill. That’s all that mattered at the time. You were actually the one who situated her and her husband in their room, he smiled at you and thanked you for your time and you scribbled down notes before hanging the clipboard and leaving the room for the doctor. The screeching horror music plays when you get to this part of the memory.

A type of calm before the storm. You hold your breath every time.

A few hours later people started screaming, and someone—something ran out of that room and wrenched its grip on the first person it saw. Blue scrubs dyed a nasty crimson, like crushed raspberries on cloth. The next part is a blur of running, watching your coworkers die, and using your medical expertise to help anyone who needed it. People were hurt. You saved them.

Like you said, clockwork. You try not to think about it too hard.

By the time help came, you had cramped a large handful of survivors—albeit, injured survivors—into a small house that was a mile or two from the hospital. Your quick thinking protected many people that day, and your skills were recognized.

A week prior, you were a simple nursing student who was lucky enough to be placed in a hospital, and by the next Sunday, you were being offered a position as a medic with the Anti-Umbrella Pursuit and Investigation Team. You finished your schooling, you got your specialized training, and now you’re on your way to your first assignment out of the country.

So, granted, maybe you are a little crazy for accepting such a prestigious and dangerous position after your humble beginnings. Your mother never ceases to remind you of this, with what little information you were allowed to tell her.

Iceland? she said, pulling her lips into a line. Are you crazy?

You begin to think that you are now that you stand in front of the base, arms tucked around yourself and teeth chattering as a sergeant points you around like one of his troops. Between the hustle and bustle of agents hurrying around and the amount of civilians sitting beneath the large, brown medical tent, you understand why they needed all the help they could get.

Things in Iceland were bad apparently; Umbrella thought the remote location would protect what little was left of them, and their research, from being exposed. Unfortunately for them, (and fortunately for everyone else) the AUPIT caught wind of what was happening and vowed to put a stop to it. You, freshly out of training, were sent to help with the sudden influx of displaced non-combatants and wounded agents.

Within the hour of the helicopter landing, you settle in and pull your cold weather scrubs on.

There aren’t many other nurses—only two—and neither of them seem to be very fond of you. The head nurse is older and straight-laced, following procedure, not mingling with you unless she has to. You don’t think you’re ever going to be put on a shift with the other nurse, but they spare you a few ireful glances. It’s like they could smell the fresh blood, and the scent made them turn their noses.

Nonetheless, you weren’t there to socialize, so you rolled up your sleeves and did your job, trying to ignore the passive aggressive looks being thrown at you from left and right. This kind of mutual ignorance worked for about three days, until you were placed on the night shift… every single night.

Before you came along, it was determined that the night shift could be manned by one person, as injured civilians were sent to the safehouses by nightfall and nearly all of the agents were either out on work or taking a much needed rest. There was no reason for both nurses to be awake when one could conserve their energy and rest while the other worked. So, most nights you spent alone, sitting by the fire in the back of the tent as you waited for the sun to come up.

One of those nights crept up on you again. You bounce your foot against the ground until your ankle aches, sitting in a lawn chair next to the fire with a wool blanket draped over your shoulders. Nothing chirps in the distance like the environment you’re used to, the only noises that float through the air are the wind rustling bare-armed bushes and your own breathing. There was a rip in the tent whistling, too, but you’d be damned if you let the incessant noise drive you insane. You were scared of the eerie silence for the first few days, but that quickly became replaced by the complete boredom that followed it.

You blow a raspberry as you spin a pen in your ungloved hand, fingers numb and stretched stiff with cold. I’ve ought to ask someone for a book, you thought to yourself, or a new job. You immediately push the second contemplation out of your head like it was something dirty and sat up a little straighter; your annoyance made sense, but this is what you wanted to do with your life. You want to help people in need.

Not that there were many people around.

In the distance, like divine intervention, you hear the crackle of wheels against snow, and a black mini-van rolls to a stop in front of the tent. A scuffle inside ensues for a moment, then the doors open and a man comes hobbling into the shelter with his arm over another man’s shoulder.

You nearly fall out of your seat with how fast you stand up and stride over to the men, assisting the injured one onto a cot.

“What happened?” you ask, pushing a cart of equipment to his bedside.

The uninjured one remarks from beside you, “Some snow gave way and he went down this hill with some pretty nasty bushes at the bottom.” His voice is quick and clicky. He looks young.

Clearly, they’re two agents, judging by the leather holsters strapped around their waists and shoulders. You purse your lips and place a lantern on the cart, gently inspecting the injured agent. There’s thorns lodged along the entirety of his left side, looking a bit like a child’s crude attempt at art with toothpicks and styrofoam.

He grunts when you gently lift his arm to check underneath, and you mutter an apology before you turn to the other agent. “I can take this from here.”

The agent nods and spins on his heel, disappearing into the darkness once he stepped out into the open air.

You turn your attention towards the man in front of you and pull on a pair of gloves, the latex makes a sharp snapping noise when you let go. His intense gaze follows your movements with great intrigue—or suspicion… you couldn’t really tell. You pick up a pair of tweezers and set them on the cart. You also finally got a good look at the wounded agent.

Blue eyes that strike down what little defenses you have and brows that spend their time permanently creased, almost erasing the space between them while he inspects you. His ability to make you feel thoroughly grilled with a simple fixated stare would have made you squirm years prior, but now you merely stare back with your eyebrows lifted. The blonde—possibly light brown haired, the darkness didn’t give much way in the form of colour—man averts his eyes first, as if he is caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t attractive, but that’s not your focus right now.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, flicking on a flashlight to check his pupils. Healthy, good. He squints at you through the beam.

“Like I fell into a thorn bush.”

Looks like someone feels funny. You deadpan at him, unamused with the sarcasm while you try to help. Your expression beckons a better answer and he backpedals.

The man’s head bobs subtly, like a scale in his mind is weighing his thoughts on either side, and then he says, “I’m just fine.”

“Are you dizzy? Nauseous?”

“Fine.”

“Okay,” you reply, blowing out a not-so-inconspicuous huff of annoyed air that swirls above you in the cold. The agent raises his brow at your reaction but doesn’t seem too keen on speaking on it. “I’ll try to be as gentle as I can, but it’s going to be a lot of poking and prodding.”

He lets out another grunt that could have possibly been an Mhm… but you aren’t sure. You hold the tweezers between your fingers and begin to pluck them out, placing them on the metal pan on your cart. Clink, clink, clink. They fall from the tweezers with tiny noises.

To your surprise, he doesn’t writhe or make much noise, only occasional grunts and sighs and Shit’s under his breath when you pull at particularly deep thorns lodged in his arm.

Even for an agent, his arms are an impressive size, which means a lot more surface area to extract from. Not that you really mind, as you would have helped him either way, but surely you would feel differently if you were in his shoes.

However, the silence is… awkward; sitting there with your face inches from his huge arms—he could definitely feel your breath fan across the surface with how his skin dances with warmth and goosebumps and you do not want the attractive agent to focus on that. So, you break it with a question.

“You weren’t wearing a jacket?” A valid query, all things considered.

He blinks at you like it was obvious. “It came off.”

“Oh,” is all you say until you extract the last thorn from his arm and begin to slide the leather shoulder holster off of him. “I just need to take this off.”

He frowns slightly, and you realize his brows had been furrowed this whole time because that was all his face seemed to know how to do. When his expression changes, you stop.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Taking it off so I can look under your sleeve.”

“Why?”

“You could’ve pulled something and I need to bandage you,” you pause. “Is that okay?”

Maybe you wrongly assumed that he had done this a million times. Don’t get you wrong, you know how resilient agents had to be and how good they were at their jobs, so it isn’t like you thought he got hurt often… But with a short glance into his eyes, you could tell he’s a hardened delegate with years of experience under his belt. Wasn’t he bound to need help occasionally?

The man gives you a slight nod and shrugs off the holster; it falls to the bed with a soft thud from the weight of the knife tucked into the leather.

His muscles tense under your fingers when you roll the black sleeve over his shoulder. The feathered, pale edge of a bullet scar peeks out from beneath the dark clothing and it makes you wonder how he managed to get it. A mission? Probably. It looks old. You’ve seen scars of all kinds at that point, and each of them held a story that ended in pierced flesh.

They remind you that they will never not be where they came from—your own scars will never not be where they came from. You shake the thought out like a stubborn rock in your shoe.

“Lucky you, it doesn’t look like you pulled anything in your shoulder,” you comment under your breath.

“If this is luck, I’d like to see what happens when I get unlucky.” For the first time, there’s humor in his tone—so faint you nearly miss it, but it makes you chuckle. When he isn’t huffing out responses, his voice almost sounds kind.

You rotate his shoulder slowly and inspect the length of his side, finding fewer thorns than the amount anchored in his arm. Still, your lips press into a line, pitying the fact that his bare skin will be exposed to the frigid, below-freezing air so you could remove them.

“Well, you should’ve knocked on wood,” you reply, “I’ll need you to take your shirt off so I can get the rest of the thorns out and check your ribs.”

Silently, the man hikes his shirt up and over his ribs for you, snaking his arm out of his sleeve and then laying on his side.

As he comes down, stretching, he groans. You see his muscles tense under his skin when he inhales, the dips and divots of his torso flex involuntarily when the squall of air nips at his newly exposed skin. The surface holds blossoms of red and deep purple that litter themselves across his ribs like splotches of messy watercolor dripped onto paper. Scarlet scratches bleed pebbles that drip onto the fabric of the cot.

You suck in through your teeth as you inspect the area. Even without the damage from the thorns, it doesn’t look good.

“Not good?” the agent questions as if he could read your mind. From over his shoulder, he turna his head to look at you.

“Not good. You bruised your ribs, I’d be surprised if one of them wasn’t broken.”

“I didn’t hear a crack.”

“It should be monitored for a day or two, at the very least.”

“I have to get back to work.”

“Look, I understand—“

“I’ll be fine.”

You sigh softly and remove one of your gloves to rub your face in exasperation. Unfortunately, this wasn’t your first rodeo with stubborn patients, so you slide on another glove and begin to pluck at the thorns in his torso. “You won’t be doing much work if you permanently damage them.”

He twists his head away from you again and grunts softly, muttering a short, “Okay.”

How articulate. You guess he doesn’t get paid to talk to people.

“Okay? As in…?”

“As in, fine,” he replies, then pauses for a moment as if to prove a point. “But I’m sure you have better things to do.”

You laugh at this, then stifle it into your elbow so he didn’t think you were laughing at him. He still rolls over a little to look at you, confusion laces his eyes that dart around as they go from your face to the rows of empty cots behind you. Busy? You begin to laugh again.

He can’t be serious, you think as you fan your face. You let your laughter dissipate like it was being dissolved into water. “Sorry… no, you’re right,” you snort, “I was drowning in work before you arrived, agent.”

“I’m sure,” he chirps back, the ghost of a smile haunts his lips.

“I think I can squeeze you in, though. Might have to clear some of my schedule, but… I’ll make it work.”

The pleased look that graces your face is involuntary. You find it endearing how worried he is about becoming too much extra work for you and the other nurses, despite the fact that there isn’t any reason to gather that he would and—believe it or not—it’s your job.

The agent lets out an amused breath through his nose. “Should I be flattered?”

“Oh, of course.”

You place the last of the thorns onto the metal pan and tend to his wounds with gauze and bandages and nimble fingers that have done this hundreds of times before. Sometime along the way his body relaxed—just a little—and you think he fell asleep until he sits up like a puppet that had his strings yanked and puts his shirt on properly.

The sudden movement makes you blink, and he stares at you for a long pause filled with dead air and an expectant look in his eyes. That damn rip in the tent whistles.

Finally, his eyes flicker down to your badge, then back to your face. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“I started here not too long ago,” you inform him honestly, a little embarrassed to admit your newbie title to a seasoned employee of the organization.

He doesn’t say anything else, so you take the reins.

“Well, I think we’re set,” you say, rolling the latex gloves off of your hands. “Let me know if you need anything, Agent…”

You never asked him his name?

“Leon Kennedy,” the agent, now with the name Leon Kennedy pinned to his face, finishes for you.

His name twirls around your head and makes you dizzy to think about. I should have known, you think to yourself once he bids you farewell to report to his superiors.

From what little time you spent at the base prior to meeting Leon, you had heard whispers during dinner drift from mouth to ear of the elusive agent. That he was a man of few words (immense understatement, you consider it more socially awkward, but true); that he had half of the base swooning every time he walked by (you don’t want to comment on this); and that he was immensely attractive (that is also true). You have to admit… you see why he had such an air of intrigue around him. To be so quiet after such successes he’s accomplished—people were on the edge of their seats trying to figure him out.

You also had to admit that you weren’t immune to it either.

During your meals and breaks you found yourself playing Where’s Waldo? with Leon, attempting to catch glimpses of him in his natural state to confirm or deny these claims. Which was impressively difficult for absolutely no reason other than that he did it for his own benefit… the motive for this was lost, and still is, on you.

The few times you did spot him, he had the same clenched jaw and furrowed eyebrows. He never stayed in the same place for very long and frequently you only spotted him—or rather, his broad shoulders and white-knuckled fists as they turned corners and disappeared to do whatever he did all day. Important agent things.

Regarding your coworkers… it hadn’t improved much, either. The head nurse, who you later learned was named Winona, loosened up on you a bit—which was practically nothing when both she and the other nurse had been so cold to begin with. However, your determination to help those around you seemed to impress her… most days.

(Peeks of Leon’s ashy blonde hair stolen from cracks in the tent. His fur-lined coat hangs off of his sizable frame, enveloping his arms in the thick fabric—it makes them look even bigger. Not that you care, per say, but—

“You aren’t getting paid to stalk agents,” Winona jeers, jolting you back to Earth from your subject of stolen attention. You swear she smiles at you wryly. “Should’ve tried for one of their jobs if you wanted to do that.”

She turns on her heel and goes over to a trio of injured civilians with her cart, the knot of hair tied taut at the base of her neck stares you in the face. You’re left hot faced and embarrassed for the entirety of the next check-up with your patient.)

The endless night shifts never seem to cease rolling in and you’re afraid it’s begun to catch up on you. By the end of breakfast, when you could finally drag your corpse-like body to your quarters and into your bed, your head drooped comically into your bowl of oatmeal and some of the newer agents had a blast laughing at you. Whatever, assholes.

(You were deeply embarrassed.)

So, you opted for allowing a short nap in here and there during your shift—ten minutes at most—whenever your eyelids began to feel itchy and weighted and you couldn’t help but close them. You really couldn’t. Being sat by the fire with a hot drink made you so warm and the sounds of blowing wind lulled you to sleep in the darkness under the moon.

Truly, a terrible work performance from you, but no one was around to see and surely you’d be awoken by even a hint of an emergency.

Tonight, you count sheep with your wool blanket tucked up to your chin and your head lolls against your shoulder like it’s about to fall off its hinges. One, two, three. They mock you as they hop into their pasture and curl up into white, fluffy spheres, falling asleep within the warmth of their home.

From a distance, your ears almost register the sound of footsteps that approach the tent, crushing the crunchy top layer of snow under their feet as they stop in the entrance. It isn’t enough to completely wake you until they clear their throat and say, “Hello?”

Your eyes snap open and you turn your head so fast you think it might go flying across the room. Really smooth of you, considering Leon is the one to get your attention. By the smug look on his face and slight chuckle that wracks his frame, you know he isn’t fooled with your act awake performance.

He stands there, towering and rigid, unlike the night you first met him, with his palm outstretched flat like he’s trying to show the world something.

“Oh, hey, what do you need?” you reply quickly, standing from your chair as you let your blanket fall off of you.

Leon glances at his hand and then at you. “I, uh, got a papercut.”

“A paper cut,” you repeat, just to make sure you heard him right.

“Yeah.”

