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fleurbly · 3 days ago

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THE MAN IN THE WOODS

summary: a quiet walk home turns dark when the man who’s been watching finally steps out — blood on his hands, your name on his lips, and no plan to ever let you go.

warnings: non-con (subtle/psychological themes), dub-con, obsessive behaviour, stalking, violence/gore, murder/s, possessive character, blood, threats/intimadation, breeding kink

pairing: dark!remmick x reader

w/c: 11k+

DNI IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO TAGS, AND ARE UNDER 18

The Mississippi heat was sticking to you in a way that felt like it was just part of you now, like you couldn’t really shake it off. Thick, heavy, like the whole air was holding its breath. You were used to it by now, but that didn’t mean it didn’t get to you some days — like today, when the sweat was rolling down your back, and your dress felt like it was clinging to you like a second skin. It had a way of making everything slow down. You could feel it in the way the hours dragged by. Nothing moved fast when it was this hot, not even the wind.

You had stayed later in town than you meant to, but it wasn’t unusual. You never minded, really. Mrs. Avery had needed your help with the post office, and then you ended up talking with Miss Harriet for a while, listening to her ramble about things that didn’t matter, but you liked listening anyway. It wasn’t until the sun was a sliver on the horizon that you realized how much time had passed. And, sure, you could’ve taken the main road back, but you preferred this one. The back road that led through the edge of the woods, where the trees felt like an old friend, and the sound of the insects buzzing was the only thing that kept you company. It was quieter that way.

The stories had been getting worse lately — things going missing, bodies turning up in strange places. You’d heard the talk. The whispers at the market, the older folks talking in hushed voices, the sudden stares you got when people thought you weren’t paying attention. But you didn’t feel scared, not exactly. You had walked this path for years, had heard the same stories told over and over again. People got lost, sometimes, and some of them never came back, but that was just life around here. Life, death, and everything in between.

You tried not to think about it too much, but as the last bit of daylight started to fade, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Not that it was anything new, really — not in the Delta. The woods were always full of strange sounds at night. Always full of shadows that seemed to stretch longer than they should. And the feeling? It had come before. Maybe just nerves. Maybe nothing at all. It didn’t matter. You kept walking. Your boots pressed into the soft earth, the sound muffled by the dampness in the air.

But tonight, the quiet was heavier. The trees seemed to close in a little more, their thick branches blocking out the last of the light, casting shadows that seemed to move when you weren’t looking. It was the kind of quiet that made you wonder if you were the only one walking this path. You couldn’t hear the birds, the usual buzz of crickets. Just silence. The deep kind that settled over everything and made you feel like you weren’t meant to be here.

You shook it off. Told yourself it was just the night playing tricks. You kept moving, turning the corner past the old fence where the wood had started to rot years ago. The same stretch of road you’d passed a hundred times. But as you stepped deeper into the woods, there was a shift in the air. The kind that made your stomach tighten just a little. The kind that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up, like you were being watched, even though you couldn’t see anyone. You didn’t stop walking, but you did slow down, your senses sharp in a way they hadn’t been before.

And then, you saw him.

At first, it was just a figure. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He was standing in the shadows, like he belonged there, his back to you. And for a second, you thought maybe you’d imagined it, maybe you’d caught the wrong glimpse of something in the dimming light. But the longer you stared, the more you felt like there was no way he could’ve been anything but real. His presence didn’t make a sound. Didn’t stir the air around him like it should’ve. It was like he was... waiting. Standing perfectly still.

You almost turned around, almost told yourself you should’ve taken the main road after all. But you didn’t. You stood there for a beat too long, unsure of what to do. He wasn’t moving. Didn’t look like he was about to. But there was something in the way he stood, something about the way the trees almost seemed to part around him, that made you feel like he wasn’t just passing by. Like he was waiting for you to notice.

When he finally turned, you felt the air change, like a sudden shift in pressure. His eyes met yours.

It was like nothing else mattered. Like time stopped for just a second, just long enough for you to notice the way the fading sunlight seemed to catch in his hair, the way the shadows made his face almost too perfect, too sharp to be real. And that smile — not one you’d ever seen before. It wasn’t kind, exactly, but it wasn’t threatening either. Just... knowing. Like he had something figured out, something you weren’t meant to understand yet.

But you felt it, anyway. The tension, the slow, almost magnetic pull.

And then, just like that, the world shifted again.

You didn’t know it, but that moment would be the last time things would ever feel the same.

You should’ve walked away. Every instinct in you screamed to turn around, to leave, to put some distance between you and the man standing just a few steps away, the man whose presence seemed to fill the entire space around you. But still, you stood there, rooted in place, like something—some force—had decided it wasn’t going to let you go.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, and the quiet stretched between you like a taut wire. You didn’t know what you were waiting for, but it felt like the world had paused, holding its breath. His gaze never wavered, steady, almost calculating, like he was trying to read you in a way that made your heart pick up the pace.

Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth with a slow southern drawl. "Tell you what, darlin’... it’s mighty late for someone like you to be wanderin’ out here all alone." He stepped forward, his boots barely making a sound against the dirt, but the small movement felt like it took up more space than it should’ve. Like he was somehow pulling the air closer to him, drawing you into his orbit.

You hesitated, trying not to let the flutter in your chest show. "I’m fine," you said, the words coming out a little too fast. "I’ve done this walk a thousand times before."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. His eyes flickered down to your hands, clenched at your sides, then back up to your face. "A thousand times, huh?" His lips quirked into a half-smile. "Well, darlin’, you sure do make it sound easy."

You shifted on your feet, trying to shake the strange feeling creeping up your spine. "I don’t need anyone walking me home."

He didn’t miss a beat, his grin widening just a touch. "Oh, I reckon that’s your call." He took a slow step closer, his voice lowering just a little. "But I’ve been out here a long time, seen a lot of things. Some of ‘em don’t belong in these woods." His gaze sharpened, just for a second, and there was something else in his tone now. "Not to mention all the strange happenings lately. Folks keep goin’ missin’ around here. Real shame, that."

You froze, your breath catching. "What do you mean, strange happenings?" you asked, though you already knew. The disappearances. The bodies found scattered across these very woods. The whispers. Everyone had heard the rumors, but no one dared to speak too openly about it.

He leaned in just a fraction, like he was about to tell you a secret. "Oh, just... you know. Folks not comin’ home at night. Bodies turnin’ up in places they shouldn’t be. Nothin’ good about that." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Not safe out here these days, darlin’. You sure you’re alright walkin’ alone?"

You swallowed, the chill creeping up your spine. You knew what he was hinting at, what everyone was whispering behind closed doors. "I’m fine," you said, but it came out much less convincing than you intended.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours. "Sure you are, darlin’. But even the toughest of folks could use a little company when things go sideways. You sure you don’t want someone with you? Wouldn’t want you to join the list of folks who got... lost." He flashed a grin, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and there was something dangerous lurking behind the casualness.

You bristled. "I’m good," you shot back, though it sounded more like a plea than a declaration. "I don’t need anyone."

He chuckled, low and dark, but with an ease that didn’t match the words. "Well, darlin’, that’s up to you." He stepped a little closer, eyes glinting with something unreadable. "But I’ve got a feelin’ you might change your mind soon enough. After all, we both know how the story goes around here. Stranger things than gettin' lost happen in these woods." His smile was lazy, but there was an edge to it, something that made your pulse quicken.

A subtle threat hung in the air between you, yet there was still something oddly... comforting about him. Something about the way he was standing, the way he moved with such certainty, made you hesitate, even as every instinct screamed at you to get away.

He took another step closer, his voice dropping lower, almost a whisper now. "I’ll walk you home," he said, as if it were already settled. "Wouldn’t want a lady like you to be out here alone with everything that’s been happenin’ around here lately."

You bit your lip, torn. A part of you wanted to refuse, to walk away from the situation entirely. But another part—something you couldn’t quite put your finger on—made you stay still. He was right, after all. The woods weren’t safe anymore.

Finally, you nodded, barely enough for him to notice. "Alright... fine," you muttered, hating how weak your voice sounded.

His smile widened, but it wasn’t kind. "Good choice, darlin’," he said, his voice soft yet steady, the kind of tone that carried an unspoken assurance. "Let’s get you home safe, then."

And with that, he fell into step beside you, his presence almost... comforting. The woods didn’t feel as suffocating anymore, the shadows not as dark. With him by your side, you felt less like you were walking into the unknown, and more like someone was guiding you through it. The path ahead didn’t seem so threatening, and for the first time tonight, you found yourself easing up just a little.

His steady stride kept time with yours, and even though you weren’t ready to fully trust him, there was something about the way he moved—something sure and quiet—that made it harder to keep your guard up. You had no idea where this would go, but for now, you weren’t alone, and that meant something.

After a few more minutes of walking in silence, you finally saw the familiar outline of your home ahead. The warmth of the night still clung to you, but the oppressive quiet of the woods started to fade as you neared your doorstep. The walk had felt longer than usual, and the air seemed to grow heavier with each step, but you didn’t mind.

Remmick kept pace beside you, his presence a strange mix of comforting and unsettling, until finally, the gate to your yard came into view. He didn’t say anything as you reached it, but just before you stepped through, he spoke, his voice low and steady.

“You be careful out here, darlin’,” he said, his gaze lingering on you for a second too long, like he wanted to make sure you understood.

You nodded, feeling a shiver run down your spine, though you couldn’t tell if it was from the heat or something else. “I will,” you replied quietly, your voice barely above a whisper.

He gave a half-smile, the same knowing grin from before. “Good,” he said simply, then took a step back into the shadows. “See you ‘round… names Remmick by the way.”

You didn’t say your name— too worried, and it seemed like he noticed that to. You watched him disappear into the night before turning toward your door. With a hand that felt almost numb, you turned the handle and stepped inside, the familiar creak of the door shutting behind you making it feel like the night was over. But the weight of everything that had happened lingered, like it wasn’t really finished at all.

And just like that, you were home.

It started the night he left you at your gate.

You didn’t notice it right away. At first, it was subtle — an odd sensation, like the remnants of a conversation you couldn’t shake off, the kind that clung to you even after the words had ended. It wasn’t something that jumped out at you, not at first. Just the faintest trace of unease. You told yourself it was nothing — just the lingering tension of meeting someone like him in the woods, a man who had the unsettling ability to smile too easily, stand too still, and know just a little too much about you. You thought it was your mind playing tricks, a fleeting discomfort that would disappear with time.

You tried to sleep that night, but the feeling didn’t go away. It settled on your chest, heavy and suffocating, like something was watching you from the shadows. Like something was waiting. Every time you closed your eyes, it was there, lurking at the edges of your consciousness. The memory of his smile. His eyes, so steady, so calculating. It lingered in your mind like a flicker of a memory that hadn’t quite been made yet.

But it wasn’t just the first night that left its mark.

By the second night, it was worse.

The tightness in your chest had grown, a feeling of unease that gnawed at the edges of your mind. You couldn’t sleep, not even in fits. The air in your bedroom had turned thick and suffocating, as though the very walls were closing in around you. It was too hot, too heavy, like trying to breathe through cloth. You tossed and turned, futilely opening windows to let in a breeze that never came, then closing them again when the humidity grew worse. You left the light on, hoping the soft glow would bring comfort, but it only reminded you of how much you wanted to turn it off, to surrender to the dark. You shut your eyes, only to open them again, staring at the shadows in the corners of your room, hoping they would stay still. Hoping the night would pass.

But the quiet was too loud. The stillness felt too alive.

You began checking the locks more frequently. Not just the back door, but the windows too, making sure they were secure. You even double-checked the small, unimportant things, like the kitchen cabinet, the pantry door. Anything that could have been moved. Anything that didn’t feel right. Still, no matter how many times you checked, the discomfort wouldn’t leave. You never saw anything. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

The heat, the oppressive Mississippi heat, didn’t help either. It pressed down on everything; the old wood of your porch, the dampness of your sheets, the sticky sweat that clung to your skin. The air felt like it had taken on a life of its own, moving sluggishly around you, crawling along your neck, down your spine. The weight of it made you feel like your skin was too tight, like there was something inside you, waiting to break free. Something that shouldn’t be there. Something that had crawled under your skin and wouldn’t leave.

You needed to get out.

So you went to town, hoping for the relief of movement, the comfort of people. Just the sound of everyday life. The hustle of the bakery, the familiar gossip at the market. Anything that felt real. Anything that wasn’t this unshakable feeling of being watched.

It was late afternoon when you wandered past the bakery, the warm, golden sun sitting low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the street. The heat was just as bad as it had been the past few days, but you didn’t mind. Not much you could do about it anyway. The town had its usual lazy rhythm, with people moving in slow, deliberate motions, their faces slack with the weight of the air. But there was something in the air today. Something different. The usual hum of life felt muffled, drowned out by a strange stillness.

You didn’t mention your sleepless nights. You didn’t mention how you hadn’t been able to shake that feeling for the past three nights, that prickling sensation that had settled just beneath your skin, like someone was standing just behind you, breathing down your neck. You didn’t tell anyone about the dreams — not quite dreams, more like flickering images of a man standing at the end of your bed, silent, still, always watching, always smiling. But you weren’t ready to say anything. You didn’t want to sound crazy.