You stare at him for a moment, mouth agape as his words register as something he was actually saying to you.

“Well, get comfortable, then. I’ll patch you up.”

In reality, you’re terribly confused about a special forces agent needing first aid for a paper cut, but how could you complain? He needs help and you’re there to offer it.

The blonde sits on a cot near the fire—not before picking up your blanket from the ground and placing it back on the chair, though—and you situate yourself on a stool facing him.

You take Leon’s hand in yours gently and inspect the wound. It’s fairly shallow, but placed in the center of the webbed skin between his index finger and thumb. Tough spot. When your digits graze his rough knuckles he inhales sharply and you glance at him due to the sudden motion.

He doesn’t expect a reaction from you because he pauses for a second then asks, “You think I’ll live?”

“I dunno,” you answer, sucking your teeth. “Could be a close call.”

“Yeesh.”

“I know. My condolences.”

“For myself?”

“Uh-huh.” You turn his hand over so his palm faced the sky. “This’ll sting.”

When you disinfect the injury, Leon’s face twitches into itself but he keeps quiet, opting to focus his gaze on your face while you patch him up. You try not to shift under the intensity.

“What made you want to do this?” he queries, his voice cuts through the silence and startles you a bit. Leon looks pleased with himself and you roll your eyes.

“You’ll laugh.”

“Why would I do that?”

“It’s corny.”

Admittedly, it was—the original story as to why you wanted to be a nurse. You’ve had people laugh at it before and you mostly don’t want to repeat history with someone you find rather charming, but something in Leon’s face softens and he shakes his head briefly.

“Try me,” he challenges.

“Oh, fine.” Like there was a fight put up when you relent, smoothing a bandaid over his cut. “You know those things you’d fill out as a kid? Where it’s like, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Leon nods.

“Every single time, I would write superhero,” you laugh sourly because you got used to other people laughing when you said this, but he listens as if you’re the only sound he’s ever heard. “I’d draw myself with a little cape and all that. Then at a certain age the teachers start telling you, pick a real job, pick something that exists. And, I dunno, I thought: there are real superheroes. They save people every day because they want to.”

“I mean, I always knew I didn’t have all the right assets to be the one rescuing people from burning buildings and punching the bad guys. I wanted to help people when they couldn’t help themselves, you know? I can't carry the weight of the situation—it’s just not in my nature—but I can carry them. That’s why I started doing this, I guess.”

The look he gives you when you finish speaking is indescribable. He gazes deeply into your face like he’s trying to find a new feature he missed the first time. Something akin to pulling apart your mind with his eyes as if it’s clay made for the shaping and a load of a melancholy that’s too heavy for him; like he’s asking you, how do I carry it? Tell me how to carry something like that.

Your hand still lingers in his, over the bandaid you placed on him; you slide yours so the curves of your thumbs interlock and you grip the hilt of his palm. A hidden embrace.

Leon’s eyes dart toward your hands and he makes no effort to remove you from his grasp, his fingers relax against your wrist. He feels your heartbeat. You feel his. When he looks up again, all he sees are your eyes.

You don’t know why you went on that anecdote in the first place, not really. Only that you were finished patching him up and wanted—needed—him to linger for a bit longer.

“What about you?” you ask, voice hushed close to nothing.

“I wanted to help people, too.” He sounds uncharacteristic—sheepish? “That’s it… I can’t follow up with something as articulate as you.”

“It matters just as much even if you can’t express it,” you assure him, your head tilts.

Leon clears his throat and nods, slipping his hand from yours and looking anywhere that isn’t you. You created a shadow in front of his face, back facing the fire, but you can see the subtle dark tinge of his cheeks when he avoids your eyes. He chooses to look at his feet. There he goes, being endearing again, you think.

The harsh edges of his face are lit up with an orange glow, darkness shoots somewhere in between in a soft gradient, and he looks positively ethereal. If you reached out and cupped his face, you know it would be warm to the touch like laundry right out of the dryer. It makes him look all the more delicate and this feels more natural than the pointed looks and pinched expressions he usually wears.

You look back down at his hands. You’re trying to memorize the way they felt against yours (coarse and hot to the touch) and you get the picture of how hopeless you are—even an idiot could see you have a crush on him.

That doesn’t stop you from protecting your pride and you keep it to yourself. You stand up to put the disinfectant supplies and box of bandaids away without a word.

Leon stares at his hand like it’s missing a piece.

You have your head buried too deep into the cabinet to think much about that. Screaming at yourself was an understatement for what you’re doing in your head… a better description would be begging the floor to swallow you entirely with one gulp.

Surely, Leon has someone at home. He’s an attractive, intelligent man with an arguably stable job that pays him oodles more than he would ever need; not to mention how well-built he is, but again, for what seems like the millionth time you push this thought to the back of your mind. You could not focus on that.

“Are you okay?” his voice carries from the cot.

You take a moment’s breather and shut the cabinet door. “I’m good. How are your ribs?”

“They’re good.” Leon pauses, then adds. “Thanks.”

The shake of your head comes faster than your words; muscle memory. “It’s what I’m here for.”

“You do a good job.”

“I’m just a medic.”

“A good one.”

As you utter your gratitude for his comment, you hope he couldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your face from so far away. You weren’t one to get shy from such simple words, but you find your eyes glued to your boots because of his gentle bonniness. Damn you, you curse at him in your head—it held no weight.

The blonde stands from the cot and walks over to you. He bends slightly to catch your eyes in his. “I have to go now, but... yeah. Thank you.”

“Of course, Agent Kennedy.”

“Don’t start using formalities now,” he half-laughs, half-breathes. His face contorts when he stretches back, and his hand came up to massage his right shoulder—you even go to comment on this movement, being a medic and all, but he beats you to it with a smirk. “Stick with Leon.”

And then, in a few strides, he’s gone as fast as he came.

Your entire body deflates when you let out a guttural sigh. How come every time you watched his back, you were left reeling?

Unfortunately for you, that blasted man had ingrained himself into your head, sitting pretty in your thoughts as snug as a bug in a rug while you tried to do your job, or attempted to focus on anything other than your feelings for him. On the contrary, he returned to clearing out Umbrella facilities for the time being, which meant he was out of the base for days, or even weeks, considering he was one of, if not, the best agent they had. This saved you from the embarrassment of being caught trying to catch glances of him from inside the tent or during meals.

This, however, did not stop you from daydreaming when work got slow.

You wondered how someone like Leon behaved domestically, if he was completely different outside of the AUPIT, or if he was still just the sweet, reserved man who needed your aid often. Did he have any pets? What music did he listen to? You guess you’d have to ask him later, but you imagined that the pieces would fall into place and suit him. They’d be so perfectly Leon that when he told you, you would think to yourself, huh, why didn’t I think of that?

The amount of daydreaming you did was not lost on Winona, and occasionally she snapped her fingers in front of your face and grumbled under her breath, “I’ll kill that boy.” With no real threat to her tone.

Please, you can’t help it. He has arms with the muscle definition of a god and he told you-you were a good medic; you were a goner before you even realized it.

On the other hand, your family never let up with their pleas for you to return home, despite the fact that it simply wasn’t possible unless you had a very good reason for it. Which you didn’t, and you didn’t want to—people just didn’t get it through their heads that, yes, your job was difficult, and yes, patients got on your nerves sometimes, but no, you wouldn’t trade it for the world. This meant more to you than anything else you could fathom. You knew the fear these people felt first-hand, and you knew they needed a saving grace; just like you had.

(“Just come home,” your mother coos into the phone, her voice static-y and chopped from the poor signal. You could imagine her face right now, all worried and exhausted like you’re a child balancing on a wet playground. “There’s a hospital not too far from here… I’m sure they’d take you.

You promptly spend the next hour explaining to her that it isn’t that simple, even if you wanted to, and you remind her every few minutes that you aren’t going to leave, either. You’re happy, all things considered; which is why you make the executive decision to leave out all of the bad parts of your work so far.)

As for the efforts against Umbrella, you hear whispers of successes during dinners and fewer agents appeared at the medical tent’s door in need of assistance than when you arrived. So, you think things are going rather well for your organization. Less tired eyes and solemn faces; the fight wasn’t over, but everyone could rest a little easier with every night that passed.

And yet, those damned night shifts. You swear Winona and that other medic were scheming against you for no reason other than pure spite, on the basis of simply because they didn’t feel like doing it. It has to be funny to them by now, seeing you half-asleep at breakfast and looking all mussed at dinner because you woke up ten minutes prior. You let them laugh all they wanted because frankly, you began to enjoy the night shifts. The world went to sleep, and you enjoyed some peace and quiet.

You kick your feet up onto a stool and drape a blanket over your legs, book in hand. The soft sounds of Icelandic pop music crackles out of the radio and floats throughout the tent. You mouth the noises of the songs, unsure of the lyrics, but you’ve heard it so often by now, you could recognize the tune from the first few beats. You scat a few of the instruments, tapping your foot along. You don't notice the figure that stopped in the doorframe.

“Enjoying yourself?” Leon. You shut your book and turn to look at him, embarrassed. “I always feel like I’m coming at a bad time.”

“Never,” you reply with a haste that humbles you further. Worried about his sudden appearance in the medical tent after being gone on agent duties for nearly two weeks, you ask, “Are you okay?”

The corners of his mouth upturn and you barely see a flash of uneven teeth between the slit it creates, cute. This distracts you from how smug his face is. “I think I have a fever.”

“A fever this time?”

“Yep.”

“Make yourself comfortable, Leon.”

A paper cut, then a fever. You begin to think of his inability to soothe his minor maladies as an excuse to visit the tent. Your stomach flutters at the thought, but you have to make sure… just in case he’d fallen ill out there in the cold.

You find the thermometer and placed it in his mouth gingerly. It hangs crooked from the corner and he watches you with a certain keenness that makes you smile. After a few minutes, you check his temperature: 98.7. An amused hum escapes your lips without meaning to.

“Dying?”

“I don’t think you have a fever,” you answer, using the back of your hand to press against his forehead and cheeks. The first cheek is cold, then the left cheek warms under your skin—Leon’s expression falls bashful. “But if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were looking for reasons to come see me.”

It’s his turn to hum in thought. “Maybe.”

“You could just come talk to me.”

“You’re on the clock,” the blonde reminds you, grunting. In a swift movement, his hand presses into the curve of his neck and he rotates his right shoulder, face straining.

You see an opening. “That I am. What was that?”

“What?”

“Your shoulder.”

“I was stretching.”

“Does it hurt?”

Leon grumbles a response under his breath, unimpressed that you might have found something you could actually treat him for. You raise your brows. “I’ll take that as a yes. Let me see.”

“It’s fine.”

“Agent Kennedy.”

He pretends not to hear you.

“Leon.”

“Fine,” he gripes like a child being forced to get a shot and maneuvers to lay his stomach flat on the cot, his back faces toward the ceiling. He takes off his brown, fur-lined jacket and discards it onto the next cot over. You get a whiff of musk and cinnamon from the breeze it makes.

The shirt that clings to him left nothing to the imagination—a tight, black compression shirt stretches snugly over his muscles. You spread your fingers like fans to warm them up, then begin to run them over his shoulder and along the meat of his back.

You tsk, full of knots. This man needs a masseuse. You make a mental note to refer him to a good one you knew.

With the issue at hand, though, you find an impressive knot in his shoulder, which is likely the cause of his discomfort.

You huff, your work cut out for you. “There’s a big knot in your shoulder, Leon. How are you living like this?”

“I wake up and roll out of bed.”

“I need to get this out.”

Leon turns his head, his cheek presses to the cot. He gives you a look that says nothing short of, are you serious? You smile as sweetly as you can at him, an attempt to coax him. To your surprise, he averts his gaze fast and relents. The blonde agent sits up and shrugs his shirt off. It’s tossed next to his jacket.

Under the fire light and the dim glow of lanterns that hang in a line down the center of the tent, strings attached to the ceiling, you see the way chills prickle over the surface of his skin. Goosebumps, like rolled carpets being kicked open, unfurl down his arms rapidly and he lays down on his stomach once again.

Your face burns in the dark—you’d be surprised if you aren’t glowing like one of those lanterns from the amount of heat it exudes.

You use a dollop of skin cream to keep the area relaxed and pliable as you work out the knot with your fingers. You push it in the right direction until you got it in a better spot, then you knead it firmly. It crackles within his body.

“Fuck…” he groans in relief, nestling his head into the fabric of the cot as he sighs. “They teach you massages in nursing school?”

“That might be just a learned from life thing,” you state in total honesty. You wipe the excess lotion from your hands on a rag.

Curiously, he peers at you from the corner of his eye. “You have someone back home you do that to?”

A laugh falls from your lips, though your face feels even hotter than before (if that is even possible). “No—not at all.”

Leon lets out a pleasant hum and sit up from the cot. Good, he says without saying it.

He snatches his shirt and tugs it over his head; you pretend to make yourself busy so you have somewhere other to look than at him. You hear him sigh with great reprieve as he rolls his shoulder back and forth, it must’ve felt like a freshly oiled hinge.

He comes up behind you, his shoulder skims the back of your neck when he peers down at what you were doing on the counter. Which is a whole lot of nothing; moving cotton swabs from one container to the other, counting how many rolls of gauze you had left for the hundredth time. Mindless hand ministrations to distract you from the heart that pounds in your chest.

“Is this what you do all night?” he questions, mildly amused.

“Sometimes.”

“Must be glad I showed up.”

“Something like that,” you tease, glancing up at him with a coy smile.

You watch his withstraint break a little inside of him. He inhales sharply, losing the words you said somewhere between your eyes and your lips—he couldn’t focus with your faces so close to each other and neither could you. Leon reaches for the hand that rested on the other side of you and drags you in between him and the counter, twirling you to face him. Then he pauses and appears lost, like he doesn’t know which way is left and right.

Maybe he doesn’t know what to do, you think. You don’t really know either, so you go on about what you do know.

“You should probably use kinesiology tape on your shoulder,” you comment, suddenly becoming hyper-aware of all of your limbs. His eyes don’t leave your lips. You’d be a liar if you say yours left his.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The man’s body heat radiates off of him and it’s magnetic, pulling you closer, away from the bitter cold. Your breath hitches. His hand hovers over the curve of your neck, then it decides to rest on the side of your jaw, thumb pressed against your flushed cheek. You remember the texture of his warm palm, coarse and calloused from years of wear.

You try to memorize every fine line and crease that scuffs your face as he beckons you to close the gap with the slight tilt of his head. I’d make a terrible agent, my resilience is slim to none, you theorize when your body moves before your mind does. His mouth hovers over yours, his breath traces your cupid’s bow. You close the distance enough that your lips graze each other until someone clears their throat from a few feet away.

Winona stands like a judgmental statue, thin brows raise expectantly. You, and Leon, jump away from each other. It rocks the counter with a loud clatter that echoes.

“Agent Kennedy,” she acknowledges him first as a sign of respect. He nods back awkwardly. “You two look like you’re enjoying yourselves.”

Neither of you talk for a moment and you find yourself desperate to create any word that could explain what that was. Leon’s eyes dart around the room.

Finally, something solid comes to your tongue. “I’m sorry.”

And then she laughs in both of your faces. Her hand waves like it’s fanning your words away from getting inhaled. You and Leon glance at each other, brows knit in honest confusion.

“Kids,” she exhales. “Stop distracting my medic, Kennedy.”

Then he speaks, but it sounds more like a nervous cough. “Yes, ma’am.”

Winona shoos him with a gesture of her wrinkled hand and he musters a sheepish, apologetic smile for you as he hurries away from the tent. You don’t make much of an effort to move as you prepare your ego for the chew out it’s about to receive.

“And you. Try to keep the fraternization out of the tent.” With that, she continues past you to search through some files, snickering to herself and shaking her head.

You aren’t about to push your luck. You get to keep your job and ego intact, and that’s enough for you. So, you whisper a quiet, “Yes, ma’am.” And go on with your day.

The encounter with Leon left you feverish and all tingly in every limb whenever it crossed your mind over the following days. You saw him out and about around the base, and during meals he offered you frail waves that faded in a breath.

Truth was, you’re too afraid of rejection to ask him about that night—go figure. Maybe you’re a cliche. Maybe you’re both cliches. Who cares? Well, you do, and you thought the ruffled, pink-tinted expressions on Leon’s face whenever you crossed paths meant that he did, too, but neither of you made a move to approach the other. You questioned if you would rather be told that his only plans for you was a short work fling with no strings attached, or if he felt the connection that you did. A terrible predicament, really, and soon your desire for a straight answer outweighed the fear of hearing something you didn’t like.

When you went to find him in the meal tent, sitting alone in one of the back corners, he wasn’t there. Okay. You waited, then decided to check the nooks and crannies of the base where you knew he hung around, and nothing. Leon vanished into thin air the moment you gathered enough courage to speak to him. Somehow you thought he read your mind and planned for this to happen, just to be able to tease you without being present. But that was simply ridiculous. He had to go to work, just like you had to do yours.

A week went by, then two; no sign of Leon’s reappearance cropped up and you began to worry you wouldn’t get the chance to speak to him at all. The only reminder that soothed you was the fact that you knew the organization was on the home stretch for completely wiping Umbrella’s power in Iceland. This reassured you for many reasons. Mainly, that you’d be able to sleep in your bed again at a proper time that didn’t leave you exhausted; but you also found comfort in the idea of finally getting a word with the blonde agent that clung to your brain like a disease once everything was over.

Of course, you had fleeting thoughts that he died and you’d forever be left wondering about what could have been. But, that was just ridiculous—he’s Leon Kennedy, the agent that saved the president’s daughter from certain death. So, you chalked it up to your anxiety being built up as doubt about the succession of the mission began to be put to an end. That yes, you would all return home soon, and no nothing terrible and tragic would happen just as you were about to win.

Eventually, you all received the verdict of the mission. Success. The sun shone through the clouds brighter that day, in ribbons of gold that elevated all of your senses to something dreamlike. Another catastrophe prevented. More people saved—clockwork. To say you were pleased with the conclusion of your first ever out of country operation would be an understatement; you were ecstatic.

Still, you find yourself fretting over that thing with Leon as you help pack up the equipment in the medical tent.

Winona, who has grown increasingly engrossed in your love life, gives you a knowing look when your lips tug downward and you send a pointed glance toward the entrance of the tent for the tenth time in the last hour. She tsks and shakes her head. It gains your attention.

“Just talk to him,” she insists, shoving a couple boxes of bandaids into the case. She’s unimpressed with your antics and just wants you to get a move on.

You sigh and preen your hair like he’ll walk in at any moment. “I haven’t seen him.”

“Hopeless,” she grumbles in response. “Hopeless. If you won’t do something about it, stop looking at the door like a kicked dog and help me.” Winona retreats further into the tent and you succumb enough to follow her.

You must glower the whole time because she won’t stop sending you dirty looks while she tapes the cardboard boxes with a tape gun. Her movements are threatening. You try to fix your expression when the line of spokes reflects off of the bright horizon outside the tent as it slices the tape.

After the innards of the tent are packed into a dozen or so boxes, you’re the person left to pick them up one by one and drop them off with the rest of the cargo that needs to be shipped. Your back is sore from the sorry excuses of beds you have and your arms ache from hours of cramming things. Kicking snow with each shuffled step, you heave out a lengthy sigh and pause to breathe. There’s a reason I’m not an agent.

“Need a hand?” Leon asks from behind you. You’re wondering how he’s always sneaking up on you.

Still, you nod and can’t help but be relieved. “Please.”

Like it’s filled with air, he takes the box from your hands and cocks a barely-there grin at your awed expression. Smug and content, he marches ahead with you in tow. You don’t really know what to say to him, if anything at all.

You walk alongside him for the first time in the daylight, and you take in his features now that they aren’t muddled in the darkened firelight or blurred by distance. He’s chiseled, sunken cheeks and high cheekbones with that intense look on in his eyes—but there’s something else—boyish, is what you think. Soft jaw. Moles and freckles litter themselves across his face.

Leon is beautiful and you would like to kiss him right now.

He stops at the drop off point, places the box next to the others and turns to you. Suddenly, he looks nervous and you feel some resolve escape your mind. He’s about to ask you something. He opens his mouth, rosy lips parting and you break—you pull him behind a tall stack of boxes and kiss him.

The collar of his jacket is clutched between your fingers in a moment and your lips are on his; the fur tickles your skin. His lips are chapped and cold but you create warmth within him, you could be a summer’s day in this frigid air. His hands come to your waist, then your hips and his fingertips make indents when he holds you tight like this was always supposed to happen. When you part, you’re both breathless.

He searches for his words again, the question he was going to ask. “Would you—dinner? On me.”

You hum in faux thought and peck him on the lips again, then again, and a third time for good measure. He smiles into the last one.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t start that by saying you stubbed your toe and needed my help.”

Leon chuckles. “I thought about it.”

He pulls you in again, tongue grazing your bottom lip. You lean in further, desperate for connection until you both go slipping like baby deer. The thin layer of snow on the ground left everything icy. He tumbles into some supplies and you land on top of him. You’re both laughing into each other’s mouths. You’re both happy.

You chime together, like clockwork.

#leon kennedy #resident evil 4 #resident evil #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy x you #leon kennedy fluff #leon s kennedy #leon scott kennedy #re4r leon #re4 remake #leon kennedy x y/n #leon kennedy oneshot #fluff #oneshot #resident evil fluff #nurse!reader #nurse!reader x leon kennedy #post re4r

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rafeandonlyrafe · 7 months ago

Text

just add water

words: 5k

warnings: brief illusions to sex but no smut, mermaids (like h2o mermaids), tropical storm/bad weather, really fluffy hehe, australian!reader, lots of kisses omfg these bitches in LOVE!

it's one of the few things rafe does to calm himself down. sandals held in his hand, feet pressing into the cool sand with every step.

rafe looks down the beach, the moonlight reflecting off the water as the waves gently lap against the shore. he squints into the darkness when he sees movement, hoping his relaxing walk isn't going to be interrupted by someone's public intimate moment.

he continues walking, the same stretch of beach he always does, passing by familiar houses of friends and old classmates.

his vision clears as he gets closer, eyes widening when he sees you, knees pulled up to your chest as you stare into the water.

“hey.” rafe says when he's a couple yards away, not wanting to spook. you, but it fails as you gasp and jump up to standing.

“sorry.” rafe holds his hands up, trying to show that he means you no harm. “im just taking a walk on the beach.”

you take a step back, like you're making room for him to walk past, for him to continue to leave footsteps in the sand, but rafe looks closer at you as the moon shines down, light slightly illuminating from the rows of houses with porch lights or bedroom lights left on before bed.

“im rafe.” rafe can't seem to keep walking, his feet planted firmly as his eyes roam over your face. “i don't think we've met before.”

“just moved here.” you explain quickly. “im y/n.”

“you're australian?” it's more of a statement than a question, but you nod, the accent clearly giving you away.

“i was wondering why i haven't seen you before. it's a small island, everyone kinda knows everyone.”

“yeah.” it's a signal to end the conversation, polite but firm, but again rafe can't help himself, drawn close to you looking out onto the water just as he does.

“would you like me to give you a tour of the island? tomorrow or whenever you're available.”

“that would actually be really nice.” you smile at rafe. you were worried about leaving everything you knew in australia when your parents moved you across the country, and it's perfect luck that you meet someone your very first night in the outer banks willing to show you around.

“here.” rafe pulls his phone out of his pocket. he puts it on do not disturb for his walks, pretending it's not there, not allowing it to distract him, but he needs your phone number, needs to see you again, to see if your eyes are the same enchanting twinkling of the water in the daytime.

you take his phone and put in your name and number before handing it back, hand briefly touching his, feeling warm against your slightly chilled skin, making you realize you probably should have put on more than just shorts and a tank top for relaxing at the shore at night.

“ill text you.” rafe says, giving you one last look over before taking a step back, not turning away yet, keeping his eyes on you, as if you're an apparition thats going to disappear the minute he blinks.

rafe finally turns away to walk home, not looking back. he smiles. he can feel your eyes on him.

you sigh as you step into the bath, sinking in as your legs morph into a tail moments after the water makes contact with you. you never realized how much you loved showers until you couldn't take them anymore.

you have a love hate relationship with your abilities. being able to manipulate the shape and volume of water, as well as enhanced breath and super speed swimming, is amazing. but having your bottom half turn into a mermaid tail every time water touches you is a hard accomodation to make when your parents love the ocean.

you wash yourself off quickly, knowing you have to get totally dry before rafe gets here to show you around the island.

two weeks in the outer banks. the time feels like it's flown by. you're surprised how much you don't miss australia. your parents tended to jump around from town to town to surf, so you never developed a close group of friends either.

two weeks spent with rafe, first showing you the popular parts of the island, then his favorite areas, the spots only locals know about, filling you in on all the nicknames that can't be found with a simple google search.

the only place he hasn't shown you yet is anything out on the water. you refuse every time he offers to take you out on his boat, and his sad face breaks your heart.

“wanna go out on the boat today?” rafe asks, just as you're thinking about it, like the idea transferred from your head to his. you hope that's not a new power developing.

“sure.” you finally concede, heart fluttering when rafes face breaks into a wide smile. you are taking things slowly, despite what is clearly forming. “but no swimming.”

you hate having to lie to rafe, pretending like you don't wake up every morning and explore the waters of the outer banks before hiding under a pier to dry off. you told him you were afraid of the water, that you didn't like going in it, merely enjoying looking at it.

rafe is excited to take you out, so much so that wheezie gives him a weird look before shrugging, deciding to herself that crushes make boys do crazy things, because she's never seen her brother act like this, so enthralled.

“here, ill help you.” rafe reaches his hand out as you step into the boat. you don't want to let go as he guides you towards the bench behind the helm, allowing you to sit down as your fingers finally disconnect.

“im gonna show you everything.” rafe undoes the lines quickly before returning to you. “and by the end of your boat tour, you'll realize that the outer banks is so much better than australia.”

rafe places an arm around your back, not caring that he now has to navigate with just one as you giggle and tuck yourself into his side.

the ocean calls to you as rafe shows you different spots, the outer banks feeling so different when looking back at the land.

rafe anchors the boat at a sandbar. you look over the edge, surprised how crystal clear the water is in this area.

“there's a spring in that marshy area over there.” rafe points towards a cluster of grass. “it feeds out into the ocean here. one of the best spots in the obx.”

“it's beautiful.” you say honestly. the sun is warm against your face, tanning your skin and relaxing you, keeping you dry enough to not turn whenever a drop of water splashed over the side of the boat onto your skin.

it's dangerous to be on the boat, but you can't help it with the way rafes eyes light up as he looks at you before ripping his shirt off over his head, catapulting over the side into the water.

“rafe!” you shout as a plume of water splashes up, soaking your arm.

rafe smiles at you as he resurfaces before his expression quickly shifts to a frown when he sees you furiously rubbing a towel against your arm.

“y/n, the water isn't dirty.” rafe didn't realize how deep your fear got. he climbs back onto the boat as you stagger back, face twisting in fear as you look at rafe.

“shit, im sorry.” rafe takes a step towards you, but you back away.

“take me back, please.” you sit down at the front of the boat, making your position clear.

rafe nods, glad the water covering him is hiding the tears that well up in his eyes as he pulls the anchor.

you stay sat far away, towel wrapped around your shoulders to protect you from getting wet as rafe drives back in silence, not speaking until he has the boat tied back to the dock, now completely dry and donning his tshirt again.

“hey.” rafe kneels in front of you. “im really sorry.”

you open your mouth to reply, to tell him it's okay, but rafe continues speaking.

“you said no swimming. i should have listened. i saw this-” rafe places a glimmering queen helmet conch shell in your lap. “at the sand bar and wanted to get it for you. so you could remember this day.”

rafe stands up, figuring this is the last time he'd see you after his mess up. “so you can remember me.”

you stand up quickly, but make sure to carefully set the shell on the seat next to you. before you can second guess your actions, before that cautious voice in your head can convince you otherwise, you press your lips against rafes, having to rise to your tiptoes to reach.

rafe hesitates for a moment before kissing back, arms wrapping around your waist, tugging you in tight to him.

“this is a cute spot.” you snuggle into rafes side, his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, showing all of the obx that he's taken, and you're the one who's captured his eye.

“it is.” rafe hums, looking around the diner. it's not his usual place, but rafe wanted somewhere casual to take you, so you didn't have to worry about dressing up or proper etiquette for your first official date.

you order a stack of pancakes as it's around brunch time, rafe ordering a cheeseburger for himself. you smile at the waiter as they walk away before looking to rafe. “im totally gonna steal some of your fries by the way.”

“fries and pancakes?” rafe twists his face up as you giggle.

“potatoes go with everything.” you explain, like it's a commonly known fact.

“what's your favorite food?” rafe asks. he's dying to know everything about you, wanting to sit you down and run through the list of questions in his head, but he knows it's best to take things slow, to allow things to progress naturally despite wanting to ask you about your favorite color, past boyfriends, whether you're a cat or dog person and so so much more.

you're about to answer when a passing waitress stumbles, her tray of waters heading to a crowded table dumping over you, getting your entire side wet.

the waitress goes to apologize, but you're already on your feet, mental timer starting in your head as you rush to the restroom, letting out a sigh of relief when you realize it's just a single stall as you lock the door behind you moments before you fall to the ground as your tail appears.

“y/n?” rafe must have run after you as he jiggles the doorknob.

“im okay!” you call out. “just drying off. give me a minute.”

“are you sure?” you can picture rafe standing outside, ear pressed against the door.

“yeah. ill be out soon.” you try to reach up to the towel dispenser with little luck. “you better not eat all the fries before i get back.”

you're relieved to hear rafes laugh as you finally get the motion sensor to work, rubbing it over your side, letting out a sigh of relief when your tail finally transforms back into two legs.

you stand up, always feeling a bit wobbly at first, but you want to get back to rafe, to your date and most importantly as your stomach rumbles to your pancakes and fries.

“aussie cheesy potatoes.” you say as you slide into your seat. “my favorite food, aussie cheesy potatoes.”

i miss you

you send the text to rafe, smiling when his response bubble instantly appears.

i was just about to text you the same thing

you know you're in the honeymoon phase of your relatively new relationship, but you can't help the giggle that escapes from your lips, the way your heart starts to beat faster.

meet you halfway? rafe sends back before an image loads of a dark beach, camera pointing down the shoreline towards your house.

on my way <3

you quickly touch up your makeup in the mirror, deciding to stay in your pajamas since they're just a loose long sleeve shirt and comfortable shorts. you hesitate between putting on a pair of sneakers or sandals, ultimately deciding more coverage is the smarter option.

you are quiet when leaving your house, just in case your parents are awake. you doubt theyd care anyways, they probably haven't noticed how much you've been gone lately. you are an adult after all, but they stopped being protective the minute you were in your teens, letting you surf solo for the first time the day after your thirteenth birthday.

you walk down the beach, keeping your steps fast as you look for rafe, breaking out into a jog when you finally see his figure emerge from the darkness.

you throw your arms around rafe as he twirls you, tucking his head into your neck, pressing kisses to your delicate skin before pulling back to connect your lips together.

“hey.” rafe smiles at you, lowering you carefully back to the ground.

“hey.” you peck his lips again in another kiss.

“you look beautiful.” rafe says earnestly, the words falling from his mouth. you're beautiful to him during the day too, but there's something about night time that makes you shine, like the moon calls to you.