Maybe it was the heat. That’s what you told yourself as you stepped into the general store, grateful for the stale, cool air that rushed to meet you. But it didn’t quite reach your skin. Your thoughts kept wandering back to that night. To his smile. To the way his eyes had looked at you. Something about it had stuck. And it gnawed at you, quietly, as you ran your fingers over the shelves, distracted and restless.

You were so lost in thought that you didn’t notice Jesse until you heard his voice.

“Hey. You alright?”

You looked up, startled, and saw him standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, his brow furrowed with concern.

You hadn’t realized how tense your shoulders were until he spoke. His presence, so casual and familiar, made you realize just how much you’d been on edge all day.

“I’m fine,” you said, exhaling a breath you hadn’t known you were holding. “Just needed a few things.”

He didn’t seem convinced. His eyes narrowed slightly, studying you, as though he could see right through your words. “You sure? You look a little… worn out.”

The comment made you laugh, but it was more out of discomfort than anything else. “Thanks,” you replied, trying to make light of it. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”

“I mean it,” he pressed, stepping closer with a frown pulling at the corners of his lips. “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

You didn’t respond. He wasn’t wrong. It had been days, maybe longer, since you’d gotten a full night of sleep. Since the night you met him.

“I’ve just been a little… off lately,” you said, the words slipping out before you could stop them. You could hear the hesitation in your voice, the way you were avoiding the truth.

Jesse took a step closer, his expression softening. “You know, you can talk to me if something’s bothering you. I don’t mind.”

You forced a smile, but it felt more like a grimace. “It’s nothing, really. Just one of those weeks.”

Jesse glanced out the window, squinting at the low-setting sun, its warm rays creeping between the buildings, casting long, golden streaks across the floor. He turned back to you, his gaze lingering on your face, searching for something you weren’t sure you wanted him to find.

“You heading home soon?” he asked, his voice quieter now, more deliberate.

You nodded, shifting on your feet. “Yeah. Just need to grab a few things.”

He glanced down at his watch, then looked up again. “You taking the long way home?”

The question hit you harder than you expected. The long way. The path you’d been avoiding in the past few days. The one you used to walk without a second thought, but now it felt different. Heavy. Haunted. You hesitated, trying to buy time.

“Yeah, I think so,” you said, your voice unsure.

Jesse didn’t push it, but his eyes lingered on you for a moment too long. “Let me walk you,” he said after a beat, his tone firm but not forceful. “It’s getting late. And I don’t think you should be out there alone.”

His offer, simple as it was, sent a strange feeling through you. A part of you wanted to decline, to keep your distance, but another part — the part that had been feeling so exposed lately — welcomed the offer.

You wanted to refuse. You wanted to tell him that you didn’t need anyone walking you home. That you could handle it. But when you opened your mouth, the words didn’t come out. Instead, you nodded slowly, your lips parting in a soft sigh. “Alright,” you said, the heaviness of the words settling on you. “I’d appreciate it.”

As soon as the words left your mouth, you felt a strange sense of relief mixed with something else, something that lingered at the back of your throat. You hadn’t meant to invite him along, but now that he was here, it felt… necessary. His presence, quiet but steady, seemed to ease the tightness in your chest, even if only just a little.

The sun was already slipping behind the trees by the time you finished your shopping. The storefronts bled amber light onto the sidewalks, but the sky above was fading fast — from hazy gold to bruised purple. Jesse stayed close, trailing quietly beside you as you stepped outside, the air thick with heat and something else — something colder that you couldn’t name.

The walk began in silence.

People had retreated indoors. Porch lights flicked on. Insects buzzed around street lamps. The town folded itself inward for the night, leaving you and Jesse alone with the steady sound of your footsteps.

It didn’t take long for the streets to give way to the quieter, tree-lined path you always took home. Familiar, but not in a comforting way — not anymore. You kept your eyes ahead, not daring to glance too long at the shifting shapes in the woods just off the road.

Jesse walked beside you, hands tucked in his pockets, his gaze occasionally drifting toward you.

“How have you really been?” he asked after a stretch of silence. His tone was softer now, less casual than before — like he wasn’t just making conversation, like he actually wanted to know.

You hesitated. “I’ve had better weeks,” you admitted. It wasn’t a confession, not really, but it was more honest than what you’d been saying to everyone else.

He nodded slightly, like he understood something in your voice. “Thought so.”

You didn’t say anything else. Part of you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to explain it — the nights spent staring at the ceiling, the feeling of something in the room with you even when it was empty, the way you caught yourself checking over your shoulder like a nervous habit.

“I keep waking up,” you finally said. “Middle of the night. No reason. Just… wide awake and certain someone’s there.”

Jesse’s eyes shifted to you again, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I thought maybe it was just in my head at first. You know, stress or heat or something stupid. But it hasn’t stopped.”

“It started a few nights ago. After I walked home alone.” There it was — out loud. And now that it was, it felt heavier.

Jesse was quiet for a long moment before he spoke again. “Why didn’t you say something?”

You shrugged. “I didn’t want to sound crazy.”

His voice came low. “You don’t.”

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “Feels like I do.”

The trees thickened ahead, the stretch of road narrowing as the shadows crept in faster than the fading light. You could feel it again — that pressure at the base of your neck, the one that told you to run even when nothing was behind you.

It was only another couple of minutes in silence, you walked a little faster without meaning to.

Jesse noticed. “Hey,” he said gently, “we’re almost there.”

You nodded, eyes still forward, heart picking up a beat. The path wasn’t long, but in the dark, it stretched out like something else entirely — like a hallway with no end. The wind stirred the branches above you, and for a second, it sounded too much like whispering.

“I don’t like this road,” you said, more to yourself than to him.

Jesse didn’t answer right away. “I don’t either,” he admitted. “Never have.”

That caught you off guard. You glanced at him. “You used to live near here, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said, then hesitated. “Used to hear things out here at night. Long time ago.”

A shiver crept up your spine. “Like what?”

He paused. “Voices. Footsteps. Once I swore I saw someone just standing in the woods. But when I looked again, there was nothing.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t.

The last bend came into view — the one that would lead to your driveway. You felt the pull of home, of safety, just out of reach.

You were almost home when Jesse’s voice finally faltered. The familiar turn onto the last stretch of road had come into view, and the trees around it began to lean in closer, their branches curling overhead like fingers. Fireflies blinked in the tall grass by the ditches, but even their glow felt dim against the dark swallowing the horizon.

“I can walk you the rest of the way,” Jesse had offered earlier, his voice low but steady. “It’s not a trouble.”

You’d turned to him, the hem of your sundress brushing your knees as a breeze picked up. You’d really looked at him — his brows furrowed, jaw tense in the fading light. It wasn’t just a polite offer. He meant it.

Still, you had hesitated. He had already stayed longer than he needed to, and he had farther to go. You didn’t want to keep him longer than necessary. Plus, you didn’t want to worry him — not when you weren’t even sure what you were afraid of.

“No,” you’d said softly, offering a faint smile. “That’s alright. You should head back before it gets too dark then it already is. I’m almost there.”

He’d held your gaze a beat longer, like he might argue, but eventually gave a slow nod. “Alright. If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure.”

He’d stepped back, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his figure swallowed slowly by the darkening trees. The silence crept in behind him, not sudden, but steady — like water filling a room.

You’d taken a breath, glanced down the road toward home, and started walking again. The gravel shifted under your shoes, the sound oddly loud in the stillness. Your dress clung a little to your skin in the humid air. Cicadas buzzed in the distance. Somewhere nearby, an owl called once, then fell quiet.

Then, a scream.

It came from behind you, from the woods Jesse had just disappeared into. It wasn’t just a shout, not something startled or careless. It was deep, guttural — raw and sharp with an edge that made your blood run cold.

You froze. Turned. The trees stood still, unmoving, their shadows stretching like long fingers reaching into the dark.

Another scream ripped through the air, even more tortured than the last. It didn’t sound like Jesse, not in any way you’d ever heard him before. It was something else — something full of agony.

“Jesse?” you called, but your voice trembled and was lost in the thick night air. Too soft. Too quiet.

You waited, every second stretching out like hours. But there was nothing. No response.

And then it came again. A scream, this one louder than the others, piercing the silence in a way that felt like it was coming from everywhere. All around you. And then — silence.

The kind of silence that felt wrong. Thick. Heavy.

You stood there, frozen. Your heart hammered in your chest, and your breath came shallow. You didn’t know what to do. You wanted to run, but your feet wouldn’t move. The trees loomed like dark sentinels, the forest closing in on you with the weight of something terrible.

But it was just the night, right?

The sound of the woods shifted, a crack in the dark.

It wasn’t Jesse.

It couldn’t be.

You didn’t know how long you stood there, but eventually, you forced yourself to turn back toward your house. It was only a few more steps, and maybe if you just kept walking, you could ignore whatever was happening behind you.

But that wasn’t possible, was it?

You couldn’t stay out here in the dark. You needed to be inside. You needed safety. The front porch of your house was just a few steps away. Just a few more steps, and you’d be able to shut the door behind you, lock it, and pretend none of this had ever happened.

But as your foot hit the first step of the porch, the sound you had been trying to ignore hit you again. This time it was your name being yelled.

It was Jesse’s voice, unmistakable.

The scream rang out with a desperation that cut through the night air like a blade. And it wasn’t just the tone of it, but the way it broke, jagged and guttural, that sent a wave of panic crashing through your body. The kind of panic that made your blood run cold. The way he said your name made your chest tighten with fear, like he was calling you for help — like he was begging.

You froze on the porch, your heart leaping into your throat. Your hands trembled, the grocery bags now slipping from your fingers and crashing to the floor in a mess of sound. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. All that mattered was that sound. Jesse’s scream. His call.

Your feet moved before your mind could catch up, your legs shaking as you turned and sprinted back toward the woods. The weight of your steps seemed heavier now, the path to the trees long and endless, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t stop. Not now. Not when he was still out there — in the dark, in the woods, screaming for you.

The road seemed to stretch on forever, but finally, the trees swallowed you again. The sharp smell of the earth hit you, the wet grass, the cool air between the trunks a relief from the suffocating heat, but none of it felt real. Not anymore. All you could hear was the sound of your own ragged breath and the call of Jesse’s voice echoing through the woods, tearing at your chest.

“Jesse!” you screamed, your voice raw, but it was lost in the thick air, swallowed whole by the trees.

Your heart pounded in your ears, the panic rising like a wave, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Something deep inside you — something that you couldn’t explain, not even to yourself — refused to let you go back to the safety of your house. It was as if the woods were pulling you in, and Jesse’s voice was the only thing that mattered.

You pushed forward, running faster now, the distance between you and the last place you’d heard him scream growing shorter with every step. Every branch that scraped your skin, every twist of the undergrowth beneath your feet, felt like nothing. Nothing compared to the sound of his voice calling for you.

The woods stretched endlessly before you, dark and suffocating, but you didn’t stop running. Branches scratched at your arms, the hem of your sundress catching on underbrush, but the sting didn’t register. Your lungs burned with every breath. All you could hear was the fading echo of your name on Jesse’s voice, still ringing in your ears, raw and pleading.

“Jesse!” you screamed again, but it sounded smaller now, swallowed by the trees, useless.

You pushed deeper.

The dirt beneath your feet was damp, soft with recent rain, and your shoes slipped as you clambered down a slope you hadn’t noticed before. You caught yourself on a tree trunk, breath catching in your throat. The air had shifted — no longer just humid, but colder now. Wrong. You could feel it pressing in around you, thick and still.

And then — something.

A shape, low to the ground. Just ahead in the clearing.

You stumbled forward, one slow step at a time, heart beating like a war drum in your chest. And then the shape resolved. You saw the boots first. Familiar. Mud-caked. Still.

Your stomach dropped.

“Jesse?”

You crept closer, voice trembling.

He was there, lying on his side in the wet grass, the folds of his shirt soaked dark and heavy. His body was twisted, one arm outstretched, fingers curled into the earth as if he’d tried to hold on. But it was the angle of his neck — the way his head had fallen too far back — that told you something was horribly wrong.

You fell to your knees beside him.

“Jesse—” your voice cracked, catching in your throat as your eyes finally took in the full horror of it.

His throat — or what was left of it — had been torn open. Not cleanly. Not like a knife would do. This was rough, brutal. Something had ripped into him with teeth, shredded muscle and sinew, left bone exposed. Blood soaked the grass around him, still wet, still warm.

Your hands hovered uselessly above him, too afraid to touch, as if reaching out would make it real. His face was pale, lips parted slightly, eyes glassy — but open. Staring. Not at you. Not at anything.

A soft sob escaped your lips. The sound didn’t belong to you. None of this did. None of it could be real.

You backed away, slowly standing up. You couldn’t take your eyes off him. Jesse, who had smiled at you only minutes ago. Jesse, who had offered to walk you home. Jesse, who had screamed your name like it was the last thing he’d ever say.

And it was.

You wiped at your face, not realizing you were crying until your hand came away wet. The stillness around you felt heavy now. A silence not of peace, but of something waiting.

Then — the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

Something was here.

You didn’t hear it move. You didn’t see it. But you felt it. A presence. Something wrong. Something watching.

You turned slowly.

The woods behind you were too dark, the tree trunks pressed too closely together. You couldn’t see anything — but that didn’t matter. You knew. The way your gut twisted, the way your skin prickled. You were not alone.

You didn’t move.

The woods held still around you, suffocating in their silence, and the cold that had crept in earlier now settled deep beneath your skin. Your breath hitched in your throat as your gaze swept the trees, searching for whatever had stirred the air behind you. For a long second, there was nothing.

Then, from between the trunks — slow, deliberate — a figure stepped into view.

It was a man.

At first, the shape of him was just shadow and movement. But then the light shifted, and you saw his face.

Remmick.

Your breath left you in a soundless gasp.

It was him — the man who had walked you home just days ago, calm and courteous, his voice low and drawn with that rasp that curled at the edges of his words like smoke. The man who had said your name like it tasted sweet on his tongue. The man who, even then, had looked like he knew more than he let on.

He wasn’t breathing hard. Wasn’t flustered. His movements were slow, easy, almost casual.

Like he’d been here a while.

Watching.

His eyes found yours, and that same, familiar half-smile touched his mouth — the one that had seemed harmless once. Kind, even. Now it felt like a hook just beneath your skin.

“Well now,” he said, voice soft, coated in something you couldn’t name. “Ain’t you a sight.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even will your mouth to move. You felt frozen where you stood, just yards from Jesse’s lifeless body, the scent of blood still thick in your nose.

Remmick’s gaze drifted past you, to the place in the grass where Jesse lay twisted and ruined, and for a heartbeat, his expression didn’t change at all. No surprise. No horror. Nothing.

He already knew.

He took another step, the leaves rustling beneath his boots, you still couldn’t see him clearly.

“Didn’t mean to give you a fright, darlin’,” he said, slow and easy, like you were still back on that quiet walk home, like there wasn’t blood drying under his nails.

You swallowed hard, but the dryness in your mouth made it useless. “Remmick…”

It came out thinner than you wanted. A whisper. A question.

He looked at you again — really looked — and the softness behind his eyes shifted. Not cruel. Not angry. But something darker. Like he was peeling something back. Like whatever mask he wore had been slipping this whole time and he’d finally let it fall.

“I was hopin’ we’d see each other again,” he murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Just didn’t think it’d be quite like this.”

Your knees locked. You couldn’t step back. Couldn’t flee. The woods behind you weren’t safety — they were a cage. You were stuck between Jesse’s body and Remmick’s bloody figure, the air too thick to breathe, your heart thudding so loud you swore he could hear it.

He smiled again — slower this time. Warmer. Like he thought you might smile back.

“C’mon now,” he said, his voice dipping low, nearly fond. “Ain’t nothin’ to be scared of.” But your body knew better. It was screaming. And somewhere deep inside, so did you.

You stumbled backward, your breath hitching in your throat as he fully emerged from the shadows, parting the trees like they were nothing. The moonlight barely touched him, but that little bit was enough. You saw the blood first—thick, dark, and smeared across his shirt, soaking into the collar, dripping down his neck. It clung to him like a second skin, and his chin was streaked with it, as though he hadn’t cared enough to wipe it off.

The blood glistened, fresh and wet, a stark contrast against the black of the night, but it was the way it soaked into him that made you freeze. He looked like something else entirely. Something not quite human.

His eyes met yours, cold and unwavering, as if you were nothing more than a passing thought in his mind, and for the first time, you realized how wrong you were about him.

“What…” Your voice trembled, the word barely leaving your lips as you took a step back. Your hands were shaking, but you couldn’t look away from the blood that stained his clothes and most definitely staining him. “What are you?”

He stepped forward slowly, one foot in front of the other, parting the branches around him like he was walking through a world that had bent to his will.

And when he spoke, his voice was calm. Too calm. Thick, like honey pouring over you, suffocating you.

“You ain’t askin’ the right question, dove,” he drawled, his Southern accent curling around every word, wrapping them up in something dangerous. “But I suppose you wouldn’t know how to yet.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps as you struggled to form a coherent thought.

“What did you do to Jesse?” You finally forced the words out, though they came out choked, angry. “What the hell did you do to him?”

Remmick’s gaze drifted behind you, toward the clearing, where Jesse’s body lay lifeless in the grass. His blood had soaked the ground, leaving a dark stain that was already beginning to sink into the earth. But Remmick didn’t seem to care. His eyes didn’t flicker toward the body with any kind of guilt.

He only looked back at you, and his voice was disturbingly quiet, though it was no less menacing.

“Somethin’ tried to take what’s mine,” he said, the words slow and deliberate. “And I don’t take kindly to that.”

You shook your head, the weight of his words pressing in on you like a heavy stone. “He didn’t try anything,” you spat, trying to back away, but your legs felt like they were made of jelly.

Remmick took another step toward you, his eyes never leaving yours. “Didn’t matter. He touched you. Walked you home. Spoke your name like it belonged to him.”

Your heart stopped. You had a sickening feeling in the pit of your stomach, like something cold and dark was wrapping around you, slowly choking the breath from your lungs.

“That ain’t how this works.”

You swallowed hard. “You killed him,” you said, the words tasting like ash in your mouth, but it was a truth you couldn’t ignore. The horror of it swirled inside you, threatening to consume everything you knew.

Remmick didn’t deny it. His lips curled upward in a slow, almost affectionate smile.

“You’re a monster,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but it was enough to make his smile falter, if only for a fraction of a second.

He took a step closer, the blood on his shirt now darkened to a sickening rust color. His hands were covered too, but they were still steady, his posture calm as if he hadn’t just committed an atrocity.

“I ain’t like the things out here,” he said, his voice low and rough, his drawl thicker now, like he was speaking through smoke. “But I ain’t human, neither. Not in the way you think.”

You stepped back again, your chest heaving, the panic rising within you like a tidal wave. You had to get away. You had to run, but your feet wouldn’t obey you. Your legs felt like they were cemented to the ground.

“But I meant it when I called you mine,” he added, his voice almost reverent.

A chill ran through your spine as you tried to process his words. “You’re crazy,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him, but the words felt heavy. “You don’t even know me.”

He tilted his head slightly, and for a moment, you thought you saw something flicker in his eyes. Maybe regret. Maybe something else. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“I know you better than anyone ever could,” he said softly, stepping closer still. “Better than the man who thought he could take you home. Better than anyone who thought they could walk beside you. I was watchin’ over you long before he ever came around, long before you even known it.”

You recoiled from his words, his presence, everything about him. This wasn’t protection. This wasn’t love. This was obsession. The kind that made your blood run cold and your skin crawl.

“I saw you,” he continued, his voice lower now, like he was telling a secret only you were meant to hear. “When you were walkin’ home from town, your eyes down, not a soul beside you. I saw you. I was there. I always was.”

He took another step closer, his gaze moving lower, his eyes lingering on the hem of your sundress, the curve of your trembling hands.

“You don’t know how hard it was,” he murmured. “Seein’ you, walkin’ in those woods, all alone. You smelled like summer, like innocence. And I had to fight every instinct not to touch you. Not to ruin you right then and there. But I thought to myself, ‘It’s okay Remmick, you can wait abit longer, you’ve always been waiting for her’.”

You felt a sickening twist in your stomach. The weight of his words hit you like a punch, but the most horrifying part wasn’t what he said. It was the way he said it — as if this had been a slow, inevitable fate, and you were always meant to be his.

“You’re not—” You choked on the words, trying to push back against the terror crawling up your throat. “You’re not in love with me. You’re obsessed. There’s a difference.”

He smirked, the corners of his mouth curving upward in something twisted. It wasn’t affection. It wasn’t love. It was something far darker, more primal.

“That’s right,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m obsessed with you. And I always will be. You don’t get to walk away from this. Not now. Not ever.”

You backed away, the sickening feeling of his presence pressing in on you, suffocating you. But the moment you did, he stepped closer again, the distance between you closing like the jaws of a trap.

“Once something belongs to me,” he murmured, his voice dark with an unholy promise, “it stays mine.”

Something inside you snapped at that moment, causing you to run. The woods swallowed your footsteps the way a mouth swallows breath — quiet and final. Your legs screamed to keep running, but the moment your foot snagged on a root slick with mud, the world tilted sideways. You hit the ground hard, palms slapping the earth, the breath knocked clean from your lungs.

You turned over, gasping, scrambling backward on your hands. Bark bit into your spine as you hit a tree.

And he was already there.

Remmick stepped into view with the slow ease of something that had never needed to run. The moon cast a dull sheen on the blood across his throat, his chest, soaking deep into the collar of his shirt. It clung to him like it belonged there. His eyes caught the light in a way that didn’t look real.

You tried to speak, “Remmick—” but he didn’t let you.

“I was always there,” he said, voice low and almost reverent. “You just didn’t look.”

He stepped closer. The crunch of his boots against leaves felt louder than your breath.

“Every night you took that path, I was in the trees. When the sun dipped low and you walked with your head down, hummin’ those little nothin’ songs to yourself, I was already watchin’. Behind the brush. Under the dark.”

You shook your head. “I never—”

“You didn’t see me,” he cut you off sharply. “Couldn’t. Not in the day. I ain’t allowed in the morning. That’s not when I exist.”

He said it like a fact. Like a rule carved into his bones.

“But night?” His voice deepened, and his gaze swept over you. “Night belongs to me.”

You pushed back farther against the bark, digging your nails into the dirt, into anything. “You’re sick.”

He smiled. It wasn’t human.

“I watched you sleep,” he whispered. “Window cracked just enough. Dreamless, like you were waitin’ for somethin’. For me.”

“No—”

“You left the light on some nights. Like you wanted someone to see. All that bare skin under those thin blankets—”

“Stop.”

He crouched then, too close. His knees sank into the wet ground inches from your feet. His voice dropped into something hushed and awful.

“You finally saw me, that day in the woods. First time our eyes met, I could’ve torn the world open right then. You in that little dress, do you know how hard it was not to touch you? Not to drag you off the trail and make you understand what you were?”

You stared at him, horror swelling thick in your throat.

“You don’t know me,” you said, voice shaking.

His smile widened, teeth a little too sharp. “But I do. You don’t get it yet — what we are. But you will.”

“I’ll never be yours,” you hissed.

He leaned in until his bloodstained collar nearly brushed your knees. His breath was warm — wrong — as he spoke.

“You already were,” he murmured. “From the first time I I saw you while ago, under moonlight. I ain’t let anything touch you since.”

You tried to push yourself up — tried to find space, air, anything — but he rose when you did. Not fast. Just… deliberate.

“You think Jesse died ‘cause he was bad?” he asked, tilting his head. “He died ‘cause he thought he had a right to you. Thought speakin’ your name made it his to say.”

He stepped toward you again.

“But that name?” His voice was a blade now. “That name only ever sounded right in my mouth.”

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t scream.

Somehow, your feet found the ground beneath you. Somehow, you scrambled up from the roots and mud, your palms bleeding, your knees buckling. But you ran — faster than before, your breath ragged, every heartbeat screaming get away, get away, get away.

The trees blurred around you, branches whipping at your face and arms, but nothing could slow you down now. Not the cold sweat that soaked your dress. Not the taste of blood in your mouth from where you’d bitten your tongue.

Not even his voice behind you.

“Run, dove,” he called, smooth and syrup-thick. “Go on. I like when you run.”

You didn’t dare look back. Every fiber of your being pulsed with one command: move.

But he was faster.

You didn’t hear him coming. You didn’t even feel the ground change — one second you were upright, the next you were jerked backward so hard your scream died in your throat.

Pain bloomed hot across your scalp.

His hand was tangled in your hair, yanking you off balance. You hit the earth again, your knees skidding against gravel and moss as he pulled you back into him, the back of your head nearly colliding with his chest.

He crouched behind you now, crouched low like a wolf over a carcass, his breath brushing your cheek.

“I said run, didn’t I?” he murmured, voice mock-gentle as his grip tightened. “But we both know you were never gonna make it back to that little porch light. That door was never gonna open for you again.”

You struggled, clawed at his arm, but he only laughed — low and breathy and too calm.

“Don’t,” he warned, his lips grazing your ear now. “You’re gonna make me hurt you, and I don’t want to do that.”

His other hand slid to your throat — not squeezing, not yet — just resting there. Like he was measuring something. Like he owned it.

“I’ve been good,” he went on, voice fraying at the edges now. “So good. Watching. Waiting. Keeping things away from you. But you keep runnin’ from me like I’m the danger.”

He yanked your head back again, forcing you to look up at the trees, at the stars barely visible between them.

“I’m the reason you’re still breathin’. Ain’t no one else ever gonna love you like I do, dove. They don’t even see you. Not really.”

“I’m not yours,” you choked out, voice raw.

He growled — a low, inhuman sound that vibrated against your back.

“You are,” he snapped, fingers tightening in your hair. “You been mine. From the minute you stepped into my woods. From the second you smiled at the trees like they were friends.”