“not too bad yourself handsome.” you let rafe string your fingers together before beginning to walk, back in the direction of tanneyhill.

you chat about your days as you stroll, mostly with what rafe was occupied with as he helped his dad, spending your first day away from each other since you arrived on the island. safe to say you're both falling fast.

“stay the night with me?” rafe asks when you're standing in front of tanneyhill, the large house frightening imposing.

“i don't know…” you trail off, but the smile on your face tells rafe you clearly want to.

“at least lay with me on the hammock for a while.” rafe tugs on your hand, and you find your feet following him. he lifts the mosquito netting up as you duck under, toeing your shoes off as rafe lays down.

you snuggle in next to him, sighing as you rest your head against his chest, the fabric squeezing the two of you together.

you both enjoy the gentle quiet, the sound of the waves and wind rushing through the leaves the only thing breaking into your peaceful silence, not needing words, just each other.

sleep takes you both, warmed by your bodies wrapped together.

you're not sure what jolts you awake, but you're glad it happens as your eyes snap open, a drop of water hitting your cheek.

“shit…” you mumble, quickly pushing it off your skin as you look up at the gray sky, the events of last night coming back to you as you realize you're still in the hammock next to rafe. you don't want to move, you're the most comfortable you've ever been in your life, but the skies threatening to open and dump it's rain down on you has you scrambling.

“baby?” rafes voice is deep with sleep as you rush to put your shoes on, knowing the dew on the grass is going to turn you as you look towards the house.

“i-i need to pee!” you yell quickly, pushing out of the mosquito netting as you run, the rain beginning to fall. you're aware of every drop as you push some away with your abilities, but ultimately you can't stop nature as a few drops hit your back.

you aim for the glass doors, praying they're left unlocked as you burst inside, eyes widening when you see not just wheezie, who you've come to know pretty well, but the entire rest of the cameron family milling around in the kitchen.

you're seconds away from transforming as you find your voice. “bathroom.” you simply say before rushing into the closest half bath, glad you accepted the full tour from rafe one day when both ward and rose were away from the house.

“shit.” you mutter under your breath as you hear through the door that rafe has come in after you, mentioning something to his family about rain coming before the tropical storm set to hit in the next couple weeks if it doesn't change direction.

you grab the towel, neatly embroidered with their last name as you rub your back, glad it's only a couple drops as you're quickly able to exit the bathroom.

“sorry about that.” you say awkward, clasping your hands in front of you.

“i was wondering when you lovebirds would wake up or if the rain would do that for you.” ward smiles, eyes flicking between you and rafe. you let him lead the amount of affection as he walks and wraps his arm around your shoulders.

“stay with us for breakfast, y/n.” rose says. clearly someone told the couple about you, most likely wheezie tattling on her brother. you just hope she said nice things.

“yeah, id love that.” you say after rafe squeezes your shoulder to let you know it's okay.

good morning gorgeous

you smile at the text, grabbing your phone the second you were awake.

you quickly reply, a string of emojis that only lovesick you would type out.

there's a party this friday. come with me?

you glance at the calendar hanging on your wall. not a typical one filled with appointments or birthdays, but one charting the phases of the moon, letting you know when it's safe to be out at night. you let out a curse when you realize friday night is a full moon.

sorry baby i can't :( parents want me home to call my grandma back in australia

you can come after, yeah?

sorry rafe

you leave it at that, hating telling him no, but you need to stay inside during the full moon.

you should totally go though! spend some time with your friends

rafe doesn't mention the party again when you meet up later that day.

“i got the party changed to saturday.” rafe says, his head sat in your lap as you brush your fingers through his hair.

“what?” you question, raising your eyebrows. you're sat in your bed, the afternoon sun pouring in from the open windows, watching some show on tv neither of you were truly invested in, just background noise as you look into each other's eyes.

“the party this friday. you can go saturday right?”

“yeah.” you nod, smile stretching across your lips. “yeah, i can.” you shouldn't be surprised rafe changed everyone's schedules just to fit yours, the party is at his friend's house after all.

you're excited to finally meet them, you've heard bits and pieces from rafe, but have never gotten to actually see them.

you spend the entire time you're locked in your bedroom on friday night choosing exactly what to wear, curtains drawn tight closed, even blankets thrown over for extra precaution, not allowing any of the full moon to peek inside.

you realize you made the correct decision when saturday night comes and you open the door to rafe, his jaw visibly dropping.

“oh my god, i was totally picturing someone different when you were talking about topper.” you whisper to rafe after walking away from his friends to find a quieter spot. you didn't even have to tell rafe that you were starting to get overwhelmed, he seemed to sense it and pulled you away, not caring that kelce was still going on about something.

“what did you picture?” rafe asks, hoping the talking will distract you from all the excitement of the party, finding an empty guest bedroom and sitting down on the bed together.

“i don't know why but dark hair.” you shrug. “and i always pictured glasses.”

rafe laughs as he leans against you, your hand coming to his hair to scratch at his head, the soft movements of your fingers comforting you just as much as rafe.

“thanks for meeting them. and coming here with me.” rafe says earnestly. he's always liked parties of course, going wild and getting drunk or high or whatever he felt like that night, grinding against different girls and ultimately taking one to bed. rafe never put together how all of that was just a distraction, that he wasn't truly happy.

“you make me happy.” rafe says, turning to look at you, eyes still twinkling, reminding him of the ocean, the moon, the most stunning gemstone, and something so uniquely you.

“rafe.” you coo, pressing your lips together. you don't come out of the guest bedroom until the morning after, giggling quietly as you sneak out of toppers house, your hair a mess and clothes askew.

“i just realized ive never seen you in a swimsuit before.” rafes eyes look carefully over your body, having just taken off your coverup once your arrived at the spring again, rafe vowing not to jump in again, simply enjoying laying out and tanning on the boat.

you smile at rafe, gesturing for him to get closer.

rafe crawls over the bed area at the front of the boat to hover over you, pressing his lips tightly against yours. your hands feel his muscles, skirting from his chest down to his defined abs.

“you know, there's no one else out here.” you smile up at him as you reach lower.

“naughty girl.” rafe chuckles, glancing around to make sure no boats were within view.

once you're both finished, tired and panting, skin sheened with sweat, rafe finally brings up a question he's been dying to ask.

“why don't you like the water?”

you place your chin on your hand as you turn to look at rafe, taking a moment to formulate an answer. you hate having to lie to him, but you don't want to reveal your secret yet, for rafe to look at you any differently.

“i used to love to swim, to surf.” you say honestly. “but then something happened… and it's turned me away from it. i don't even like pools.”

rafe doesn't push for more, but his face does turn to a frown, thinking about whatever happened. he's guessing you got caught in a riptide or had a near drowning experience, he would never in a million years guess that you fell into a cave exploring an island after a fight with your parents and swam through a mysterious pool to get out, waking up to surf the next day only to transform into a mermaid.

“im sorry baby.” rafe says honestly. he wishes he could fix whatever happened, to enjoy riding on a jet ski with you, or relaxing on a sandbar.

“it's okay.” you shake your head. “i like being on the boat with you.” you say. “you make me feel comfortable.”

rafe pulls you back into him, not caring if you get an uneven tan line as he kisses you again. he swears you taste like honey with the slightest hint of sea salt.

“we got cyclones all the time back in australia.” you tell rafe, looking out your window. the sky looks normal, no sign of a tropical storm that's supposed to be blowing in soon, thankfully it never upgraded to a hurricane.

“do you want me to come over for it anyways?” rafe smiles at you as you finish braiding your hair. “hold you just in case you get scared.”

you laugh as you stand up, dramatically falling onto the bed, placing a fanned hand on your forehead. “oh, save me rafe cameron, save me!”

rafe laughs as well, pulling you against him. your shared laughter always turns into shared kisses. it's been months now that you've been in the outer banks. you swear your accent is even diminishing ever so slightly.

but you don't miss australia. you love your life here. spending nearly every day with rafe, exploring the island and the waterways, trying out different food spots and even letting rafe give you golf lessons, despite your inability to hit the ball straight.

you open the door as soon as there's a knock, expecting rafe, but your face falls when you see ward standing there.

“y/n, is rafe here?” he questions, entire body soaking wet from the storm, now covered by your front porch, dripping onto the welcome mat.

“no.” you shake your head. “he should be here any minute though…”

“shit.” wards eyes are wide with worry. “he took the boat out. i was hoping he docked it here.”

“the boat?” your voice rises as your anxiety does as well. “what is he doing on the water in this storm?”

“he likes to go to the spring at the start of storms to watch them roll down the coast, but he's always back before it hits. something must have happened to the boat, i don't know.” you can tell ward is rambling. “maybe he ran out of gas or got caught in something-”

“you have to go out there and save him! the waves-” you don't need to tell ward, you're sure he knows how bad the water is going to get, how violent the storm will make the sea, even in the shallow area rafe is in.

“i can't.” he shakes his head. “i already tried the coastguard but they won't go out until the storm is over.”

“he's your son!” you argue. “you go!”

“i can't.” you can hear the pain in wards voice. “if something happens to me, sarah and wheezie will have no one.”

you know it's not an appropriate reaction, but you're so mad, so worried about rafe being out there in this mess that you slam the door right in wards face.

you walk back through your house, past the empty kitchen and dark dining room to your living room, the glass doors revealing the storm raging outside. you make a decision in that split second, opening the door and barely shutting it behind you before you take off, rain hitting you in the face. you send out a prayer to the moon to allow you to reach the water before you transform. you make it onto the sand before face planting, having to awkwardly pull yourself forward into the water.

the second you're submerged, you take off, using your speed swimming abilities to navigate through the waters and strong tides. you go faster than ever, heading in the direction of the spring and sandbar, desperate to find your boyfriend and make sure he is safe.

you see through the rain at the surface of the water his boat, letting out a sigh of relief when you see he's anchored in his usual spot.

“rafe!” you call once your surface. “rafe!” you shout again, hoping he can hear you over the roar of the wind and rain.

rafe pops up, looking over the edge, wrench in hand, clearly trying to fix whatever is wrong with his boat, a smear of oil on his forehead not washing away with the rain.

“y/n?” rafe shouts. “what the fuck are you doing?”

rafe drops the wrench, rushing closer to the edge as he looks at you. your tail flicks up. there's no hiding it anymore. you don't want to anyways.

“babe, get out of the water theres-” rafe blinks, his eyes squinting as he realizes its not some strange fish, but in fact covering your legs.

“get in the water rafe im going to swim us back home.” you shout, eyes turning to the sky, looking down the coast. the worst of the storm hasn't hit yet thankfully. with the size of the waves coming, it's sure to capsize his boat.

“baby-” rafe swallows harshly before jumping over the side. he may not understand what's going on, but he trusts you.

you grab onto rafe, keeping his head above the surface as you swim. it's slower getting back pushing him with you, but you go as fast as your tail will allow.

“you're a mermaid.” rafe says simply when you get back to shore, deciding to go to your house instead of tanneyhill, just in case ward is looking out his windows for rafe to return.

“go inside, ill be okay in the water.” you tell rafe, just needing to make that final couple steps onto the sand.

“im not leaving you out here.” rafe simply says, glancing to your tail before back at your face. he scoops you up in his arms, holding you tight to his chest as he carries you onto land, despite how heavy your tail is.

you hold onto rafes shoulders as he brings you inside. he sets you down on the plush rug in the living room as gently as possible.

“the tail doesn't go away until im dry again.” you lift your fin up and down as the rain pounds against the windows.

“ill get some towels.” rafe is ridiculously calm, coming back and patting you down in silence until your legs reappear.

“im sorry for not telling you earlier.” you say with a whisper, hand reaching out to hold rafes, shifting to sit up. “i-i love you rafe, but i understand if you want to break-”

you can't even finish your sentence as rafe leans in, pressing your lips together. “i love you too.”

“is that the right part?” you ask rafe, leaning yourself against the ladder as he fixes the engine on the boat, somehow it managed to stay anchored at the sandbar.

“we'll see right now.” rafe cranks the key, letting out a cheer when it turns on.

you smile as he jumps over the side in a dramatic celebration before resurfacing and shaking his wet hair out of his face.

“okay, you gotta show me again.” rafe stands on the sandbar as you swim around him, tail flicking back and forth.

you concentrate on a spot of water, lifting it into the air before popping it like a bubble, sending droplets raining down.

“you're the most amazing person ive ever met.” rafe says. “most amazing mermaid.” you correct him with a giggle and a splash of your tail.

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awkward-walking-potato · 3 months ago

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Can I ask for charles, or hank and a sick reader?

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the sprawling lawn of Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters. Inside the grand building, Charles Xavier was in the middle of an important meeting with his fellow X-Men. The room was filled with the usual hum of discussions, plans being laid out for the future, strategies to keep the world safe.

You sat beside Charles, quietly listening to the conversation, but you could feel a strange weakness creeping through your body. You had been feeling off for days, a heavy fatigue weighing down on you, but you had brushed it aside, not wanting to worry Charles. He had enough on his plate as it was.

But now, as the voices in the room seemed to blur and your vision began to swim, you realized you had underestimated just how sick you really were. You tried to focus, to push through the dizziness, but it was no use. The room started spinning, and the last thing you remembered was reaching out towards Charles, trying to catch his attention before everything went dark.

The sound of your body hitting the floor sent a shockwave of alarm through the room. Charles’s heart skipped a beat as he turned to see you crumpled on the floor beside him. The meeting was forgotten in an instant as he swiftly wheeled himself over to you, panic tightening his chest.

“Y/N!” His voice was sharp with fear as he reached out, his hands trembling slightly as he gently lifted your head. Your skin was pale, clammy, and your breathing was shallow.

“Get Hank,” Charles ordered, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of urgency. Storm immediately got up, leaving the room to fetch the doctor.

Charles cradled your head in his hands, his mind racing. He should have noticed you were unwell, should have sensed something was wrong. The guilt gnawed at him, but he pushed it aside, focusing on you.

“Stay with me, love,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. His thumb gently stroked your cheek, trying to ground you, to bring you back to him.

Hank arrived within moments, his medical bag in hand. He quickly assessed your condition, taking your pulse, checking your vitals. “She’s running a fever,” Hank said, concern in his voice. “She needs to rest. I’ll take her to the infirmary.”

“No,” Charles said firmly, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ll take care of her.”

Hank looked at Charles, understanding the depth of his resolve. With a nod, he stepped back. “If you need anything, call me.”

Charles nodded, then focused his attention back on you. With a gentle but steadying hand, he used his telekinesis to lift you effortlessly into his arms. As he cradled you close, he could feel how fragile you seemed, how your body trembled with fever.

He wheeled you to your shared quarters, the familiar comfort of the room bringing a sense of calm to his racing mind. Once there, he gently laid you down on the bed, covering you with blankets to ward off the chills that racked your body.

As you lay unconscious, Charles stayed by your side, his hand never leaving yours. He whispered soft reassurances, his voice a soothing balm even though you couldn’t hear him. He kept a cool cloth pressed to your forehead, trying to bring down the fever, his eyes never straying from your face.

Hours passed, the sky outside growing darker. Charles remained vigilant, his heart aching with worry. He could sense your discomfort, the way your mind was clouded by illness, and it tore at him that he couldn’t take the pain away.

Finally, as the night deepened, you began to stir. Your eyelids fluttered, and with a soft groan, you opened your eyes, the world coming into focus slowly.

“Charles?” Your voice was weak, but the sound of it was like music to his ears.

“I’m here, love,” he said softly, leaning closer. “You’re safe. Just rest.”

You blinked, trying to gather your thoughts, but the exhaustion was too heavy. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, guilt coloring your voice. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Shh,” he soothed, brushing his fingers through your hair. “You have nothing to apologize for. I’m just glad you’re awake.”