You twisted beneath him, trying to throw him off, but his body was all heat and weight and blood.

“You’re sick,” you spat, and this time, it shook him. He went quiet. Still.

Then, quietly, coldly; “So be it.”

The air crackled with a sudden shift. The playful menace in his voice vanished, replaced by something sharp and dangerous. His hand tightened in your hair, not just holding you, but possessively, painfully. The fingers at your throat flexed, a subtle warning that sent a fresh wave of panic through you.

He shifted, his weight pressing more fully against your back, pinning you to the rough ground. The scent of damp earth and pine needles mingled with his own darker, muskier smell, overwhelming you. You could feel the tremor that ran through his body, a tightly leashed fury that threatened to break free.

"Sick?" he repeated, the word a low growl against your ear. "Is that what you think?"

He released your hair, and for a desperate moment, you thought you might be free. But then his hands were on your shoulders, his grip like iron as he rolled you over onto your back. The sudden movement stole your breath, and you stared up at him, his face a shadow against the faint starlight. His eyes, though, burned with an intensity that pierced the darkness.

He loomed over you, his knees bracketing your hips, effectively trapping you. You could feel the heat radiating off him, the raw power that emanated from his still form. Your chest heaved, and the taste of blood in your mouth seemed to intensify with your fear.

One of his hands left your shoulder, tracing a slow, deliberate path down your arm. His touch, despite the underlying threat, sent a shiver down your spine. It was possessive, claiming, like he was mapping the contours of his territory.

"You think this is sickness?" he murmured, his voice low and rough, like stone scraping against stone. His fingers reached your wrist, his thumb pressing against your racing pulse. "This…need? This hunger I feel when I look at you?"

His gaze dropped to your mouth, lingering there for a long, breathless moment. You tried to pull away, to twist beneath him, but his weight held you firmly in place. The gravel dug into your back, a stark reminder of your vulnerability.

"Tell me," he breathed, his face dipping closer, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Tell me you don't feel it too. Even a little flicker?"

His eyes searched yours, demanding a truth you were terrified to acknowledge. The fear was still there, a cold knot in your stomach, but beneath it, something else stirred – a primal awareness of his nearness, the undeniable intensity in his gaze. The woods, the cold, the fear, all seemed to fade, leaving only the two of you in the suffocating darkness.

His words hung in the air, a challenge and a confession. You didn't answer, couldn't answer, trapped between fear and a strange, unwelcome curiosity. His eyes, dark and intense, held yours captive. He lowered his head, his breath warm against your lips. You could feel the subtle shift in his body, a tightening of muscles, a coiled energy that promised a release you both dreaded and, perhaps, secretly craved.

His hand, still on your wrist, tightened again, his thumb tracing the delicate bones. It was a possessive gesture, a claim. The air thrummed with unspoken desires, a silent battle waged between predator and prey, between fear and a burgeoning, forbidden attraction.

He paused, a hair's breadth from your mouth, giving you one last chance to speak, to deny the connection that seemed to crackle between you. But the words wouldn't come. Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat in the oppressive silence.

"No?" he whispered, his voice rough with a barely contained passion. "Then I'll show you."

His lips brushed against yours, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of electricity through you. It was a tentative beginning, a question asked with skin instead of words. He waited, as if gauging your reaction, giving you a chance to pull away, to end it. But you didn't.

His hand, having found the hem of your dress, continued its slow ascent. The fabric whispered against your skin, each inch a deliberate exploration. His breath grew warm against your neck as his touch finally reached the top of your thigh.

He paused there, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of your inner thigh, sending a shiver down your spine. You clenched your legs slightly, a reflexive attempt to guard yourself, but his touch remained, a possessive claim.

His mouth left your neck, and you felt his breath moving lower, tracing a hot path down your throat. He lingered at the hollow of your collarbone, pressing a soft kiss there before continuing his descent.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body as he shifted, his weight pressing more firmly against yours. The hard ridge of his arousal against your thigh was an undeniable reminder of his intent.

His lips continued their downward journey, past your stomach, lower still, until you felt his breath hot against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, just inches from where your underwear began. A gasp escaped your lips, a mixture of fear and a strange, unsettling anticipation.

His hands, which had been on your thighs, now moved to the hem of your dress once again, bunching the fabric higher to allow him more access. You felt the cool night air on your exposed skin as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of your thigh, his lips lingering there, sending a wave of heat through you.

He moved again, his kisses tracing a path closer to the edge of your underwear, each touch a deliberate tease. You could feel the tension building within you, a confusing mix of apprehension and a burgeoning, forbidden awareness. His breath was hot and ragged against your skin as he nuzzled closer, the anticipation becoming almost unbearable.

His fingers slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear. The thin fabric offered little resistance as he slowly, deliberately, eased them down.

The sensation was jarring, exposing a part of you that felt intensely vulnerable under his predatory gaze. You squeezed your eyes shut, your hands clenching into fists against the damp earth. The sounds of the forest seemed to fade, replaced by the frantic pounding of your own heart.

He paused in his task, as if sensing your heightened distress. You could feel his gaze on you, a heavy, possessive weight. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tension and the raw anticipation of what was to come.

Then, with a final, gentle tug, the last barrier was gone. You felt the cool air envelop you completely, a stark and undeniable exposure. His breath hitched again, a low, guttural sound that vibrated against your thigh.

He lowered his head further, and you braced yourself, every nerve ending screaming in a mixture of fear and a terrifying, undeniable curiosity. You felt the brush of his lips against your bare skin, a soft, tentative exploration that sent a shiver through your entire body.

His kisses became more insistent, tracing a slow deliberate path, once again to your inner thigh, closer and closer to the most vulnerable part of you. Each touch was a brand, a claim, stripping away not just the physical barrier but also your sense of control.

The anticipation alone was a brutal kind of pleasure, a tightening coil in your belly that had nothing to do with wanting. Then, the invasion. Slow, deliberate, and impossibly intimate as he slid his tongue inside.

A sound escaped you, a delicate moan ripped from your throat against your will. It wasn't a sound of pleasure, not the soft sigh you might offer in a moment of genuine intimacy. This was something else entirely – a strangled gasp of shock, a raw expression of vulnerability laid bare. It echoed in the stillness of the woods, a testament to his violation. Your body betrayed you with its involuntary response, a stark reminder of your helplessness under his relentless advance.

His tongue continued its relentless exploration, and he finally lifted his head, his eyes dark and possessive as he stared down at you. A slow, knowing smirk stretched across his lips, a cruel anticipation that made your stomach clench.

"Your sweet little cunt tastes like pure heaven, darlin'." He lowered his head again, his breath hot and wet against your most sensitive flesh. "Sweeter than any blood I ever craved, honey."

He pressed closer, his tongue delving deeper, and a strangled sound was torn from your throat, a mortifying mix of revulsion and a shameful flicker of sensation you couldn't control. "You got no idea what you do to me, dove," he murmured against you, his voice thick with desire. "Makes a man… wanna forget his own damn name."

His fingers digged into your hips, holding you captive as his mouth continued its brutal assault. "Every little taste of you is drivin' me wild," he groaned, the words punctuated by wet, insistent sounds that echoed in the stillness of the woods. "You're gonna be screamin' my name before this night's through, you hear me?"

He shifted his angle, his tongue finding a particularly sensitive spot, and a sharp gasp escaped you, a sound that disgusted you even as it seemed to please him. "That's it, sugar," he breathed, his voice low and guttural. "Beg for it. Say my name when you’re comin’. "

"Remmick—" The sound that tore from your throat was a raw, involuntary plea, a shameful testament to the sensations he was dragging from you. Your hands, clenched moments ago in protest, now fisted in dark hair, your grip tightening as a wave of heat washed through you.

Your hips lifted slightly off the cold earth, a movement you couldn't control, a sickening surrender to the intimacy he was forcing upon you. The wood sounds faded, replaced by the wet, insistent rhythm of his mouth and your own ragged breaths. A strange, dizzying lightness bloomed in your head, a horrifying disconnect between the violation and the undeniable physical response blooming within you.

"That's it, dove," he rasped against you, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Feel it, don't you? Feel what you do to me." His fingers dug deeper into your hips, anchoring you as his ministrations grew more demanding, more relentless. The delicate dance of his tongue was now a possessive claiming, stripping away the last vestiges of your resistance.

A moan, deeper and more resonant this time, escaped your lips, a sound that horrified you even as it seemed to fuel him. It wasn't a moan of desire, but one of pure, unadulterated sensation, a body reacting against your will. The high, as you called it, was a dizzying loss of control, a shameful betrayal of your own boundaries.

He finally lifted his head, the wet sounds ceasing, and a thick, carnal quiet filled the woods. His dark eyes, pupils blown with desire, he looked at your flushed face, a look of pure lust. A slow, wicked smirk stretched across his lips as he watched the lingering shudders that still wracked your body.

“Sweet little cunt got you all worked up, ain’t it dove?” he rasped, his voice a low, heavy with lust.

He suddenly shifted, his hands beneath your thighs, lifting you higher, “Gonna feel me stretch you open and fill you up proper. You gonna be milkin’ my shaft so nice, darlin’.”

The head of his erection pressed insistently against your slick folds, a thick, undeniable presence. His eyes were burning into you as he fully shifted you, slowly and deliberately stretching you open, so you were sitting atop him— his back against a tree, supporting him.

“That’s it.” His eyes were feral, demanding, and the raw, possessive hunger in his gaze was a palpable thing.

The stretching sensation was intense, an unfamiliar pressure that made you gasp. "Remmick—it's… it's too much," you choked out, your hands gripping his shoulders, your knuckles white. The unfamiliar fullness was overwhelming, bordering on painful.

He stilled for a moment, his dark eyes locking onto yours, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths. "Tight little thing, ain't you?" he murmured, his voice a low, almost impressed rumble. His hands tightened on your hips, his thumbs pressing into your flesh. "You're okay, darlin'. Just gotta relax for me."

Despite your choked plea, he didn't withdraw. Instead, he began to guide you, his hands firm on your hips, initiating a slow, rocking motion. "Easy now," he instructed, his voice softening slightly, though the possessive edge remained. "Just follow my lead."

The movement was awkward at first, the unfamiliar friction and fullness making you tense. You could feel him deep inside you with each downward slide, a stark and undeniable invasion. "It hurts," you whispered, your breath catching in your throat.

"Shhh," he soothed, his gaze unwavering. "Just gotta get you used to me, sweet thing. You'll open up. Trust me, dove. This is gonna feel real good soon." He continued to guide your hips, the rhythm becoming slightly faster, more insistent. You could feel the heat building between your bodies, a strange and unwelcome warmth spreading through you despite your discomfort. His low groans filled the night air, a stark contrast to your own shallow, unsteady breaths.

The awkward, uncomfortable rhythm continued, each downward slide a raw reminder of the unwelcome intrusion. You clenched your jaw, trying to breathe through the ache, your hands still tight on his shoulders. "Remmick," you gasped, the word catching in your throat, "it still—"

He cut you off with a low growl, his hands tight on your hips, pushing you down a little further. "Gotta ride it out," he murmured, his breath hot against your neck. "Just gotta loosen up for me. Feel how good this could be if you just let go."

The rubbing began to burn, a rough feeling mixed with the deep ache inside. You tried to slow him down, to find a way that hurt less, but his hands on your hips called the shots, a steady push and pull that left you gasping for air.

But then, little by little, something started to change. As that initial tightness started to give way, a different feeling poked through. The deep ache started to shift, the rubbing making a strange, almost hypnotic beat. A small sound slipped from your lips, not quite a cry anymore.

He seemed to feel it, his movements getting a little smoother, like he knew what he was doing. His low groans got louder, and you could feel his body shaking a little underneath you. A weird heat started low in your belly, still mixed with that ache, but with a tiny spark of something else.

Towards the end of his guiding, when the rhythm felt more steady, a different kind of breath caught in your throat. The hurt hadn't gone away completely, but it was tangled up with a strange, almost overwhelming feeling in your body. A soft moan slipped out, surprising even you. The tightness in your shoulders started to ease, your hands in his hair weren't so tight anymore. The night air still felt cold on your skin, but the heat between you was real now, a slow, unwelcome fire starting to burn.

His breath hitched in his throat, a rough sound against your ear. "That's it, dove," he growled, his hands still firm on your hips, guiding your movements. "Feel that heat building? Feel me gettin' nice and deep inside you."

He shifted beneath you, his hips bucking harder now, meeting your rhythm. "That's right," he rasped, his voice thick with a raw hunger. "That sweet little pussy is grippin' me good."

His hands slid up your sides, "You feel me pumpin' inside you, baby?" he murmured, his eyes locked on yours, dark and intense. "Gonna fill you up real good. Gonna breed you nice and deep, make you all round with my baby."

He leaned up slightly, his lips grazing your ear. "You gonna be screamin' my name, breathin' heavy, wantin' nothin' but this," he whispered, his breath hot against your skin. "Gonna plant my seed deep inside you, make you carry my mark."

His hands squeezed your sides, urging you to move faster. "Beg for it," he urged, his voice rough with lust.

A moan escaped your lips, a sound you barely recognized as your own. The heat between your bodies intensified, a suffocating pressure that demanded release. Your head fell forward, your hair falling over your face as a wave of intense sensation washed over you.

"Please…" The word was barely a whisper, a broken plea torn from your throat.

"Please what, darlin'?" he urged, his voice low and demanding.

Tears welled in your eyes, a confusing mix of shame and a desperate need for the relentless pressure to cease, yet also… to continue. "Please… more," you choked out, the words tasting like ash in your mouth.

A triumphant smirk stretched across his lips. "More of this, sweet thing?" he growled, his hips bucking harder, deeper. "You want me to fill you up good? You want my seed inside you?"

Another groan escaped you, followed by a soft, broken sob. The line between fear and a terrifying, undeniable desire blurred, leaving you adrift in a sea of overwhelming sensation. "Yes," you finally whispered, the word a shameful admission of the power he held over your body.

As the intense waves of sensation began to crest within you, your grip on his shoulders tightened, your body instinctively clenching around him. A series of involuntary gasps escaped your lips, each one a testament to the overwhelming pleasure that was now intertwined with the lingering fear.

"Yeah, that's it, darlin'," he grunted, his voice thick with exertion. His hands gripped your hips even tighter, his own movements becoming more frantic, more urgent. "Milk me good, sweet thing. Squeeze me tight."

He bucked his hips upwards with a deep groan, his head falling back, his jaw clenched. "Feel that, dove?" he rasped, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "Feel how close I am? You're gonna pull it all outta me."

The pressure inside you intensified, building to an almost unbearable peak. Soon after he followed you, after a few more harsh and deep thrusts, you felt the hot, thick pulse of his release deep inside you, a claim.

As you both finally came down after a few minutes, you still stayed sat atop him, chest rising, the warmth of your skin clashing with the cold bite of the earth beneath you.

Remmick didn’t speak at first. He just looked at you.

Then, slowly, he leaned in close — so close his breath brushed your cheek — and whispered, low and calm:

“I should’ve taken you the first time I saw you.”

He brushed your hair back away from your face, lips barely grazing your temple.

“But I waited. Now you’ll never leave me again.”

His words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be. You felt them settle in your bones — heavy, inescapable.

Because truly, he was inescapable.

#remmick sinners #remmick x reader #dark!remmick x reader #remmick x you #jack o'connell #remmick #sinners movie #sinners 2025 #sinners fic #sinners #dark fic #remmick smut

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pizzaapeteer · 2 days ago

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speed dating

mattheo riddle x fem! reader. week 1 of @acourtofchaos festivalofau event!!

street racer!mattheo can't take his eyes off you even when he's driving, especially when you bring his heart to life by impressing him with your own skills.

an: big thanks to my love leigh for proofreading <3 I don't know anything about cars - this is very much inspired/uses fast and furious scenes, and I look forward to eventually writing a full fic for this au. ty for your patience as always <3 wc: 1.9k

"Okay, so next time, we're definitely dancing," you say with excited exasperation, the two of you exiting the rowdy Cuban restaurant and into the heart of street life. It's nearing 11pm on Friday, the beat of the night is picking up pace, like the rhythm of a song, the lively chatter blending into the roars of cars flashing by you.

He laughs, shaking his head, "oh sweet cheeks, you won't catch me dancing," sliding his hands from his pockets, he places one on your lower back, gently guiding you respectfully. "Or at least not till the fourth shot of tequila."

The sound is so deep and rich; a low hum like a car's engine that makes your insides squirm with delight, and then he smiles like he's been doing all night. His lips curling up on the edges in a way that if his eyes weren't matching its sincerity, he'd have you queasy in an entirely different way.

The way he looks at you, brown eyes that glimmer with warmth under the glow of the amber streetlights, as if light is blooming out from inside him. It's hard not to get attached, and that's the last thing you need right now. You've only known him a week. But there's something enticing, though dangerous about him, like a shot of whiskey knowing it's going to burn on the way down but overall spreading a fire of heat in the pit of your stomach.

Offering him an infectious smile of your own playing on the challenge presenting itself. "Sounds as if you're encouraging me to get you intoxicated." Ardently, you raise a brow at his inquiry. "Is that something that interests you?"

"There are a lot of things about you that interest me." His eyes sparkle with mystery, as he grins boyishly like he knew the affect those words would have on you.

You play it cool and collected, smiling back at him, the two of you strolling side by side, the silence isn't uncomfortable, and it hardly seems quiet with your heart becoming erratic, thumping around inside your ribcage like a hummingbird's wings.

You pass by distinct smells of nicotine, a cigarette shared by couples couped in the alcoves of their doorways. Clangs and rackets of neighbourhood cats, balancing along fences, chasing one another. There are bopping beats of music heard from the thriving clubs and bars further down, invitingly attracting groups of young people from all over town.

"So, this is me, my ride." Mattheo comments, as he stops you outside a parked bright orange car. He's offered to take you home, for a multiple of reasons. Some are selfish, wanting to show off his baby, not that he thinks you'll be highly interested, but it's his ego and pride, and it's worn just like the paint and wax shining proudly on the exterior.

Other reasons, safety and protectiveness. He's always cared about women, and while he's only known you a week, he's grown extremely fond of you. He doesn't want you catching the bus like how you got here. And well, third, he just can't take his eyes off of you. He's never smiled so damn much on a date, the unfamiliar feeling of it beginning to make him nauseous. But it will be worth it, if it means he gets to see more of you.

"Woah, no way! You drive a supra turbo MKIV? That's so sick." The sudden and surprising exclamation from you makes his heart pound faster. Your jaw is practically touching the concrete, unable to pull your eyes away from the beast before you, a glimmer of awe in your eyes.

That is before you remember you're actually trying to impress Mattheo and not come across like a psychotic car fanatic, clearing your throat and tucking your hair back timidly. "I mean it's, um, a pretty colour."

He laughs heartily, amused by your quick and terribly obvious action to hide your knowledge of cars. He flashes you a charming smile, feeling in wonder at the woman beginning to unravel, fishing his keys out. "You know cars?”

Pulling your eyes off of his car, you nod, admitting your fascination with them with a wide grin, "Yeah, a thing or two."

“You wanna take a spin?"

Flabbergasted, you speak, "What, seriously?" When you realize stupidly, this is your only way home you're clambering into the vehicle with buzzing excitement. It's so beautiful, the interior's sleek black seats lined with soft leather that have you sinking right into them.

The dashboard illuminates, lighting up a neon orange, and the roar of the engine comes to life. It’s loud and powerful and makes your heartbeat full of adrenaline, a smile gracing your lips with excitement.

Mattheo's expression matches yours, his eyes blown a little darker, revving the car again, the deep rumble vibrating down to his bones. He flicks on the radio before he shifts the clutch into drive, taking off down the road and merging into the mainstream flow.

It's busy, the night awakening with charged energy as Mattheo swerves in and out between gaps of cars, the wind blowing through your hair, the summer warmth of ocean breezes. "Where do you wanna go?"

You look over at him, only to find him already looking at you. The contact makes your pulse spike just like the kilometers increasing on the dash are. Your heartbeat pounds in your head, matching the roaring of the car. You don't even know him that well, and yet you have full trust in his ability to maneuver through the thick onslaught of traffic without looking.

He’s clearly got an edge of cockiness to him as his eyes continue to flicker back and forth, always taking the extra time to focus his gaze on you just a little longer. "Up for ice cream?"

The casualness in which he asks makes you laugh, "Might wanna keep your eyes on the road, pretty boy."

“Why you think we’re gonna crash?”

Flashing him a playful grin, you shrug. "Not sure yet. Should I be making a bet?"

He grins, enthused by your lack of worry, his hand shifting up the gear and pressing his foot harder onto the acceleration, the two of your eyes staying locked in contact. Mattheo's eyes no longer resembled that cool tone of warmth he exerted in the restaurant.

They shine brightly with a glimmer of exhilaration and a hint of darkening mischief. His smile is full and broad, expressing the thrill and joy he felt, like a boy with his favourite toy.

The car zips with smooth control in between gaps, as flashes of vehicles pass in a blur on either side. The steady hum of vibrations continues drowning out the radio completely. All that's left is the wind, and the intense atmosphere shared between the two of you, making you wanna stay in the car forever.

A wave of disbelief cascades out of you with a breath of relief when he finally breaks, slowing down for the nearest stoplight. His eyes finally break their contact from you, and he relaxes his grip, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel. Taking the next right, he pulls up to the sidewalk, outside an adorable ice cream shop.

He tousles his dark curls, gazing at you with admiration he can't help but feel a sense of pride for your reaction to his flirtation. "How this?" Your body feels electric, the familiar dopamine rush fuelling every nerve. It's been so long since you got in a car this fast, you're craving more. "Not bad show pony." Grinning, you run a hand through your windblown hair, detangling the newly made knots.

"Driving or the dessert?" Mattheo asks, offering a toothy grin, angling his body towards you, resting his arms along the tops of the steering wheel. He's eager to impress. It's not often Mattheo wants to put real effort into his dates with pretty ladies. His mind constantly set on autopilot, a two-step routine. 1. Rev the beast and blow her mind and 2. rev his beast and blow her mind.

And now he sits, admiring a beautiful woman, sitting in his passenger seat, looking like she's stepped straight out one of Enzo's automobile sex magazines. Excluding the lack of clothing, though, his mind has already gone there.

But there's something more about the way you're looking at him, a burning blaze of wildness that lights your face. It's radiant and alluring and he feels the pull, the magnet attracting him further in, something you're offering he didn't know he wanted.

You huff, amused, and don't answer yet, letting his question linger in the charged space between you two. "Both."

Pleased with your answer he begins to exit the car when you spit out the proposed suggestion, an itch that's dying to be scratched. "But! may I counter a second opinion?"

He sits back down at your polite protest, shrugging, he doesn't mind what the two of you do as long as you're enjoying yourself. "Yeah, sure just tell me where you wanna go."

"Actually, is it cool if i drive?" With a flutter of your lashes, you give him your best adorable smile full of sweetness, a known trick of yours to make a man concave in a heartbeat.

He raises an intrigued brow, wanting to make sure he's heard you correctly. "You want to drive?" The genuine smile on your face melts his heart, and he's suddenly stammering around like a dickhead, "Ah-I mean yeah alright."

As the two of you switch places, he can't help but think what the hell he's even doing, letting some random chick drive his baby. But it's that look in your eye, the sense of belonging and ease in which you sink into the driver's seat, that makes him relax with full faith you won't crash his precious car.

Gripping the soft leather of the steering wheel, you immediately feel at home in the right seat. Familiar goosebumps of excited nerves prickle at your skin, turning the ignition, awakening the car back to life. Pressing your now bare foot hard onto the acceleration, you veer off, merging back into the nighttime flow of traffic. The prodigies breathe, blasts through the vehicle as you turn the speaker up, giggling with comfort.

Mattheo watches bemused by your infectious happiness, how comfortable and free you appear. The wind fanning out through your hair, as you grip the wheel with a sense of familiarity glancing at him every so often with full-blown bliss. The car cruises into downtown Miami; zooming along the roads smoothly and Mattheo starts up the conversation again.

"Not bad-" his words halt on his tongue as the car swerves, swinging around wide, cutting across the next lane spinning in a 180, positioning the car backwards. That contagious laugh fills the car once again, as blares of horns honk from left and right at the sudden commotion.

His sweet brown eyes widen in surprise, and you giggle again at his reaction, snapping your head behind to see where to go. The car waltzes in and out of spaces, maneuvering skillfully between the lanes.

He’s never believed in a god above, or soulmates or true love for that matter, but in that moment as his heart threatens to jump right out of his body he’s sure destiny has thrown him a bone and landed the most perfect woman in his lap. With everything he's learnt about you in the last couple hours, this knocks it all out of the park. How can a woman be this hot? His body is tense, including his cock that he swears is spurring to life faster than the miles on the dash are pushing.

He's frozen, mesmerized at the scene, stuck in a state of pure astonishment and awe. His pulse is rising as he looks at the window, watching how the car swerves sharply. Repositioning itself facing forwards, to take the next right onto the offramp, leaving behind the sounds of tires screeching and another round of horns blaring behind.

Glancing at him, another free-flowing giggle escapes catching his bewildered stare, the car coming to a halt outside a charming sorbet parlour. Cutting the engine, you slip your shoes back on and exit the car.

He's still a little dazed comprehending the fact he wants to skip the rest of the date and drive you straight to bed the keys landing in his lap. You offer one of your famous shit-eating grins already on the pavement, “come on, keep up, Bambi.”

⤷ navigation. ⤷ masterlist. ⤷ mattheo riddle masterlist. ⤷ dividers. please do not steal, copy, or claim as your own, all work belongs to me©️pizzaapeteer 2025. ty for reading!!!

#mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle x reader #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x fem reader #festivalsofau #mattheo riddle fluff #streetracer! mattheo #fast and furious #fast and furious au #fast and furious mattheo riddle

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thirteenheavens · 19 hours ago

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can you write about Seungcheol when you are at your parents house and he can't control himself

Can’t wait till we’re home?||Scoups

Word count: 1625

Notes: Back to write to calm down after revision exams are so hard

You and Seungcheol arrive at your parents' house, hand in hand. The familiar surroundings bring back memories of childhood - the perfectly manicured lawn, the white picket fence, and the scent of freshly cut grass.