You managed a small, tired smile, your heart warming at the sight of him. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

“Always,” he replied, his voice filled with a quiet intensity. “I’m not going anywhere.”

With that, you allowed yourself to relax, sinking back into the comfort of the bed. Charles stayed by your side, his presence a steady, comforting force. As you drifted back into sleep, you knew that, no matter what, he would always be there to watch over you, to keep you safe.

And as the night wore on, Charles continued his silent vigil, determined to stay with you for as long as it took.

#charles xavier imagine #charles xavier x reader #charles xavier oneshot #x men imagine #x men 97

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nvrsaidiwasinurcloset · 7 months ago

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fic idea!! ethan and y/n had a fight but she ended up on her knees sucking him to make it up to him.

they had to quickly go back to school because they all eat lunch with chad tara etc.

ethan has his hand on her thigh as they all talk and laugh, but y/n is still horny after that incredible bj.

he teases her, caresses her thigh, hand going up under her skirt, only slightly brushing against her panties. *with pleasing eyes she whispers* "Please ethan ill be quiet i promise"

he ends up fingering her under the table. bonus if she stops him before orgasming because she knows she'll be too loud and they end up fucking in an empty classroom next to the lunch tables

HI!

I absolutely loved this idea! I hope you like it!💕

Alone Together - Ethan Landry x Fem!Reader

This contains SMUT - Minors DNI

Summary: After a fight with Ethan, you make it up to him. It unfortunately leads to you being a horny mess until he finally takes care of you.

Contains: Angst-ish?, Oral - m receiving, fingering, semi-public sex acts, spanking, unprotected sex but like...pulling out lmao. (If I missed anything, let me know:)

A/N: Dude I'm so close to 500 followers, and I want to write something HUGE for it once I get there. 🥹

You and Ethan rarely argued, but after something simple turned into the first major fight of the relationship, you felt so awful that it got to the point that it did. It all started after you told Ethan about the boy that sat beside you in class, and mentioned how he asked you for your number to talk about assignments. Ethan thought that was the stupidest excuse to get a girl’s number, but you were a little oblivious and didn’t think there were any other intentions, so you did end up giving the guy your number. Ethan got angrier the more you tried to downplay it, and he even started to question what your intentions were.

Once he’d had enough of the conversation, he stormed out. He needed to calm down, because he was so close to saying things that he didn’t mean. As hurt as he felt, he didn’t want to hurt you.

After Ethan didn’t talk to you for the rest of the day, he showed up to your dorm after his morning class. He was hoping the two of you could talk it out, because he did love you, regardless of how irritated he was.

“Hey,” you said, once you’d opened the door for him. You were trying to fight off your tears as soon as you saw him, so he pulled you into a hug.

“I’m sorry I left yesterday, but I was just so mad,” Ethan said, as his hands ran across your back. “I don’t want anyone else to think they can have you.”

“Do you want to break up?” you asked against his chest, as he chuckled.

“I love you too much to do that,” he sighed, “But I’m not going to lie, it hurt my feelings that you just gave your number out like that. I was starting to think that you wanted him to text you.”

“What?” you asked, pulling away to look at him. “You think I’d want to be with someone else?”

“I never did before yesterday,” he said, “Maybe I’m just a little insecure.”

“And a little possessive,” you mumbled, as he leaned down to kiss you.

You knew that Ethan loved you but seeing him get so mad and upset over someone trying to move in on what was his, it showed you how deep his feelings were for you. The simple kiss quickly turned into something more as his hands roamed your body and his tongue moved across your bottom lip. You gasped into his mouth once his hand moved underneath the skirt you were wearing, his hand massaging your ass as he started to back you towards your bed.

“Wait,” you said, as you pulled away. “We don’t have a lot of time for make-up sex.”

“Fuck, I forgot about lunch,” Ethan groaned, running his hand through his hair. “I’m going to be hard for the rest of the day thinking about you.”

“I think I know something that’ll help you,” you said, as you sank to your knees in front of him.

You rubbed your hand over his jeans, smiling once you felt how hard he was for you. You unbuttoned them and slid them down his hips as his eyes stayed on you.

“Are you sure we have time for this?” he asked, as you giggled to yourself.

“You know it doesn’t take me long to make you cum.”

He groaned at your words as you slid his boxers down, and you grabbed his cock as it stood at attention in front of your face. You looked up at him as you leaned in, taking his pink tip past your lips as you swirled your tongue over it.

“Fuck, baby,” he said, as his hand ran across your cheek to rest in your hair.

You were inching him in your mouth as you started to bob your head, taking more of him every time. He groaned at the feeling as your cheeks hollowed, his hand that was loosely resting in your hair gripping it tighter. Once you got to the point that you were gagging around him, your mouth getting even more wet, he started to praise you. “You make me feel so good.” “That’s it, baby. You can take it.” “Fuck, your mouth is so perfect.”

All the things he was saying to you had your core throbbing, because it turned you on so much to make him feel that good. You moved your hand up and down what you couldn’t take, as he whimpered at the feeling. Your hand moved with your mouth, his entire cock getting the attention it needed as he struggled to keep his fluttering eyes on yours. You didn’t look away, though. You loved seeing him like this. The way his breathing got heavier, the rosy tint to his cheeks, the way his head was starting to roll back.

“Fuck, gonna cum,” he panted, as you hummed around him.

His hand was tugging on your hair, the feeling making you moan around him as his eyes screwed shut, a low moan slipping past his lips as the salty liquid coated your taste buds. You bobbed your head a few more times, a lot slower than you had been going because you didn’t want him to get over stimulated, until you slid him out of your mouth, a sweet smile on your lips as he looked down at you.

“I’m definitely not mad at you anymore,” he said with a smile, as his breathing started to return to normal. “Come here, baby.”

He reached down for you to grab his hands as he helped you to your feet before he pulled you into his chest.

“Now I’m the one that gets to be a horny mess all day,” you said, as he ran his hands over your hips.

“Oh, I’ll take care of you later…you won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you.”

Whenever Ethan told you that, he meant it. The idea of him having you in all the positions and him eating it out until you couldn’t take it anymore had your head spinning. You almost wish he hadn’t told you that, because it was all you were going to be able to think about as you tried to make it through the rest of your day.

As you sat at lunch across from Tara and Chad, you were hoping that the conversation would distract you from the not-so-innocent thoughts you were having about your boyfriend.

“Did your boyfriend tell you about what happened to him yesterday?” Chad asked you, as you turned to look at Ethan.

“No…what happened?”

“So he’d just came back from showering, and I came back to our dorm earlier than I was supposed to. He didn’t realize I was there until I said something once he dropped his towel,” Chad said, cracking up as Ethan’s cheeks started to turn bright red. “He fucking screamed, dude. Like, high-pitched and everything.”

You and Tara started to giggle as you thought about it, and it was getting to the point that you couldn’t look at your boyfriend, because you knew you’d only laugh harder.

“Hey, I had a lot going on yesterday. I didn’t expect you to be there,” Ethan said, as Chad wiped a few tears off his cheeks from laughing so hard. He turned to look at you, shaking his head once he noticed how hard you were trying to keep it together. That’s when you felt his hand brush against your thigh before he squeezed it. A strained moan slipped past your lips at the feeling, as he tried to feign innocence. “You okay, babe?”

“Yeah, I accidentally kicked the table,” you lied, trying to play it off as you took a deep breath.

Once Chad and Tara stopped laughing, they brought up the weekend plans that the friend group had been looking forward to. You were trying so hard to be present for that conversation, but once Ethan’s hand inched up further until it was under your skirt, you looked over at him. He met your gaze, and smirked once he noticed your eyes pleading with his. He shook his head before he turned his attention back to Chad, but his hand didn’t stop.

You bit your bottom lip as you felt his hand run over your panties, your eyes going wide as you tried to calm down. Ethan just kept talking, like he had no idea how badly his fingers rubbing over your swollen clit was affecting you.

Once Chad and Tara started to talk about plans that they had for dinner that night, you leaned over to whisper into Ethan’s ear.

“I need more,” you said, as he lightly chuckled. “Please, baby. I’ll be quiet.”

“You promise?” he questioned, as he pushed your panties to the side.

“Yes.”

The way he had his arm angled, it looked like he was just being a sweet boyfriend with his hand resting on your leg. Chad and Tara had no idea that his ring and middle finger were buried inside of you, moving back and forth over that spongy spot inside of your pussy.

You were happy to be getting some of the attention you needed, but it was taking everything in you to keep your breathing steady. Ethan’s pace kept changing, almost like he wanted you to be loud. He’d slow his fingers down, but then he’d start pressing his fingers so hard against that spot that your hands were gripping the sides of the chair.

You felt yourself getting closer, and you knew you couldn’t be quiet, especially after you had to play off a whimper by doubling over like you’d just gotten a bad cramp. You grabbed Ethan’s wrist with both hands, as you tried to get him to stop, but he just kept going. He looked over at you, noticing how fast you were breathing, and how you looked like you could cry from the stimulation. That’s when he realized that he needed to stop, because there was no way you could make it though your orgasm without it being obvious to your friends across the table.

He pulled his fingers out, and once Tara and Chad talked to each other, he looked back over at you and brought the fingers that were covered into your wetness up to his lips. You needed to cum so bad, and once he did that, you were sure you were going to go feral if you didn’t get your orgasm.

“We need to go,” you whispered, as he looked back over to Chad and Tara.

“We’ll leave soon, babe,” he said, as you huffed in frustration.

“If you don’t take me somewhere and fuck me right now, I’m going to go crazy.”

“You need it that bad?” he questioned, looking back at your friends to make sure they were still in their own conversation.

“Please, Ethan.”

“Hey guys, I think we’re going to get out of here,” Ethan said, as Chad and Tara looked at the two of you.

“Is everything okay?” Tara asked, once she noticed that you weren’t really saying anything.

“Yeah, it’s just cramps. I’m going to walk with her back to her dorm really quick before class,” he said, as your friends nodded.

Once you and Ethan got up, he took his hand in yours as he led you away from the table.

“We don’t have time to go back to my dorm,” you said, as he started to laugh.

“That’s not where we’re going,” he said, as he led you down the hall to a room that was used for study groups.

“We’re going to fuck in here? There’s no lock on the door,” you huffed, running your hand through your hair as Ethan grabbed a chair and propped it up under the door knob.

“No one’s getting in here,” he said, as he walked over to you. “I’m going to fuck you right here on this table.”

“Are you sure we won’t get caught?” you asked, as he reached under your skirt and grabbed your panties and slid them down your hips.

“That depends on how loud you are.”

Ethan tuned you around and had you bent over the table, your elbows resting against the wood as you waited for him to fuck you. You heard the zipper to his jeans get slid down before you felt him move your skirt, so it was bunched up on your hips.

“This is going to have to be quick, baby. Is that okay?” he asked, as he pushed the tip of his cock in your dripping pussy.

“Mhm,” you moaned at the feeling, as he slid the rest of himself inside you. “Just..don’t get your cum on my clothes.”

“It’s going to go all over this perfect ass of yours.”

He wasted no time before his cock started to thrust in and out of you, soft moans slipping out of your mouth. He was so focused on you, but once he glanced up at the clock on the wall and noticed you had less time than he originally thought, he started to pound into you. The sudden pace change caught you off guard, and you had to time to process it before you started letting out loud moans. The tip of Ethan’s cock hit your g-spot with every thrust, and after his fingers a few minutes before, you knew it wasn’t going to take much for him to make you cum. His hands were gripping your hips as he pulled them back to meet his thrusts, your hands moving to grip the side of the table so you wouldn’t fall off it.

Seeing you like this, and it being in a slightly public setting ignited something in Ethan. He let go of one of your hips to give a sharp smack to your ass, the feeling making you whimper as he soothingly rubbed over it before he did it again.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, “I’m so close.”

His hand went back to your hip as he mercilessly fucked you, loud whines flooding out of your mouth as the grip you had on the table got even tighter.

Ethan’s heavy breathing turned to groans once your pussy started to squeeze his cock, and you were bringing him so close to his own orgasm, but he was trying so hard to hold out so he could fuck you through yours. The sounds you were making didn’t make it any easier for him, so he finally pulled out.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, once he looked down at his release all over your ass cheek. “You gotta see this.”

You didn’t say anything as you caught your breath against the table, a sweet smile playing on your lips as he walked around to show you his phone.

“Whoa, that’s hot,” you said, as you looked at the picture of the red handprint that was covered in his cum.

“Yeah,” he said, as he walked over to grab some tissues from the other side of the room. “Did you like doing it in here?”

“Yeah, if you want this to be our new spot for quickies, I’m down.”

“I know we just hooked up, but I still want you to come over tonight. I didn’t have enough time for all the things I wanted to do to you,” he said, as he slid his boxers and jeans back up.

“I’d love to, babe,” you said, smiling at him as you stood up.

“Good, because again, you won’t be able to walk when I’m done with you.”

ANOTHER AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know I did it again and left it open for a part 2, so if y'all want another part of this where it'll probably consist of nothing but fucking, let me know lmao. It'd definitely be more on the rough side👀

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #scream smut #ethan landry smut #smut

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sunaluv · 1 year ago

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A cute prompt! The moment they realized they want to spend the rest of their lives with you 🥺🥺 (Also hi hello new follower here i love ur works!!!! Hope ur having an awesome day stay safe and stay hydrated 🫶🫶🫶)

i got you

feat: ran, eren, shigaraki(🥹), gojo

RAN

ill be honest, it was probably during an argument.

he was absolutely smitten with you. that was probably why you too rarely fought. also, the two of you were too unbothered to draw out fights long.

so when it hit the 2-day mark and he hadn't seen or heard from you since you stormed out of the house, he became worried.

he had a lot of enemies and you knew that too. his mind kept him up at night if he didn't spend it combing the streets of japan looking for you.

the rest of bonten saw it too. he became more snappy with his colleagues (they had to calm mikey down before they fought fr), he went crazy and fired his secretary for some reason, mans was spiralling out of control.

his brother hated seeing him like this, so he helped look for you, contacting all your friends and family on your whereabouts.

eventually they found you, hiding in your friends' house (she's a real one and told them she didn't know where you were when they asked).

ran was an emotional wreck. over a girlllll.

honestly, rindou was shaking his head, but he knew his brother was in deep.

you talked things out and smoothed it over, and although you were a little pissy with him, you allowed him to hold you in his embrace, whispering gently apologies in between kisses to your hairline.

when you finally fell asleep in his arms, ran didn't want to let you go or sleep. he felt like you might disappear if he takes his eyes off you for a second.

that when it hit him how deeply in love he was with you, and he (along with everyone in the bonten building) realised you really do keep him sane and he can't imagine a life without you.

he promised that, if you stuck around long enough, he'll make sure you stay with him forever <3

EREN

best friends to lovers trope woop woop

okay so he realised this way before you two got together.

so one day, there was a big falling out in your friend group which caused a massive divide.

you, mikasa, sasha, and the eldia boys (reiner, bert) were all on one side. and eren, armin, jean connie and such were on the other side. yall were a big friend group too so the news travelled fast that you divided.

you and eren weren't the causation, but people had to pick sides which meant you were split up.

the divide couldn't have come at a worse time too because you were in that stage where you knew you had feelings for each other and were flirting and dancing around the fact that you wanted to be together.

now you couldn't be seen together by your friends unless you wanted to cause more drama (giving romeo and juliet).

he still had a strong desire to see you, so he often snuck around with you in the evening/night time, and it honestly was kinda romantic, though you wished you could hang out in the day too.

he took you out on 'dates' (referred to as 'friendly outings' bc feelings are complicated) and he drew them out as long as possible because he hated it when it was time to say goodbye. every time you left, he would count down the hours before he could see you again.

absence really does make the heart grow fonder because he had to control himself from gravitating towards you during the day and it hurt the both of you.

it was one random night where he couldn't fall asleep. he was just staring at the ceiling, replaying your whole date in his head and he didn't realise he started smiling a little.

with his head buried in the pillow, he sighed wanting nothing more than to be with you forever.