As you walk up the driveway, Seungcheol notices how nervous you seem. "Hey, everything's going to be fine," he whispers, squeezing your hand reassuringly. "Your parents love me." You nod, trying to push down your anxiety. The moment you step through the front door, your mother rushes over to greet you with a warm hug. "Y-N! And Seungcheol, it's so good to see you both!"

Dinner is a pleasant affair, filled with light conversation and delicious food. But as the meal progresses, Seungcheol's touchy behavior becomes more apparent. Every chance he gets, he places his hand on your thigh or brushes against your arm. His eyes never leave yours, and there's an unmistakable spark of desire in them.

Your father catches Seungcheol's lingering touches and his eyes narrow slightly. "Seungcheol, I see you're... quite affectionate with my daughter," he says, his tone neutral but with an edge of caution. Seungcheol tenses at the comment, his hand freezing on your thigh. He glances at your father, then at you, before responding with a polite smile. "I care about Y-N very much, sir. She means everything to me."

Your mother watches the exchange with interest, while you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. The atmosphere grows slightly awkward as everyone waits to see how your father will respond. Your father studies Seungcheol for a moment, then lets out a deep sigh. "Well, I suppose that's all that matters," he says finally, his expression softening. "Just... be good to her, okay?"

Seungcheol nods eagerly, his grip on your thigh tightening ever so slightly. "Of course, sir. I'll always take care of her." After dinner, your mother suggests showing Seungcheol around the house. She leads you both upstairs to your childhood bedroom, filled with nostalgic memories and old toys.

As soon as you're alone in the room, Seungcheol pulls you close to him, his hands roaming over your body. "Your parents' house is nice," he whispers huskily, his lips trailing along your neck. "But I think I like it better in here." You look around your childhood room, memories flooding back. Your old bookshelves, stuffed animals, and pink wallpaper bring a nostalgic smile to your face.

"This was my safe space," you tell Seungcheol, running your fingers along the edge of your desk. "I spent so much time in here daydreaming." Seungcheol walks around the room, taking in every detail. But he can't seem to keep his hands off you for long. His eyes darken with desire as he presses you against the door, his body flush against yours.

"I can imagine you here," he murmurs, his lips hovering just above yours. "All innocent and sweet, dreaming about your future."

"And now look at you," Seungcheol continues, his voice low and husky. "All grown up and making my dreams come true." He captures your lips in a passionate kiss, his hands exploring your body with a newfound urgency. The room suddenly feels smaller, more intimate, as he pushes you further against the door.

"Seungcheol, we can't do this here," you whisper between kisses, even as your body responds to his touch. "My parents are just downstairs..." But he only smiles mischievously, nibbling on your earlobe. "That makes it more exciting, don't you think?" he teases, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt.

"I don't know if I can be quiet," you manage to say, your voice trembling with arousal. "And my parents will definitely hear us. Seungcheol's eyes flash with excitement at your concern. "Then we'll just have to make sure you can stay quiet," he purrs, sliding his hand up to cup your breast through your bra. "Can you be a good girl and keep quiet for me?" You bite your lip to suppress a moan as Seungcheol continues to tease you, his fingers skillfully playing with your nipple. The thought of getting caught makes your heart race even faster.

"I don't know if I can," you whisper again, your legs trembling with desire. "You know how sensitive I am..." Seungcheol smirks, clearly enjoying your struggle. "Then I'll just have to find ways to keep you quiet," he says, dropping to his knees in front of you. "Like this."

He begins trailing kisses up your thighs, his hands sliding your skirt up higher and higher. The risk of getting caught only adds to the intense pleasure building inside you. As Seungcheol kisses up your stomach, you can feel his hot breath against your skin. Your hands instinctively go to his hair, threading through the dark strands as he moves higher.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake. "I could spend hours worshiping your body." He reaches the edge of your bra, his fingers deftly undoing the clasp. Your breasts spill out, already peaked with anticipation.

"No one else gets to see you like this," Seungcheol growls possessively, taking one nipple into his mouth and sucking gently. "You're mine." Seungcheol's eyes scan the room, looking for a suitable surface to bend you over. His gaze lands on your old desk, the perfect height and width for his needs.

"Come here," he commands, pulling you towards the desk. He sweeps your childhood trinkets aside, making space for your bodies. Your heart races as he positions you against the desk, his hands running down your back to grip your hips. "I've always wanted to do this in a childhood bedroom," he confesses, his voice thick with desire. "Are you ready to be bent over your old desk, baby girl?" You nod, your breath coming in short gasps as Seungcheol presses your chest down onto the desk. The cool surface sends a shiver through your body, making you even more sensitive to his touch.

"Good girl," he murmurs, sliding your skirt up and your panties down. "Now be quiet while I take you." You feel him line himself up behind you, the tip of his cock pressing against your entrance. The position makes you feel exposed and vulnerable, but also incredibly turned on.

"Please, Seungcheol," you whimper, desperate for him to fill you. "I need you inside me." Seungcheol grins at your needy whimper, taking his time to tease you further. He runs the head of his cock through your wet folds, coating himself in your arousal.

"You're so wet for me already," he groans, continuing to swipe against your clit. "I could tease you like this forever." You bite down on your arm to muffle your moans, your body trembling with need. The threat of getting caught only adds to the intensity of the moment, making you even more desperate for release.

"Please, Seungcheol, I can't take it anymore," you beg, trying to push back against him. "I need to feel you inside me."

"Shhh, baby," Seungcheol whispers, finally pressing himself against your entrance. "You have to stay quiet. We don't want your parents to come up here and catch us." He slowly pushes into you, stretching you open with his thick length. The feeling of being filled makes your eyes roll back in pleasure, and you have to bite down harder on your arm to keep from crying out. Seungcheol sets a steady rhythm, his hips thrusting into you with deep, deliberate strokes. One hand grips your hip while the other reaches around to cover your mouth.

"You're so tight," he pants, his breath hot against your ear. "I love how you feel around me. Keep being a good girl and I'll make you come so hard." Seungcheol's thrusts grow faster and harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin barely audible over your heavy breathing. The desk creaks beneath you with each movement, but neither of you cares.

"God, you feel amazing," he groans, his hand tightening over your mouth as he drives into you deeper. "I'm not going to last long with how tight you're squeezing me." You can feel your orgasm building rapidly, your inner walls clenching around his cock. The combination of the thrill of being caught and the overwhelming pleasure is almost too much to bear.

"Come for me," Seungcheol commands, his voice low and demanding. "I want to feel you come all over my cock." Your body convulses around Seungcheol's cock as your orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. The pleasure courses through your veins, leaving you shaking and breathless. Seungcheol groans as he feels you tighten around him, his own release approaching fast. He buries himself deep inside you, pumping his hot cum into your trembling body.

"Fuck," he whispers, holding you against him as he rides out his orgasm. "That was incredible." He kisses your shoulder gently before slowly pulling out of you. You stay bent over the desk, trying to catch your breath and steady your legs that feel like jelly.

"We should probably clean up before we head back downstairs," Seungcheol suggests, helping you stand up. "But I think your parents might have some questions about how flushed you look right now."

"I'm sure they'll notice," you reply with a shaky laugh, still feeling the aftershocks of your intense orgasm. "And my hair is probably a mess." You start fixing your clothes and smoothing down your hair, trying to make yourself presentable again. The evidence of what just happened between you and Seungcheol is clear, but you both know there's nothing you can do about it now.

"Maybe we should have waited until we got home," Seungcheol teases, helping you adjust your skirt. "But where's the fun in that?"

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inexplicifics · 3 days ago

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A Witcher ficlet for the @domaystic 2025 prompt #4, "the dream", also on AO3:

There’s a little cottage in the woods somewhere. Where doesn’t really matter, except that it’s far enough south that it won’t get too fucking cold in the winter, and far enough north that the plants that won’t grow without winter can still prosper. It’s far enough from town that no one will come to visit without a damn good reason, and close enough to go in for market days.

There’s a garden around the house - an enormous garden, at least a full acre - divided in half; half is for plants used in alchemy, and the other half for herbs and vegetables. There’s a little orchard, too, with a couple of apple trees and a cherry tree and a pear tree. All around the edges of the clearing are berry brambles, half defense and half decadence.

There is a little pen for chickens, with a well-built coop, and a fenced-off field for a milch goat and her current kid. There aren’t any horses; the little cart stored beside the house is made to be hauled by a person. The goat, being a goat, occasionally gets out of its field, which is why the more valuable plants have little wardstones nestled at their bases, sparking with faint Chaos.

Behind the cottage, a safe distance away, there’s a well-built shed with a long stone counter in it, and big windows with cheesecloth covering the openings so there’s ventilation but nothing is going to blow in, and every sort of useful alchemical tool stored on sturdy shelves or lined up on the counter. There’s a shelf specifically for grimoires, and a selection of glass vials that would make a perfumier weep.

Inside the cottage, there’s a kitchen fit for a master cook, with a deep fireplace and a bread oven and another long stone counter, bowls and spoons and pots and pans, an entire cabinet of spices. There’s a sturdy, battered table near the hearth, large enough for two people to sit comfortably with their feet tangled together beneath it, and two comfortable chairs with straw-stuffed cushions on their seats. On the mantelpiece there’s a basket of raw wool and a pair of carding paddles and a drop spindle; on a shelf far enough from the fire to be safe from sparks, there’s a leather roll of woodcarver’s knives and a half-dozen unfinished carvings, mostly of animals, some amusingly obscene.

On the wall beside the shelf there hang four swords, two silver, two steel; one set are northern longswords, their pommels simple rounded things, the other set southern shortswords, their pommels shaped like single gleaming fangs. Their scabbards are old and worn, well cared for but much abused, and there is dust upon the hilts, as though they have not been drawn in many days.

The whole back half of the cottage is taken up by an enormous bed, its curtains thick enough to block out the noonday sun, its mattress extravagantly well stuffed, its sheets worn soft with time and many washings. There are a slightly ridiculous number of pillows heaped atop the mattress. A bronze mirror hangs on the wall beside the bed, with a little shelf of toiletries below it - a beautiful wooden comb, and two straight razors, and a bowl for shaving soap with a badger-hair brush beside it. The frame of the mirror is carved to look like a climbing vine; if someone were to look very closely, they would see very tiny cats and wolves peering out from behind the leaves.

Sometimes at night, when it’s cold and wet and miserable and yet another inn has refused to rent them a room, when yet another alderman has shorted their pay and yet another tavernkeeper has spat in their ale, Aiden will curl up on Lambert’s chest in whatever shelter they’ve contrived, sturdy canvas strung over them between two trees or shallow cave surrounding them, and say, “Tell me about our cottage.”

And Lambert does.

#my writing #domaystic2025 #laiden

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zyafics · 6 hours ago

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Hi baby!! I was wondering if you could write a Rafe fic where he’s a football player and reader goes to all of his games and one time he gets injured and she gets super worried and he ends up being okay with a limp and she’s super worried but it’s fluffy at the end? It’s okay if you don’t want to but I can’t stop thinking about it and I absolutely adore your work! 😍

hi hi, yes i would love to do this req!! thank u for sending it in!! ty for all the love and adoration on my fics 💞

BLURBFEST II | RC

join my blurbfest <3 | WORD COUNT: 0.8k

For the past few weeks, it’s been nothing but pure bliss. Secret meetings beneath the bleachers, stolen glances across the hallway, even slipping out with terrible excuses to make out in the school’s library.

Rafe is yours, and you are his.

Your brother would hate to learn about this relationship, not because of an ongoing rivalry between the two, nor a dramatic flair for having a stereotypical overprotective streak.

It’s because Rafe is his best friend.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen, to become a walking cliche, but you couldn’t help yourself. Rafe Cameron was full of charisma and confidence, and you walked right into his web. Often at your house, lounging between sofa cushions, swimming in your pool. It happened so naturally, finding him in your kitchen during the haunting hours. Accidentally stumbling upon him walking out of your and your brother’s shared bedroom half-naked. Slipping into your room after lights out.

Natural.

It isn’t a mistake, and isn’t one you regret, but Rafe is full of caution.

You didn’t want to hide from your brother, stretching the secret longer than necessary, but Rafe didn’t want to bring attention to it. Not because of shame, he said, it was because he was afraid it would ruin the football team’s mojo. Athletes are very superstitious, even about the most mundane things. Once, you drew on Rafe’s hand before a game, and he won, and ever since, he has asked you to repeat it.

You were reluctant to agree—not about the drawing, the secret—but the smooth-talking mouth had a way with words. He convinced you to hold out until the last game of the season. Then, he could be irrevocably and publicly yours.

Tonight is that game. Playing as the varsity quarterback of the team, you came out to support. You had dragged your best friends to attend, rallied the students, and worn his jersey beneath a coat. Everything is going according to plan, and once they win, you are going to be free.

Until Rafe got injured during the third quarter.

All of it happened so fast. One minute, he held the ball in his possession, and in the other, he was tackled by two guys from the rival team’s offensive line.

Time goes still. The stadium gasps with surprise, as everyone stills with held breaths. You can hear the hum of the electricity beneath the field, the whistles of the wind against your cold cheeks, and if you got it correctly, you heard the crack of something being broken.

When the opposing players got up and off of Rafe, you had expected him to do the same.

But he didn’t.

Commentaries made on the radio, you are told that it could be a life-threatening injury, an injury that could shatter his goals and future, and something snaps. You don’t allow yourself to hear anything else before you leap off the metallic bleachers, over the chain fence, and race across the field.

Rafe was lying on the turf, back against the grass, his chest barely rising and falling. You drop to your knees and tear off his helmet, gently pushing his hair's sweaty locks from his forehead and cradling his face.

“Baby,” you whisper, your heart lunge in your throat, beating with adrenaline. He isn’t moving, even breathing, and you aren’t sure why any medical staff hasn’t reached the middle of the field yet. “Rafe, please.”

He doesn’t open his eyes.

No one says anything.

No one makes a sound.

Someone comes by you to get a better look, but you shove them off. You don’t know where the strength came from, but you refuse to let go. Exhaling softly, “Rafe Cameron, if you don’t open your eyes right this instant—”

“You’ll what?” Rafe groans, his voice broken, but the long, thick lashes flutter against his cheeks, and her cerulean gaze meets yours. Grunting through what you assumed was a tremendous amount of pain, he still plastered on an easygoing, charming smile. “You’ll kiss it better?”

You exhale a sigh of relief, dropping against his chest and wrapping your arms around him again. You can feel his heartbeat. It races—but it’s alive. “You weren’t breathing.”

“I’m not going to breathe now if you don’t let go,” he teases.

“Deal with it,” you choke out, and finally, letting those crowding tears fall from your waterline.

He chokes out a laugh, but it comes out strangled and raspy. Rafe waves to a nearby medical staff for clearance, and they inform the rest of the stadium that Rafe Cameron, the longstanding captain and quarterback of your high school, is fine. Thunderous cheers explode.

Everyone is happy.

You pull back, enough to grab Rafe’s face, and just as you’re about to give him a kiss, all secrets be damned, your brother’s voice cuts through the moment.

“What the fuck?”

IMPORTANT INFO ABOUT TAGLIST AND UPDATES: if you want to be notified about all my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications!

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moonshynecybin · 3 days ago

Note

are u going to continue ur same age kissing lesson au....

hell yeah why not. part one here! i might add the actual sex scene later we shall seeeee but for now here's more teen drinking and weirdo flirting and marc hurting vale's feelings and having literally no idea that he is doing that whatsoever. oh and also him being a ROMANTIC !

It doesn’t happen again for long enough that Marc would think he imagined it, if not for the stain on his sneakers.

Time passes, and the bike is smooth for Marc, and they trade wins. They don’t talk much— but it always comes back around. There’s not much for hiding, traveling all together like this, and Marc knows that Vale at least likes him most of the time.

He taps on his window again at Catalunya, the last race of the European season. Marc’s slightly up on him in the standings, so he should really sit tight, get some good sleep. Think about his lap times and his grandpa, who is coming to watch him race.

He slips on his green soled shoes and lets himself out, instead. He also knows that he won’t get a chance like this again for a while.

“It’s your last race in Europe in 250cc,” Vale throws an arm over Marc’s shoulder as they walk out towards the pitlane, something he does when he wants Marc to know that he is bigger than him. Vale probably doesn't know that Marc doesn't mind. “Are you going to miss me?”

Sometimes, when Vale sits behind him during a race and flashes his front wheel on Marc’s side, swapping places up and down the track, it reminds Marc of that night, and the rhythm of their mouths. It's not too dissimilar, he thinks, the push-pull of it. The give and take. Almost a conversation, but not quite. That, he thinks he will definitely miss.

“What? All over my back tire?” He shakes his head until Vale makes a face at him. “You will be up with me soon enough, I won’t have enough time to miss you.”

With a huff of breath Vale lets him go, apparently satisfied with the shape of how the world looks at their feet, and gestures loosely to the chain link fence around the track. No words necessary. Marc goes first, the sole of his sneaker just slightly too big for the hole the twist of metal makes.

They scramble up and over the fence, Vale threatening to jump on Marc if he doesn’t catch the bottle he throws over to the other side, which Marc does smoothly. Marc doesn’t want to think about the faces that the Honda people would make, if they saw Marc out here doing this with Valentino. Well. They would probably make worse faces if they knew what else he wanted to do with Valentino.

“Besides,” Marc rolls the bottle over in his hand. Same brand. He shoots Vale a look as Vale smiles beatifically. “It’s not like you won’t be around.”

Vale hums noncommittally, then nods.

“Hm, you will need to let me know about Honda, who is good, who is bad. That way, when I am your teammate I can keep all the good ones—” Marc starts to laugh, choking on his first mouthful of liquor. “—and you can have your side of the garage to test things for me.”

“You want me to spy for you?”

“Just for the year, you know. A man on the inside.” Vale nods, taking the bottle from Marc’s hand and sipping. “Uccio said no, so.”

“Well, if Uccio said no,” Marc says, a little mean, sprawling out on the grass with his legs apart. Vale gracefully collapses next to him. Marc considers, briefly, the concept of a marriage bed made of the grass on various general admissions area hills. He decides not to voice this thought. “What, and give away all my secrets?”

A wry smile. Marc blinks and for a second his hair is longer, brighter, platinum. The same expression on his face. He blinks again and it's back to its natural honey-dipped brown fuzz. Not the moon, anymore.

Vale’s earring catches the light. Maybe the stars.

“You are right— I very much doubt you will give away any of your secrets.”

Marc pokes him with his foot, lies. “For you, I might.”

Vale looks over quizzically, so Marc continues.

“If you give me something, first.”

Vale grins slyly, then pretends to think. Like what? should be the next thing he says, Marc handing him the perfect bait. Instead, he says:

“Ha, I already gave you something.”

“What?” He frowns.

“So, Marc.” Vale thumbs the rim of the bottle at the place where Marc had put his mouth earlier. “Any more girls for you?”

He chokes. Laughs hard and fake. Ah, gave him that.

“Eh, okay. Hm, not yet.”

He never really got around to talking to those friends of his cousins.

“Why? Not enough practice?” Vales says, nice and bright, and Marc swallows. His throat is dry. Probably the alcohol.

Vale’s eyes glint, knife-bright.

It fills Marc up to the brim, this thing hanging between them like a sword. Dangerously, he thinks: they have before, they could again.

He shrugs. “I’m still busy. Maybe once the season ends, you know. Then I’ll have time to go and— study.”

“Ah, I see,” Vale nods his head in bitter, slightly condescending acquiescence, and Marc’s eyes narrow. He’s not sure what the game is, here.

“Besides, I’ve practiced what? Kissing, once? Not that much else. And with girls— I can’t use much of it anyways, it doesn’t help me there.” Handjobs, he means. Marc’s touched a dick, but he’s never— fingered anyone. Gone down on them. Fucked them.

Vale’s eyebrows furrow. He looks troubled. “With girls it is not so—”

Marc faces him, cutting him off.

“What. What is it like, with girls.”

A pause. He doesn’t think Vale was expecting Marc to be like this. Then Vale’s expression changes, morphs and dances from a frown to a smile like a drop of quicksilver. He leans closer, sleezy, charming.

“What do you want to know, baby?”

Marc doesn't blink, meets him head on, seizes on the first thing to come to his mind and keeps his voice straight as an arrow. “Fingering.”

Surprised, Vale sputters a little. He asked.

“Marc, you—” The bright tinkle of an Italian laugh breaks the tension, and Vale throws his head back. He wipes his palms on his jeans then claps his hands together, and Marc’s heart kicks up.

“Fuck, you win, Jesus. Alright.” He stands. “Let's go.”

Marc frowns.

“What?”

Vale offers Marc the broad palm of his hand. Marc zeroes in on the blunt ends of his fingers. His ring.

“You don’t think I’m going to teach you how to finger someone out here on the grass beside turn one, do you?”

As if that stopped him last time.

Marc lets himself get pulled up.

#and then marc is like can i pleaseeee be your evil wifeeeee and tries to kill them both on track 8 times #motogp #callie speaks #asks #rosquez #my fic #literally that riverdale post where its like archie: idk about all that city stuff i just want jughead to be my girlfriend.#vale meanwhile is attempting to investigate if marc wants him/likes him while showing no vulnerabilities whatsoever.#lets see if he is successful !#same age au

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andy-15-07 · 3 days ago

Note

Tommy Miller & Female Reader, maybe enemies to lovers?

Enemies To Lovers

PAIRING: Tommy Miller x reader

Word Count:1179 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

The Last Of Us Masterlist

“You lost?”

Your fingers tighten around the grip of your rifle. “Do I look lost?”

Tommy Miller eyes you from beneath his weathered cap, arms crossed, stance wide like he’s expecting you to bolt or bite. “You’re standin’ in the middle of Jackson with a scowl and a trigger finger. That usually means someone’s either lost… or lookin’ for trouble.”

You exhale hard through your nose. “Guess I’m both, then.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Figures. You’re the new one, huh? Maria said you’d be prickly.”

“And I said I didn’t want a babysitter.” You glance past him, to the gate. The cold air bites your cheeks, but the warmth of your irritation keeps you standing tall. “I’ll find the damn housing on my own.”

Tommy doesn’t move. “Yeah, and get yourself turned around twice and ask a teenager for help again? Don’t flatter yourself,Jackson ain’t that big, but you still managed to make it a maze.”

“Are you always this much of a pain in the ass?” you snap.

His mouth quirks up. “Only for people who earn it.”

You groan. “Lucky me.”

He walks ahead without another word, but you still follow. Because no matter how much his cocky swagger makes you want to punch a fencepost, he knows where he’s going. You’re not about to wander in circles again like some clueless stray.

You tell yourself that’s the only reason.

Three days in, and he still finds ways to get under your skin. Always there when you don’t want him to be. Always got something to say when silence would do just fine.

“You know, for someone who didn’t want a babysitter,” Tommy drawls, watching you patch a broken fence rail, “you sure seem to keep findin’ me.”

You look up. “For someone who doesn’t like me, you sure show up a lot.”

He shrugs. “Maybe I like seein’ you struggle.”

You glare at him, but he just chuckles and leans against a post, arms folded. That look in his eyes,it’s not mean, not cruel. Just amused. Testing.

You hate that part of you doesn’t mind it.

It comes to a head one night after patrol. Your horse is limping, your leg’s bruised, and your patience? Gone.

“You could’ve warned me about the ravine,” you bark, wincing as you swing off the saddle.

Tommy’s already on the ground, reaching for the reins. “You could’ve kept your damn eyes open. I said to slow down.”

“No, you smirked and suggested slowing down. There’s a difference.”

“And you ignored me anyway.”

You shove past him. “Screw this. I’m going to bed.”

“You always run off when someone calls you out?”

You whirl. “You always act like some washed-up cowboy with a hero complex?”

He closes the space between you, close enough that your breath catches. “Better that than a bitter stray lookin’ for a fight she can’t win.”

Something snaps.

You shove him. “I didn’t ask to be here!”

He doesn’t move. Just stands there, jaw tight. “No. But you’re here. And maybe it’s time you stopped punishin’ everyone else for that.”

The silence stretches like taut wire.

Your chest heaves. His eyes don’t leave yours.

You don’t know which of you moves first,but your mouths crash together like a spark and gasoline.

His hand tangles in your hair. Yours fists in his jacket. It's angry. Desperate. Fire poured over ice.

You break away first, panting. “Still think I’m just bitter?”

He breathes hard. “No. I think you’re terrified.”

You want to scream. Want to hit him. Want to kiss him again.

So you walk away.

Because if you don’t, you’ll do all three.

Avoiding Tommy in a small town like Jackson is nearly impossible. Especially when Maria pairs you up for patrol again.

He doesn’t say much that morning. Neither do you. But the air is thick with what was left unsaid.

“I shouldn’t’ve said that,” he murmurs finally, after an hour of riding through pine trees and snow.

You stare ahead. “Which part?”

“About you punishin’ people.” He pauses. “You’ve lost things. I get it.”

You glance sideways. “You don’t know what I’ve lost.”

“No. But I know the look in your eyes.”

You don’t reply.

He sighs. “I ain’t tryin’ to be your enemy.”

You blink, surprised. “Then what are you tryin’ to be?”

He shifts in the saddle. “Don’t know yet. But I reckon it’s more than just the guy you hate.”

You chew on that. Because the truth is,you don’t hate him. Not really. Not anymore.

And maybe that’s worse.

Winter thaws slowly. So does your relationship.

He doesn’t push. Just keeps showing up. With coffee. With quiet company. With the occasional teasing smirk that still makes you bristle,but doesn’t burn like it used to.

You find yourself looking for him in crowds. Listening for his voice at dinner hall tables. It’s stupid. You tell yourself that a lot.