SHIGARAKI

you were the first and probably the only girl to show interest in him and honestly, the minute you did, he thought yall were locked in for life.

he thought relationships were purely meant to be transactional, so when he finally understood that you just wanted to be there for him because you truly cared and loved for him? he thought he was sick by the way his heart squeezed.

it took him a while to adjust, and you gave him all the time and space he needed because the last thing you wanted was for him to be overwhelmed.

he slowly became more comfortable with you helping him with things, once he learnt he didn't have to do everything solo whilst he was around.

he was changing for the better (not too much tho), he notices how much healthier he looked now that he was getting three proper meals a day, his skin felt hydrated and the desire to itch his skin off drastically lessened.

he felt like it was too good to be true and became paranoid that something bad was gonna happen like the heroes taking you away, or AFO manipulating you, like he did to him.

kurogiri felt proud of his young master for recalling the 'gentlemanly advice' he gave him as he watched the two of you converse on the loveseat in the quiet bar.

his league was empty, the bar was old and not bringing in enough money and he had a whole lot on his plate which was enough to make him hate everything.

but with you around, he could learn to hate things a little less <3

GOJO

manga spoilers

mans busted out the box and was craving your touch instantly!

the last conversation you had before he got sealed was him telling you he'll be back later, pecking your pout away before leaving.

little did you know you wouldn't see gojo for another 19 days.

he didn't have a lot of time before he had to go and fight sukuna, so he wanted to talk to you while his time was still guaranteed.

the reunition was hella emotional, he squeezed you so tight and let your tears soak his shirt.

he pulled your face back to meet his gaze, and you were surprised to see tears welling up in his eyes, but that was the least of your problems. you noticed him trying to get his words out and you were patient as he seemed to be finding the right words to say.

after lots of out of character stuttering, he blurted out "marry me."

you were shocked and he was scared he crossed the line when you went silent for a minute, but you very emotionally said yes on your apartment floor in your baggy sweats and t-shirt belonging to your now-fiancee.

although it was just under 3 weeks he was gone, it felt like an eternity without you, so he vowed that when he got out of the box, he was going to make sure you know he will always come back for you.

#eren x reader #eren yeager x reader #aot x reader #snk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #shigaraki x reader #shigaraki tomura x reader #mha x reader #bnha x reader #ran x reader #ran haitani x reader #tokyo revengers x reader #tokyo rev x reader

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1800titz · 1 month ago

Text

BEWARE THE WATER | merman/siren!Harry x reader

You’ll never forget it— the time when you suggested an outing. You were sitting around in your room with beer bottles on the off hours, you on your twin-sized mattress with your knees tucked to your chest. Skinny dipping. Like a kidhood pastime under the coat of nightfall. A fuddled proposal off your liquified tongue, spurned by the alcohol simmering your veins. You regretted it the moment it slinked from your mouth (the moment the weight of the silence lodged in the rational part of your brain, clinging through insobriety), but you doubled down. “…You’re crazy, rookie,” you remember one told you, eyes listing to the side, over the rubescent smear across the bridge of his nose. “Why not?” Curse of the North Shore, they called it. Call it. An urban legend— but the circles of their eyes shrink into the framing of white when they tell the story of men strewn across the coastline. Skins. Sapped down to the marrow, hollowed bones marred with scrapes, littered across the beach, the patch of rock shed off the cliffside. Spread all over. Eaten from the inside. A fable for grown men to chase, like a monster hiding in the coal-dark nooks under their cots. You stuck the lip of the beer bottle to your mouth and rolled your misty eyes. “Bullshit.”

preview

Your self-preservation scratches up, from beneath the surface of the sea’s hymn settling into your bones. Wrong. Dangerous. Go back. It carves a nick, like a scrape from under a layer of ice across the arctic pelagic, and fractures your mindless audacity. Your foolish gall. Leaves you blinking like you’re batting a haze of smoke off with your lashes, out on the rocks with your lantern swinging in your hand.

It hits you all at once. Anxiety like storm surge. The sense of impending doom makes your throat tight when you swallow. Dry. What are you doing? Clotting up your lungs, waves slamming against the rocks you’ve trekked. The foundation under you quakes with the hairline fracture of your risk, and something tacky oozes in. Fear. Instinct. The consequence of your recklessness—

A moment too late. Moments. A moment too stupid, too uncalculated, too rash. Ill-advised, when you left the base and stepped out from behind the barricade of the dunes. You take slow, cautious steps back into the direction of the sand across the slippery eigengrau, shaking. Stupid, stupid— counting your steps, reaching for the stretch of land out of fingertip’s length.

(And really, there’s only so long you can dangle a filet out in front of an animal before it breaks and bites. Only so long you can lure something from the sea with a soft, fleshy silhouette over the surface of the water.)

The ocean is humming. Singing. Like it’s lapping in an echo of the word that shatters the calm of the reticence— “Soldier.”

Not quite a bark. No ire. But it’s louder than the water and makes your heart lurch to your throat when your head snaps over your shoulder. Your balance is threadbare, and the plummet of your stomach makes the string ripple. Your heel nearly slips across the jagged stone—

(Not rookie. Soldier. Shedding the moniker feels like molting a worn, second skin that’s started to crackle across the stretch of your appendages.)

Hindsight laughs at your irreparable, full fledged stupidity— you, ignoring every warning they handed out to you in the cup of their palm.

(You were supposed to cradle them close, heed like the signs told you.)

Your unease is a vicious pulse across your throat, roaring in your ears, mottling the perfect tempo of the waves, when the lantern between your fingers sways to the craggy patch behind you, where you once stood. It casts ochreous light across the slippery tar-black of the stones.

There’s a man in the water. Your lungs squeeze. Caught. Stuck. In stasis.

Wet skin. Slippery, slick. Burnt orange catching on sinews, even with a patch of jagged stones between you, emphasizing your distance.

You’ve never believed in fairy tales, not as a child. Not now. Never chased legends, and myths, imaginary friends and monsters under your bed. But something unspools inside of you. Unfurls in the pit of your belly. Instinctual. Like a sixth sense to save your skin. You still have a chance, a distance, muffled echo behind your skull hisses, you still—

But you’re glued onto the stone. Stagnant. Stalemating, with a chill stinging like shards across your veins, nausea lingering from the sharp bludgeon of being swung off kilter.

A deer caught in headlights.

(Game, staring across the plain at the looming predator.)

Fear tastes like heme and crushed ice. Your emotions are a farrago— terror, confusion, apprehension.

Dread.

“You’re a soldier,” he asks— tells you, it feels like a statement— over the roaring sea, cadence honey smooth. Molasses heavy. A treacle across your ears that ghosts and melts across your earlobes. The scruff of your neck, where the peach fuzz bristles at attention. “Aren’t you?”

Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth. Bloated up in your mouth. From this distance, you can’t make out his face. Not the details— only the shape, and his gaze. Liquified tar. Glinting, coruscating like the peaks of the waves.

Uncanny. Wrong. The echo of an urban legend— a mystical beast waiting to swallow you whole.

You should run. Sprint across the rocks, let adrenaline aid in your coordination and pray for the best—

But you're stuck. Your brows notched, your ribcage rattling with your heart bursting behind it. Bounding, in place of your stubborn feet.

“You— you’re not supposed to be out here,” you bluster. Ever the pedant (as if you are, mouthy, little hypocrite). Shoulders rigid like the stretch of nightfall limestone, chin high in your wavering merit. A soldier— a mask you wear as a cloak that can’t hide the quake in your fingers, and the burnt orange off the lantern jumps across the waves.

It all feels pointless. Otiose— there is no warranted explanation when the unimaginable, unforeseen myth, blurs with reality and crumbles your expectations (your rationale) out from under you.

His arms stretch across the stone. Lax. Languorous. The delineation of ease— and you can’t stop your eyes from roving across the breadth of his shoulders, the heft, the way the musculature there flexes when he moves. The way the water sticks to his skin. Glimmering obsidian roams you. Wanders. Strays. Drifts. Across every inch, every piece. Assessing. Contemplating. Absorbing.

“Aren’t you the sweetest thing?” he says, instead of answering you.

The purr stuns you. Weaves across your logic, the congeries of your emotions— the fear— in ropework. Ties to an anchor, lugging you, luring you to drift further from the coastline, closer to him. Sediment from the ocean floor dredged under your feet when they nearly shuffle forward over the stone.

The words sound wrong. Hungry. Like an omen— and the paradox of them, their tone, against your crumbling mettle, jars you back into survival-mode. Your head feels heavy. Clogged. Wading through a mist you can barely shake off—

“How did you get here?” you demand. Your teeth feel tight.

In the lack of immediate response, you know he’s staring at you. Inkblots roaming across your shape like the eyes of a carnivore over a meal. Incisors aching. It spills your resolve across your shoulders. A wave laps across your toes. He hums.

“Givin’ me a fuckin’ toothache, just looking at you,” he murmurs. A sawtooth dodge around your questions, the anger that bubbles off you in a broken defense mechanism— a vicious cat baring its teeth, swiping out with its little claws, backed into a corner.

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defectivevillain · 2 months ago

Text

broken vessels

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

reader's race and gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used. there's one mention of glasses, but that's the extent of my self indulgence.

summary:

You sit down across from Hannibal. It feels like a surrender. The food is quite good, but that realization isn’t enough to keep your despair at bay. The chain around your ankle fixes you to this room, to this meal, to this man sitting across from you. And he knows it, judging from the smile pulling at his lips.

You had no idea just how drastically your life would change after becoming Hannibal Lecter's therapist.

word count: 7.8k | ao3 version

author's notes: This fic has been rotting in my drafts for too long. The transitions are a bit choppy, but I just had to realize this into the wild. So... yeah.

The focus of this fic is Hannibal Lecter/Reader; there is no explicit romance, but I am a diehard fan of the inherent homoeroticism that is Hannibal Lecter. If you’re looking for a happy ending or romance, you won’t find it here. Also this won't be canon compliant, since Sam and Hannibal are very different. You have been warned!

And if you aren’t familiar with The Patient… Well, you’re in for a wild ride. For now, all you need to know is that the reader is a therapist and Hannibal visits them for a session. (And you should also watch the series when you get the chance, because it's very good.)

warnings: canon-typical violence, depictions of mental illness, suicidal ideation, self-harm, hopelessness, kidnapping, captivity/imprisonment, blood and injury, cannibalism

Hannibal Lecter is an interesting patient. You’re not sure what compels him to come to you one dreary morning, when the sky is muddled with grey and there is nothing but the threat of a storm on the horizon. You just know that your doorbell rings at exactly 10:00 a.m., and you open it to find a fine-dressed man with perfectly coiffed hair and an easy smile on his face. The expression is nothing short of polite, yet you feel as if there is unspeakab;e malice dripping from the corners of his lips. You invite him in and urge him to take a seat wherever he feels comfortable. The man regards the room for a moment, before sitting in the armchair you typically sit in. Unperturbed by the seating change, you move to the couch parallel to your usual chair.

For a while, there is only silence. You get the feeling the man is surveying you, scrutinizing you in his mind’s eye. You watch him and he watches you back. While you’re content to let the silence settle over the room, after a few minutes, you decide to speak up and ask him why he decided to come for a session with you.

The first session doesn’t prove to be entirely eventful, but it rarely is. Since it’s your first interaction, you spend most of the time trying to get to know him better. You learn that the man—Hannibal—was a surgeon and is now a psychiatrist, rather renowned for his research. Idly, you have to wonder how he came across you—and why he’s giving you a chance. Surely Hannibal has access to any of his colleagues, who are distinguished scholars. Maybe he needs a break from that, you then think.

Ultimately, your first session with Hannibal isn’t cause for concern. Your attention instead falls to your third session together, when you begin to realize that he’s being deliberately vague with his answers—and that he seems to favor dishonesty over truthfulness.

“Hannibal,” you remark, your heart thudding steadily in your chest, “I get the sense that you haven’t been quite honest with me.” You feel unreasonably apprehensive, as if this single accusation will ruin the little progress you’ve made with him. Yet, you can’t even call your past two sessions “progress,” can you? You spent the entire time attempting to stay afloat amidst the fluid conversation, feeling somewhat frustrated and confused all the same.

“I’ve been perfectly honest with you,” Hannibal responds. The look on his face is seamlessly calm. You’re nervous, but you continue. Therapy conducted under pretense is pointless, after all. Besides, this man knows what he’s doing. His behavior has been purposeful.

“You haven’t been,” you say, “and I think we both know that.” Hannibal looks at you—really looks at you—for what feels like the first time. His eyes are a glittering maroon and a slight smile rises on his face. Somehow, you can’t shake the inexplicable feeling that you’ve just made a grave misstep.

You continue to recall that third session as you stare up at the ceiling of your bedroom, your vision slowly growing fuzzy. You’re tired, but it’s taking you a while to fall asleep. Your mind is racing, recalling several different moments scattered across your lifetime that you’d rather forget. You try to focus on your breathing and, eventually, your eyes fall shut.

Your dreams are weird—which is saying something, since dreams are usually weird. These particular dreams feel like omens for the future and, if that is the case, then your future can’t be very good. You dream of sharp mirrors, harsh corners, and neatly-carved lines. You dream of an infinite winding labyrinth that you can’t escape from, of a puppet-master watching you stumble through a never-ending maze with amusement, of your tattered visage reflected in the jagged shards of a broken mirror.

You jolt awake with a gasp on your tongue, your throat feeling extremely dry. It takes you a few moments to internalize that you’re awake and no longer dreaming. There’s a cup of water on the bedside table and you reach for it, wincing at how heavy your limbs feel. Eventually, you reach the water and take a sip. The glass is cold against your skin and, when you put it back, you nearly miss your nightstand entirely. That’s a little strange—the nightstand has occupied that position for years. Why would your muscle memory fail you now, all of a sudden?

You swing your legs to the side of the bed, only to hear an ominous rattling sound—almost reminiscent of metal clinking against the ground. You reach down and try to feel your way around in the dark, grabbing your glasses from the nightstand and putting them on. The darkness momentarily sharpens and a sense of foreboding prickles along your skin. Your surroundings look strangely unfamiliar. Unease pulling at your gut, you reach down, down, down—only to find a thick chain secured around your ankle. You tug at it, panic rising in your chest as you realize it’s not coming off. You then push yourself to your feet and walk a few steps, testing how far the chain will go. It doesn’t reach far enough for you to thoroughly explore the unfamiliar space—just barely getting to the small room that looks to be a bathroom. Upon further investigation, there’s nothing in the bathroom that would help you get the chain off. The toothbrush and disposable toothpaste resting inconspicuously on the counter throw you off guard. Was this planned? It’s abundantly clear to you now that you’ve been kidnapped. Did your captor plan this out and configure this bathroom for a captive?

You manage to convince yourself to move back out to the main room, only to find a meal placed on the small plastic table situated past the end of the bed. You don’t recognize the food and, frankly, you don’t want to know what it is. The thought of food right now is enough to make you nearly throw up. You instead decide to continue testing how far you can move with your chain. It turns out you can’t move very far at all: you only have access to the bed, the nightstands, and the nearby bathroom. There are a set of glass doors across from the bed and hints of the morning sun illuminate the room in a hazy glow, revealing polished furniture and elegant decorations. It seems your captor has rather distinguished tastes.

In hindsight, seeing Hannibal Lecter come down the stairs moments later is more of a shock than it should be. Your eyes widen and you blink a few times, convinced your mind is conjuring illusions. Hannibal stares at you in return, before sending you a small smile—as if sharing an inside joke.

Meanwhile, you’re panicking. There’s a good chance Hannibal is the one who trapped you here. “Hey, where am I?” You ask apprehensively. Seeing Hannibal simultaneously provokes relief and dread within you. You tug at the chain on your ankle, but it doesn’t budge. “Hannibal? Why am I here?” “This is my home,” Hannibal answers. You feel your heart drop to your stomach. It was a foolish thought to think Hannibal would be here by mere coincidence, but it kept your hopes alive. Now, you’re left to the bleak despair that clings to your ankle like a vice. “I need to speak with you.”

It takes you a few seconds to comprehend that statement, in the wake of all the thoughts running through your mind. “You could’ve called me to book an appointment,” you eventually point out, struggling to keep yourself calm. You’re trapped here, and the chain on your ankle is extremely thick and sturdy. Not to mention, you can’t reach the door; you don’t have your phone; and you have a bad feeling Hannibal is the sole occupant of this house. How on earth will you escape?

“This is… an ongoing concern,” Hannibal interjects. It takes you a few moments to process that statement. Then, at your disbelieving look, he continues. “Our typical environment was not suitable.”

“Not suitable?” Panic is beginning to seep through your voice. You know you should probably be maintaining your composure, but it’s rather difficult to do so when you’re faced with the inevitability of your captivity. “What part of this environment is suitable? I have a chain around my ankle and I can’t leave!” You try to take a deep breath and manifest a level of composure that you certainly don’t have at the present moment. You look eyes with him and attempt to get through to him. “Hannibal. Take this chain off my ankle.”

You don’t expect your attempt at persuasion to work and, indeed, Hannibal is silent. He regards you for a moment before stepping forward, momentarily fooling you into thinking he may genuinely release you. Then, he takes another step and pulls a chair out from the table to take a seat. He motions for you to take the other seat. You shake your head and remain on the bed, opting to keep as much distance from Hannibal as possible. Unfortunately, it still doesn’t feel like enough—as his eyes pin you in place.

You’re not sure how long you spend trapped in your spiraling thoughts, before you attempt to speak to your captor again. “Hannibal,” you say, trying to maintain your composure. You’re grasping at the sheets of the bed with shaking hands. “Whatever you have to talk about, I am willing to listen to you. But not like this.”

There’s a beat of silence. You aren’t deluded enough to think this conversation is getting you any closer to an escape. Instead, Hannibal regards you for a moment, clasping his hands on the table. He holds his utensils in a strangely tight grip, as if they’re weapons. The knife makes you particularly nervous, but it pales in comparison to his next statement. “You would be legally required to share the information I divulge.” Therapists have a firm code of ethics, which dictates that information must be brought to the local authorities if it involves harm to oneself or others. The thought makes an ugly feeling stew in your stomach. You inhale slowly.

“This is your last chance,” you warn, despite knowing you have no power in this situation. “Let me go, and I’ll pretend this never happened. We can go back to the way things were. I won’t press charges or anything. Okay?” You think that’s a pretty generous offer, all things considered.

For a moment, the air is entirely still. Then, the expression on Hannibal’s face flickers. “Would you like something to eat?” he eventually responds.

You stare at him in disbelief. It seems you underestimated Hannibal and his cruelty. Your tongue feels ironed to the roof of your mouth, and you take a deep breath before shaking your head silently. You move back on the bed, your back finding the headboard. You pull your knees up and rest your arms, clasping your hands and closing your eyes. Maybe, if you keep your eyes closed for long enough, this scenario will simply… disappear.

Hannibal takes a bite of his food, ignorant of your internal conflict. The small clinks of his silverware against the plate are the only noises in the otherwise tense air. Even when Hannibal’s gaze is focused on something else, you feel as if he’s watching you. You don’t dare to move a single muscle. There’s an uncomfortable silence settling in the air.

“I met with many different therapists,” Hannibal remarks, apropos of nothing. He levels you with a scrutinizing gaze. You blink and you see your head on his dinner plate. You shake off the grotesque thought. “I chose you.” Is that supposed to make you feel better? It only makes you feel more uneasy.

After some time eating silently, Hannibal gets up from his seat and takes his empty plate. You watch as he steps towards the hallway from which he came—leaving you suspicious and wary as you wait for something to happen. In the time after his departure, you’re still tense. Will he be back soon? You’re not sure how long you sit there, dreading his return.

Eventually, after what must be at least two hours, you conclude that Hannibal won’t be returning. You decide to lie down, curling up on your side. Perhaps if you close your eyes, you’ll wake up from this nightmare.

…But the universe isn’t that merciful, and you wake up hours later with a helplessness that clings to your skin. This wasn’t some twisted nightmare—it’s reality. And your reality is inescapable. You’re a bird with clipped wings, trapped in a gilded cage.

Hannibal visits in the middle of the day. Your eyes follow him the moment he enters the room; as if recognizing this, he seems to take delight in moving as agonizingly slow as possible. Despite the deliberate slow pace to his movements, you recognize the show for what it is. Hannibal is a predator on the prowl. You are his prey, left baring your bleeding flesh before a salivating maw.

It’s not helpful to think about what you could have done instead of pushing him to be honest. But you think about it anyway. If you had let him have his lies, his understanding but strained smiles… what would have happened? The self-defeating part of you wants to say he would’ve left you alone, but you know that’s a desperate thought. No. Somehow, you piqued Hannibal’s interest from the moment you found him on your doorstep.

Realistically speaking, he could’ve been watching you long before that. You’re not sure if he’s the type to stalk people; then again, you didn’t characterize him as the kidnapping type at first, and look where you are now. The thought drags a wry laugh from your lips, inadvertently drawing Hannibal’s attention towards you. He motions for you to join him at the table, where he’s prepared some sort of meal. Despite your growling stomach, you refuse the offer. Hannibal only raises a brow, as if he sees your fleeting attempt at resistance and views it to be a waste of time. Your refusal does give you an illusion of control. You feel as if you have power—however slight—over this situation.

You don’t think you’ll cave so quickly, but by the time he returns that night with a late dinner, you’re fighting off the instinct to join him at the table. As if recognizing this, Hannibal stares at you with twinkling eyes. You grit your teeth. Unfortunately, you don’t really have a choice anymore. If you want to navigate his mind games, you need to be completely focused. Your hunger and aching stomach can’t serve as distractions.

You sit down across from him. It feels like a surrender. The food is quite good, but that realization isn’t enough to keep your despair at bay. The chain around your ankle fixes you to this room, to this meal, to this man sitting across from you. And he knows it.

As you’re eating, you realize you’ve been given a knife. You frown and look at the meal before you. There’s meat on Hannibal’s plate, but not on yours. Why were you given a knife, if you didn’t need one? Initially, you want to think it’s just a mistake. But you don’t think your captor would overlook something like that. Nearly every action of Hannibal's so far has been purposeful, even if that purpose was beyond your understanding. It’s very hard to believe that the knife is a simple oversight.

But the knife’s purpose doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that you have a weapon. Hannibal is well within striking range, since the table you’re eating at is rather small. You could easily reach out and stab him in the hand, but then what…? You would still have the chain on your ankle. If you dealt him a powerful blow, you could incapacitate him at the very least. You’re not familiar with knives, though, so an attempt to incapacitate him could quickly become a murder. That’s a risk you think you’re going to have to take. You’re not sure when you’ll have another opportunity like this.

You reach out and take both your fork and knife, pretending you’re going to cross them on your plate to signal that you’re finished with the meal. Your hand doesn’t want to relinquish its awkward grip on the knife, though. Something about the blade’s steady pressure against your palm is grounding. You realize you’re drawing blood when droplets fall to mark the wooden table. Hannibal’s eyes follow the movement, as if he actually heard the sound of your blood hitting the surface of the table. He’s momentarily distracted.

So you strike.

At least, you try to. When his attention is captured, you slide your grip down to the handle of the knife, winding back and aiming at his neck. But Hannibal is inhumanly fast, and he quickly grabs your wrist with bruising strength until the utensil clatters back to its place on the table. Your eyes meet and you see only raw, unadulterated fury. A shiver crawls down your spine as a bone-deep fear settles past your skin. You’re going to die.

Seconds drag on and, while Hannibal is still holding your wrist, the strength of his grip slowly fades. The silence is almost more painful than the white-hot irritation of the gash on your palm. With bated breath, you watch as Hannibal lets your wrist fall. Dread churning in your stomach, you’re frozen as he leaves the room. Terror stews in your chest at the anticipation he’s leaving you in. What weapon will he choose to end your life?

Hannibal returns moments later with a clear container. You bite the inside of your cheek and watch silently as he approaches you, setting the bin on the table before taking your wrist and studying the minor gash on your palm. Something close to disapproval passes over his face for a quick second, before it’s replaced with a clinical gaze.

Your hand is trembling ever so slightly. If Hannibal notices, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he obtains ointment from the container of medical supplies and spreads it along your scrape—before wrapping a bandage around your hand and wrist. His movements are precise and practiced; even if you were unaware of his background, you’d know he had experience as a medical practitioner.

“Don’t try that again.” His voice is deceptively light; you don’t need to look far to see the anger coiled in his tight shoulders. You nod silently, your throat burning as you’re overcome with your own helplessness. With that, he walks back to the table, collects the dishes, and leaves the room. You stare down at your newly-bandaged hand, a renewed anguish promptly replacing any hope for escape. That attempt just now was a colossal failure. You didn’t think you were too obvious about your intentions, but he had reacted as if he expected you to stab him. Maybe that knife was placed there purposefully. Maybe, for reasons beyond your current comprehension, Hannibal wanted you to threaten his life.

You really don’t know what to do with that information. You settle for reclining on the mattress and closing your eyes, still fighting off that foolish hope that you’ll wake sweat-soaked in your own bedroom, breathing hard from the fictitious nightmare you just experienced.

Not much is born from your failure to escape, save for a few things: 1) a downgrade to plastic silverware, which makes you laugh in hysterical defeat; 2) pervasive hopelessness; and 3) a need for a new coping mechanism. Planning to escape no longer seems like a productive use of your time—trying to create something out of nothing is just insanity. Instead of maniacally going through every physically possible way to escape—a list which currently has zero items on it—you find yourself meditating.

You were never the meditative type; you had many therapists who told you to meditate on your problems, and you promised yourself that you would never give that kind of advice to your patients. Mindfulness itself isn’t a bad suggestion, but the suggestion of meditation—crossed legs, pinched fingers—always felt like a slap in the face.

You were so desperate once that you gave it a try. Predictably, your skeptical nature prevented it from actually working. But, ironically, when you tried it again a few days later, you found that you were able to compartmentalize your thoughts better. It didn’t necessarily make you feel calm in the way everyone claimed it did, but meditation helped you sort out the seemingly infinite tangle of problems in your mental cobweb. And if that cobweb was tangled before, it’s an absolute wreck now. Trapped in a man’s basement with no means of escape is a never-ending fountain of dread, regret, fear, and stress.

At first, you just try to count to large numbers in your head. It helps you pass the time, in a room with no other form of entertainment. You slowly work your way up to tackling actual thoughts from there, and you find that, with time, you’re able to suppress unwanted feelings slightly. It’s nothing ground-breaking. But coping with your situation is one hell of a difficult task, so you’re proud of yourself for making any progress at all.

This meditation becomes somewhat of a routine. You find yourself retreating into the depths of your mind at least once a day, if not two or three times. It’s a welcome escape from the unfamiliar room around you. Everything fades away, until you’re submerged in an endless void. Memories flicker before your eyes in brief flashes of light, visible but intangible.

This meditation has one flaw: it leaves you entirely unguarded and defenseless. You were preoccupied with this notion during your first few attempts, but after you returned to the empty room each time, you began to forget your fear. But losing that fear made you complacent. You soon found yourself entirely ignoring the room around you—ignoring footsteps, ignoring shadows passing across the walls. While you often returned to reality to find yourself alone… that wasn’t always the case.

When you’re finished with meditation one night, you open your eyes to find Hannibal standing in front of you. You immediately flinch and suck in a startled breath, nearly falling backwards on the bed as you create more distance between the two of you. It doesn’t take much contemplation to understand what he’s doing here. He was watching you, observing you. You never noticed him cross the threshold of the doorway; you didn’t notice him approach you with intrigue in his eyes as he regarded your vulnerable form. You were lost in the workings of your mind palace, your eyes closed and hands clasped in your lap.

“Hannibal,” you say, when you regain the ability to speak. “You scared me.” That’s an understatement. Your heart is positively racing in your chest. Hannibal has that damned smirk on his face, suggesting that your terror only amuses him. You grit your teeth and pretend not to notice the satisfaction practically radiating off of him.

He finally stops looming over you, turning on his heel and walking over to the table. When he takes a seat, he immediately looks at you expectantly. “Take a seat,” Hannibal verbalizes, when a few seconds pass and you don’t make a move.

You do as requested, albeit with a lot of restless fidgeting. Whenever the two of you sit at the table and there isn’t any food, you know a therapy session is beginning. Admittedly, your interactions so far barely qualify as sessions—Hannibal has still been frustratingly vague with what he’s experiencing, leaving you with virtually nothing to give to him in return.

This session is nothing new. His ambiguity is still infuriating, but you find yourself grappling with a newer impatience. When it becomes clear that the conversation isn’t going anywhere, you hear yourself speaking. “I thought we promised to be honest with one another.” You wait with bated breath. Hannibal looks tightly coiled, as if ready to strike at any moment. But he remains silent, which pushes you to continue. “You’re still not being honest with me.”

“Very well,” Hannibal nods. You both know it’s true. Hannibal has only spoken of ambiguous urges that nearly consume him. These urges are evidently negative and almost mirror compulsions. However, from what you’ve seen of Hannibal so far, he has finely-regulated emotional control. Is he really a victim to these negative urges, or is he their puppetmaster? Your instincts gravitate towards the latter, but you aren’t prepared for the verbal confirmation he gives you. “I am a serial killer and a cannibal.”

You immediately scrutinize him, looking for the signs you’ve grown to attribute to dishonesty. But there is only unapologetic candor… and an almost boundless hunger. You loathe how quick you are to believe such an outlandish statement. But, in the wake of your captivity, you’ve grown somewhat used to outlandishness. After all, Hannibal went so far as to kidnap you indefinitely—it’s been abundantly clear since you woke in this room that he is not a good person. His thinly-veiled fury has always been present—it is only now that you are able to attribute it to something.

Your gaze is then unwittingly pulled down, past his neatly-ironed suit and to the wooden table before you. You think back to all the meals you’ve been fed and you look back up at him, unable to hide your fear and revulsion. “Have you…?” You’re at a loss for words.

“I have not fed you anything untoward,” Hannibal answers. You’re briefly grateful, before you chastise yourself for the emotion. Why are you grateful to your captor for showing you the smallest of mercies? You are still trapped here. You have been shown the most basic of human decencies: food and water. Privacy and safety are distant memories, at this point.

“You’re a serial killer and a cannibal,” you hear yourself repeat. Your voice sounds foreign and unrecognizable, in the wake of this horrifying revelation. “That’s…” You choke out, entirely unsure of what to say.

Hannibal tries to keep talking, but you place your hands on the table and get to your feet. The chain on your ankle clinks menacingly as you move away from the table and towards the bed. You know better to turn your back on the man, so you instead perform an awkward side-shuffle until you’re seated on the bed. Hannibal finishes his meal in silence and leaves you alone in the basement. You break down soon after.

Each time you blink, you see eyes glazed over in death; limbs stiff and unfeeling; lips parted but unbreathing. Every morning, you’re brutally torn from your sleep and forced to wake up in a nightmare. You are rotting behind these nondescript walls and no one has seemed to notice. What of your family and friends? Where are they now? Is anyone looking for you, or have you been banished to the uncompromising soil and cold headstones in a barren field?

You haven’t caught even a trace of happiness throughout your captivity here. Fear, unease, and desperation have forced you into compliance. There’s a constant burning sensation in your throat and behind your eyes, as you mourn for the tragedies of tomorrow. Your life here is dictated by Hannibal’s whims. And, worst of all, your death is completely inevitable. You have no sense of the passage of time, yet the threat of your end seems to come ever closer with each passing moment.

There are only so many mind games you can subject yourself to before you have to face the grim reality: you are trapped here, and you likely will be trapped here for the remainder of your life. Whether that’s several weeks, eight months, or a few years… You will be confined here until Hannibal grows disinterested. Whatever the source of his interest, one thing is certain: this intrigue persuades him to spare you. But, as patient as Hannibal seems to be, you know it will only be a matter of time before he snaps.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, you can hear your own bones cracking and snapping under his grip. Sometimes, in the light of day, you can see bright patrol lights reaching out to you through the screen door, beckoning you back to your life. But none of it is real. Nothing is tangible, save for the chain suffocating your ankle and the fear that keeps you from acting out or attempting to escape again.

In light of Hannibal’s confession, you feel… empty. A part of you is almost hopeful—even desperate—for an end to your confinement. That part of you longs to test the limits of Hannibal’s patience, in the hopes of breaking it and triggering the final chapter of your life.

Safe to say, you aren’t sure what to do with yourself anymore. Everything feels completely pointless. You’re just waking up to fall asleep again the next night; eating to put off the gnawing feeling in your stomach; living to die. Each day simultaneously feels like a victory and a defeat.

One question still begs your attention: why are you here? In your first session, Hannibal had maintained the illusion that he wanted to get better. The same can’t be said anymore: he shows no regret for the things he’s done. There isn’t even a hint of remorse in his answers to your questions, which only confuses you more. He does not want to improve.

One particular morning, you decide to ask him. After all, you have virtually nothing left to lose. You would welcome an escape from this situation—any violence from him would only provide a merciful end to your suffering. “Why are you still entertaining all of this?” You blurt out before you can stop yourself. Hannibal is entirely static as he stares at you, no hint of emotion in his eyes. You can only imagine what he’s thinking. “You don’t want to get better. You show no remorse for your victims. Therapy is conducted under the pretense that the client wants something. As you’re aware, that is often support, self-actualization, or even just someone to listen to them… What do you want?”

“I’m glad I chose you,” Hannibal says, his eyes glimmering.

“You haven’t answered my question,” you frown.

“Company,” he answers.

You study him for a long moment. “Do you feel unsatisfied with your current attachments?” You ask, squinting at him. “You once told me you host dinner parties frequently. You’ve never expressed difficulties with making friends, but you also never speak about the ones you do have.” You wouldn’t be surprised if Hannibal didn’t have any friends—he doesn’t seem the type.

“Perhaps I think them to be beneath me,” he remarks casually.

“Sure,” you say. That sounds about right, but you know things are rarely so simple and straightforward. “But then how do you fulfill your basic interpersonal needs? Are you constantly pretending?” You push.

His silence is enough of an answer. Something ugly stews in your chest. You hate that you’re entertaining this—that you’re even pretending this man is redeemable. Yet what other choice do you have? When it comes down to it, you don’t want to die in this basement. You’ll do whatever it takes to ensure you escape that fate. Even if that means asking questions that you really don’t want the answers to. Somehow, you manage to push the off-putting words from your lips. “How do you choose your victims?”

Hannibal raises his brows, evidently surprised that you asked. He almost looks impressed. The recognition nauseates you: why are you so desperate for his approval? “I exchange business cards with people I meet,” Hannibal responds. That uneasy feeling is only increasing, continuing to prickle along your skin. “The cards of those who are particularly rude… are set aside.”

You force yourself to maintain some semblance of composure, even if you know the effort will be obvious. “And then?” Your voice is deceptively light, despite your pulse practically thrumming with uneasy anticipation. “What pushes you to make a move?”

“Anger,” he answers. His eyes gleam a foreboding crimson in the dim light of the basement. Every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stop talking, yet you continue relentlessly.

“No,” you immediately argue before you can stop yourself. “It’s not anger.” Hannibal raises a brow, challenging you to provide a better explanation.

You pause to review everything you’ve learned about Hannibal so far. His secretive, elusive nature suggests that he isn’t killing for attention or pride. Sure, anger could be a motivator, but above that… “It’s boredom,” you realize aloud. “You’re bored. Very little interests you, especially when you have so few genuine relationships. Killing actually makes you feel something—an emotion you’re unable to find elsewhere.”

You’re gripping the arms of your chair hard enough to send bolts of pain sliding through your fingers. One wrong move and he could lash out at you, ending your escape attempt before it can even truly begin. “Try as you might to replicate that feeling… You can’t.”

You’re not sure what reaction you’re expecting. Yet you’re still shocked to see Hannibal smile—a twisted, malicious thing that tears your breath from your chest. You’re immediately overcome with the inexplicable conviction that you’ve just supplied the last nail in your own coffin.

“My whole life, I have been thinking…. thinking… trying to figure myself out so I can help other people understand themselves.” You say some time later, staring up at the ceiling. Your fingers twitch restlessly in the plush brown armchair you find yourself sitting in. The room is warmly lit, with bookshelves lining the walls. Across from you sits your old therapist. “And here I am,” you continue wryly, “Talking to my dead therapist.”

There’s a healthy glow to Charlie’s warm brown skin; he looks entirely at ease. “Why do you think that is?” He asks. Irritation floods through you. Charlie is just a figment of your imagination—a device your mind is using to attempt to cope with the trauma of this situation. But even this manifestation of Charlie is unrelenting, just as he once was.

“Come on, Charlie,” you groan. His expression says, Humor me. You take a slow breath. A thump from upstairs draws you to look up at the ceiling, before you’re returning your eyes to Charlie and the space around him. “Fine. I was kidnapped by a serial killer and I have no chance of escape. No one is going to find me and I’m going to rot down here.”

Speaking on your thoughts ushers in a new sense of finality and it’s greatly unsettling. Charlie, on the other hand, is entirely unaffected. Whether that’s because he’s already dead or simply because he has a firm handle on his emotions, you’re unsure.

You’re not sure how long you spend falling apart on that armchair, nor how long it takes for you to pull yourself back together. All you know is this unfamiliar feeling that tugs you back up above the roaring waves, pushing you to try again when all feels pointless. “I can’t die here,” you announce. The words linger in the air long after you utter them.

“So don’t,” Charlie replies simply.

“I wish it were that easy,” you breathe. Faint traces of voices break you from your reverie and you stare at the basement wall intensely, before abandoning the gesture moments later when nothing happens. You look back at Charlie, whose eyes snap back to you as if he was also distracted by the sound. “Hannibal… He’s too perceptive. It won’t work.” You’re forced to think back to the rapidity with which he disarmed you.

You sense what Charlie’s going to say before he says it. “You don’t know that unless you try.”

“There’s no point,” you sigh frustratedly.

“How long will you perpetuate this cycle?” Charlie asks, a worried frown on his face. “You give yourself hope, only to take it away again. You are the one in control here.”

That’s not true. You’re not in control—Hannibal is the puppet master. But you suppose your therapist is correct, in a sense: your emotions are your own. “Fine,” you acquiesce. “I need to put an end to this. I can’t be trapped down here for the rest of my life. I need to try, at the very least.”

Somehow, the placating smile on Charlie’s face still looks smug. You put it down to your imagination. “What are your options, then?” He questions.

“Well…” You trail off. “I could fashion a weapon out of something in the room. But I’ve been downgraded to plastic silverware since the fork incident…”

“I could also try to reason with him. That definitely wouldn’t work, because he’s already convinced and can’t be persuaded. Hannibal shows no remorse for his actions and he will likely spend the rest of his life killing.”

You find yourself faced with the same troubling conclusion that has provoked your inaction. “I have no power, no authority in this situation.” It doesn’t take long for the reality of the situation to set in once more. “He’s not trying to get better.” Only in the depths of your mind, before your conjured visage of Charlie, does your voice betray the defeat you feel.

“But he brought you here,” Charlie reminds you. You tap your fingers restlessly against the arm of the chair. “He must’ve taken you for a reason, even if it wasn’t for you to help him. What do you think that reason is?” He prompts.

“He’s…” You break off. “He enjoys being in control and exerting authority.” That explanation sounds flimsy, even to you. The truth of the matter is staring you in the face, but you’re too unsettled to acknowledge it.

“You’re grossly underestimating your value,” Charlie hums, perceptive as always. “You are valuable to him.” You’re unwittingly reminded of his gentle touch as he bandaged your palm; the intensity with which he gazes at you (especially when he thinks you don’t notice). You can deny it no longer.

“Somehow, I interest him.” You say. Charlie nods; you’re on the right track. Something pushes you to shake your head and abandon that thought process. Inexplicably, you know you won’t like what you find there if you push any further.

“I need to focus on how to get out of here,” you announce. Charlie arches a brow, but gracefully allows you to change the subject. Yet the unspoken sentiment adds a tension to the air that wasn’t present previously. You both know just how far Hannibal’s intrigue goes, yet you’re not comfortable with addressing it.

“You’ve looked around the room,” Charlie then prompts.

“Many times,” you acquiesce. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to look again. There are two padlocks—one on the bedpost and one on the chain around my ankle. The lock on the chain could be picked with a pin. I doubt he has a pin lying around, but a nail or something like that could work…”

Charlie nods approvingly. You roll your eyes and willingly retreat from your mind palace, returning to the room around you with renewed resolve. That resolve slowly wanes when you don’t find anything in the main room. But when you walk into the bathroom, you realize there’s a landscape painting on the wall. It must be secured with a nail. Surely enough, when you remove it from the wall, a single nail is left behind. It looks bent already, but it’ll have to do. Studying the room, you decide to stuff the painting in the cabinets beneath the sink. You’ve never seen Hannibal use this bathroom and you’ll have to trust that assumption. Hope brews in your chest, but you can’t quite bring yourself to trust it.

When you leave the bathroom and enter the basement, you sit on the bed in silence—waiting for Hannibal to stalk in and thwart your escape attempts. After an immeasurable amount of time spent holding your breath, you manage to convince yourself to work on the padlock around your ankle. The nail you found is rigid and uncompromising, which forces you to exert an unnecessary amount of strength to manipulate it into a suitable shape.

The chain is rattling ever so slightly as you attempt to free yourself from it. Your breathing is extremely loud in your ears and you’re frantically fighting off the growing potential for Hannibal to walk in and catch you in the middle of the act. Your heart is thudding steadily and quickly in your chest. This is the moment you’ve been waiting for. You’ve waited for this chance and you’re not going to blow it. Your fingers calloused and throbbing, you firmly maneuver the nail and the padlock finally pops open. You place it on the bed gently, before shakily taking off the manacle. Your ankle is bruised and irritated, but it’s not broken and you don’t feel too much pain. After a moment, you decide to hide the padlock under the comforter. It doesn’t really matter if you hide it—Hannibal will notice your absence regardless.

You take a deep breath and get off the bed, stealthily walking towards the glass doors at the other side of the room. You’ve been staring through them for so long now, but you were never able to get close enough to open them—let alone see your surroundings. Now, you find that it’s afternoon—as the sun casts a warm glow on the sky. You slide the lock of the door and pull up on the interior pin, before gently sliding it. Of course, the door catches on the track and shudders—but you manage to put it back as quietly as you can.

Your shoes finally meet the pavement and you’re free. You’re actually free.

You take a deep breath of fresh air and survey your surroundings, only to see a never ending expanse of trees on all sides. You’re in the middle of the woods.

Fuck.

You had a clear plan in your mind: escape the house, run down the populated street, and find the nearest approachable stranger to ask for help. The second step of your plan has already failed: there is no street or neighborhood—only forest as far as the eye can see. It takes everything you have not to fall to your knees and cry. Crying won’t do you any good.

At first, you take silent, measured steps away from the house—afraid to make any sound. As the house shrinks in the distance, however, you break into a jog and, eventually, a full-out sprint. You don’t know where you’re going—you just hope to put as much distance between Hannibal and you as possible. (Of course, it’s likely that he knows these woods a lot better than you do. That’s only another reason to prioritize speed over getting your bearings.)

In hindsight, you wish you had attempted to sneak upstairs and steal something from his house: a wallet, a phone, a weapon, anything. But you just couldn’t risk it. Not to mention… you had banked on finding yourself in a cookie-cutter neighborhood, not in the middle of nowhere.

You’re not sure how long you’re running. You don’t stop until your legs threaten to give out. Then, you brace yourself against a tree and try to catch your breath for a few minutes. The pain in your chest fading and your breath restored, you remove your hand from the tree and stand upright—only to see a figure a short distance from you. You squint and try to make it out. For a moment, it’s stationary and you’re fooled into thinking it’s an object. Then it moves, and you’re forced to come to a nauseating conclusion: Hannibal followed you.

“No,” you say. “No, no, no, no.” Your shoe slides back as you step backwards, leaves and sticks crunching under your feet. You’re hardly able to believe your eyes—frozen in fear as Hannibal strides towards you. Your survival instincts don’t kick in until he’s far closer, and you immediately whip around and run.

You don’t get far before he’s tackling you to the ground. The sharp edges of his body press into you and you try to throw him off, bucking underneath him. His grip is insistent and he stares down at you with a blank expression. You manage to pull your knee up far enough to hit him, causing his grip to slacken and giving you an outlet of escape. You shove him off of you and kick at his side, but he manages to maneuver to the side and dodge.

Something at his side catches the light. He’s holding a knife. You’re holding your hands out in front of you, as if that will somehow stop the killer in front of you from making you another victim. With blinding speed, Hannibal is lunging towards you and sinking the knife into your thigh. You scream and manage to push him away, though your attempt at disarming him is futile. You immediately clamp a hand against your bleeding leg, gritting your teeth as stars pass across your vision. Hannibal continues his pursuit, forcing you to stumble backwards.

“Hannibal,” you choke out, your voice thick. You think you taste blood in your mouth—probably from biting the inside of your cheek too hard. There is almost no emotion in Hannibal’s eyes, save for one confusing one: betrayal. Did he expect you to stay? “Please.” What are you begging for? Do you want mercy, or do you want an end to this madness?

Either way, Hannibal extends his hand towards you. You’re shaking, blood dripping from your lip as you stare at him. The gesture is a peace offering of sorts: come willingly, and I won’t hurt you, he’s trying to say. You’re not so easily fooled. You never had a choice.

You still shake your head, a pained whimper wrenching its way out of your lips. You instinctively step backwards. In the blink of an eye, the world is spinning around you and you’re falling to the forest floor. (If a tree falls in a forest with no one to hear it, does it make a sound?) You blink dazedly, your vision slowly blurring. Leaves crunch near your cheek as Hannibal draws ever closer. You try to reach out a hand to resist, but you can only twitch for moments before your eyes are slipping shut.

When you can finally fight off the exhaustion seeping into your form, you blink past dry eyes and stare up at an achingly familiar ceiling. You push yourself up weakly, only to find yourself in Hannibal’s basement once more. There’s a sturdier chain around your ankle, and a new, bulkier padlock securing the chain. All you can hear is your ragged breathing and the awful ringing in your ears. Taking a shuddering breath, you bury your head in your hands.

endnotes: Here's some dialogue I couldn’t find a place for:

“I don’t particularly care.” “That doesn’t sound like you,” Hannibal responds. “You don’t know me,” you feel the need to remind him. “And I haven’t felt like myself in quite some time.”

Hannibal's boujee ass definitely has a state of the art security system in his home… Methinks the reader triggered the alarm system in their escape and it sent Hannibal's phone a notification…

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