But it’s also real.

One night, you sit on the porch outside your housing unit, boots kicked off, watching the stars blur with your tired eyes.

Tommy walks up with two mugs. “Figured you’d be out here.”

You nod. He sits beside you. No words for a while. Just the clink of ceramic and the sound of the night.

Then you murmur, “I was in Boston.”

He says nothing. Just waits.

“I had a little brother. He got sick. FEDRA wouldn’t give us meds unless we signed up for militia duty.” Your throat tightens. “He didn’t make it.”

Tommy’s fingers brush yours, slow and careful. “I’m sorry.”

You look down. “He was the last thing I had.”

“You’ve got more now,” he says. “Even if it don’t feel that way yet.”

His hand lingers. You don’t move.

You don’t want him to.

The first time you end up in his bed, it’s not planned.

You show up after a fight with a runner,nothing serious, just blood and adrenaline. He bandages your arm, and you end up staying too long, sitting too close, your knees touching.

Then you kiss him again.

This time, it’s slower. Less fire, more ache.

After, he holds you like he means it. Like you’re not a problem he’s trying to fix.

“Still think I’m bitter?” you murmur against his chest.

He chuckles. “Nah. You’re sharp, stubborn, and half-wild.”

You raise a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

He kisses your hair. “Damn right it is.”

People notice. Of course they do.

Maria gives you a look one morning over coffee, but says nothing. Ellie asks once, smirking,“So you and Tommy, huh?”,and you toss a snowball at her in response.

You think it’d scare you, caring again. It used to.

But Tommy’s steadiness is its own kind of courage. And you find strength in that. In him.

One night, as you watch the fire burn low, you whisper, “I still don’t know how to do this.”

Tommy takes your hand. “You don’t have to. We’ll figure it out.”

You nod, heart full and aching. Because maybe you were lost when you first arrived. But not anymore. Not with him.

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studiogrimm810 · 1 day ago

Text

Midnight Coffee

// Est. Sam Winchester x you

summary: it's late and you can't sleep. at least you're home with sam // ~900 // base content: avoiding sleep, nightmares, sweet and loving sam

A/N: posting this (my first drabble!!) early to make sure i've fixed the glitches in my posts, sorry if this gets deleted :( if so, it means that i have NOT fixed the issue lolol :/

A symphony of insects buzzed in the dense woods just behind your home. It was a crisp summer night, about two in the morning, and you had been completely unable to fall asleep so you came out to the porch for some fresh air. Your porch. The thought alone makes you smile.

You and Sam had moved on from hunting and settled down in this small, cozy home on the outskirts of Lebanon. It has been a few months since you made the move and every day it still feels like a dream that you’re afraid to wake up from.

Dean and Cas visit often, but they decided to stay at the bunker for a little while longer, enjoying the home they found in it from the very beginning, but you and Sam craved a simpler life of a white-picket fenced home with a garden and porch swing to live in in peace.

However, when leaving the bunker and dropping that life behind, you found that the darkness still followed you. PTSD, you accepted from your therapist's diagnosis, haunted you even in this perfect slice of Heaven on Earth. It tainted your sleep and coated your everyday under a nasty goo that dampened the joy you almost had with your new life.

It’s not that you don’t feel that joy still, but you were so broken by your lifetime of loneliness and misery that you couldn’t exactly just leave that behind the steel, 10-inch thick doors of the bunker.

So here you sat, in your favorite spot of the house, the porch swing that Sam installed just for you, for nights like these. You didn’t have it in you to wake Sam up, you never could when it came to restless sleep or taunting nightmares, so you quietly slipped out with a blanket from the living room and settled into the creaky swing to hopefully distance yourself.

But, of course, Sam is Sam and he noticed your absence shortly and has learned that if you’re not in bed, then you’re most likely right where you are now.

“Hey,” he hums before opening the screen door. He tried to announce his presence subtly but you were still startled at his voice. You whipped around in time to watch him push open the door and step out, sleepy eyes drinking you up. “Can’t sleep?” He comes over and sits on the opposite end of the bench, lifting your legs to place them in his lap. His hands mindlessly run up your limbs, soft skin warming under his touch.

“M-mm,” you shake your head, resting it back into the padding of the bench and looking up into the night sky.

“You could’ve woke me up,” he reminds, resting his head back into the bench as well to level with you, looking right at you and cementing your features back into his memory, again. He can’t help himself, he has to memorize you just in case. It’s his own haunting of PTSD.

“I know,” you murmur, meeting his gaze. He looks tired and you feel bad that your absence woke him up and forced him out of bed. You know he wouldn’t want you to feel that way at all, you just can’t help yourself.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks with a slight squint, knowing it’s a difficult water to tread.

“It’s Hell,” you state simply. Of course, you’ve been stamped with the hunter badge of honor for dying and coming back with a drizzle of Hell during your mortem. His stomach sinks because he knows how stalling that can be for a person, and he hates to be reminded that you, as warm, kind, loving, and pure as you were, still suffered at the expense of The Life.

He just nods, massaging his fingers into the meat of your calf, mixing his moves into your feet and sending warm chills up your back. Your eyes close as you relish the pleasure.

It’s quiet for a while as he continues to slowly work up your legs, keeping steady pressure as he aims to keep you as relaxed as he can. He wants to talk, simple conversation that never got boring with you, but he understands the cloud of trauma that keeps your tongue bit back and words impossible to form.

So instead, he thinks of a simple offer, “coffee?”

Your eyes, reopened and focused back onto the glittered night sky, drift back over to him and a small smile lifts your lips.

“Yes, please.”

His hands move back up your legs, gripping softly at your hips, as he leans down to press a chaste kiss to your thigh before he stands back up again.

“Anything, my love,” he settles the blanket back over your legs, tucking it snug around your frame, and leans down to kiss your temple, hesitating against your skin for a moment to inhale your fruity shampoo.

You watch him disappear back into your home, and he opens the kitchen window so you can hear him work and smell the freshly grinding beans.

This is the life you were destined to have. Even if the shadows hold echoes of your troubled past, fresh coffee on a homey night to keep the dreams at bay is all you could’ve hoped for, especially since the one handing you the mug was your beloved, Sam Winchester.

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>>check out my other works here

tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere @bejeweledinterludes @funkenniffler @iamaslytherin0

#supernatural #sam winchester #fanfiction #fandom #supernatural fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester x you #supernatural fandom #supernatural fluff #spn fanfic #spnfandom #sam winchester fluff

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the-winter-spider · 1 day ago

Text

Yours, Always | Part Twenty-Four

Bucky x reader AU

Word Count: 7k

Warning: Light smut ?? lol nothing descriptive

A/N: Two in a row, trying to edit and wrap this up for yall, still a few more parts left!!!

p.s i dont remember if i wrote the scene about buckys flashback with his arm before and if i didnt no i didnt LOL i was not going back and rereading to find out lol according to my google docs layout i havent buuuuut idk LOL <3

Masterpost

-----

You’re already sweating when you step away from the fire. Your plastic cup is nearly empty, and the warmth from the cheap vodka is curling in your chest like a smirk. The music is too loud, and someone’s yelling about where to find the marshmallows, but all you’re focused on is the trek toward the cooler near the fence line. You pass by kids you half-know, half-like, all of them sunk into the grass, drunk off their faces. You dodge a couple making out against a tree.

That’s when you hear it.

“No, I’m serious! He won’t let me touch him…like, at all.”

You slow your steps instinctively.

“I tried everything. I even gave him a chance to hook up in his truck and he pulled away. Like literally pulled back and said he wasn’t in the mood. What guy says that?”

It’s Bucky’s girlfriend. Her voice is sharp with frustration, teetering on humiliation. Her friends giggle, one of them says, “Maybe he’s gay.”

You choke mid-sip.

The beer fizzes up into your nose, and you cough violently, bending over with one hand braced on your thigh, your cup sloshing in the other. You’re so caught off guard you don’t realize they’re staring at you until the coughing dies down.

“Hey,” one of the girls says, eyes narrowing. “Aren’t you Bucky’s best friend?”

You wipe your mouth and nod, already regretting everything.

“So… is something wrong with him?” Leah, his girlfriend asks, arms crossed tight over her chest like a shield. “Because he’ll make out with me but that’s it. He doesn’t even want to touch my boobs unless I, like, move his hands there. That’s not normal.”

You blink at her. The burn in your throat hasn’t even faded yet. You’re tipsy, your head buzzing, and you’re tired of pretending. “Maybe,” you say slowly, smiling a little too wide, “he just doesn’t want you like that, I wouldn't blame him.”

Her friends gasp and then she slaps you.

Hard.

The impact isn’t as shocking as the sound. A crack, like someone snapping a stick in two. Your head jerks sideways and the cup tumbles from your hand. Everyone hears it, even over the music. A ripple spreads through the party like a wave and then a moment of silence.

You press your palm to your cheek, skin already stinging, and… you laugh.

Not a cruel laugh. Not a broken one either. Just something dry and sharp that bubbles up from your chest like the only logical response. You’re not even mad. Because she has no idea that Bucky and you took each other's virginities last summer in the bed of his truck. Under the stars and the cicadas screaming. She doesn’t know you’ve already had the thing she’s begging for.

There’s movement in the crowd, Bucky pushing his way through bodies. His face is a storm, wild and searching. He’s breathless when he gets to you.

“What’s going on?” he asks, eyes flicking from you to her.

“She was being mean to me!” Leah blurts out, clutching her chest like she’s in a soap opera as she latches onto his arm like a sloth looking for its favourite branch.

Bucky’s eyes shift back to you, and for a second he looks confused, like this doesn’t track. Because it doesn’t. You’ve never been cruel. Never been careless with anyone, especially not someone he was dating.

But this time you had but he doesn’t know that, he wouldn't believe it. You’re about to brush it off, let it slide like it means nothing, when he sees it.

The red blooming across your cheekbone. The outline of her hand and his whole expression changes.

He steps around her without a word and reaches for you, his fingers grazing your jaw, gentle and trembling. “What happened?” he whispers, so quiet only you hear it.

You don’t answer, you don’t need to. His jaw tightens, his hands fall to his sides. He turns back to her, voice louder now, sharper. “We’re done.”

Gasps echo behind you.

Her mouth falls open. “What?! You can’t break up with me! Why?”

Bucky’s voice doesn’t shake. “You hit my girl.”

“I thought I was your girl!”

He lets out a humorless laugh, runs a hand through his hair like it might settle the fire in his chest. “You were never my anything.”

You don’t even wait for the explosion that follows. You just grab his hand and tug him with you, away from the fire, away from the whispers.

The stars are smeared above you like paint on water. You walk in silence for a while, the dry grass crunching under your shoes.

“Sorry,” you say eventually, your cheek still throbbing.

“For what?” he asks. “She was dead weight.”

You glance at him. “Then why were you with her?”

He shrugs. “Stupid teenage boy thing, I guess. Killing time while I wait for my soulmate.”

Your heart stutters. “You think you’ve got a soulmate out there?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe I think I already found her.”

You pretend not to hear that last part. You keep your eyes on the moonlit path ahead.

“We really gotta stop coming to these parties,” you say, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Somehow we always end up causing a scene.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, I think we might actually be the problem.”

You both laugh, the sound of it softer than the wind. The firelight fades behind you. The party disappears. It’s just the two of you now, always finding each other in the mess.

-----

You don’t say much on the walk back from the café. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, not anymore. It stretches between you like something sacred, a thread tugging gently at both of you, keeping you close even when your hands aren’t touching.

The streets are still warm from the afternoon sun, though the breeze has cooled, brushing against your skin and catching in your hair. Bucky’s walking just slightly slower than usual, his arm brushing yours, close enough to feel him but not quite holding. You glance at him once and catch him already looking at you, his mouth curved into the softest, smallest smile. You don’t say anything. You just smile back and keep walking.

By the time you reach the hotel, there’s a quietness settled between you. Inside, Bucky tosses his key card on the nightstand and shrugs off his jacket. You toe off your shoes, stretching your toes into the plush carpet. The lamp on the nightstand casts a golden glow across the room, warm and soft, like it’s trying to match the mood.

“What do you wanna eat?” he asks, already reaching for the room service menu.

You curl your legs beneath you on the edge of the bed and shrug, your eyes skimming the list like it’s in another language. “Anything. I just want fries.”

He huffs a laugh. “Shocking.”

You smile as he picks up the phone to order burgers, two orders of fries, and a slice of chocolate cake. You raise your brows at him when he hangs up, and he just says, “It’s for you. I know you’ll want it later.”

You don’t correct him. He’s right, he usually is.

The bed dips as he sits beside you, and you both lean back slowly until you’re stretched out side by side, your shoulders touching, eyes turned toward the TV.

You scroll through the channels aimlessly before you land on a movie that makes you both freeze. It’s one of those childhood staples, the kind with bad dialogue, familiar one-liners, and a soundtrack that instantly transports you.

“You remember this?” you murmur.

Bucky chuckles. “We watched it in your basement, like, a hundred times.”

“And you cried at the ending every single time.”

“I did not cry,” he says, grinning as he turns to face you, propping himself up on one elbow.

“You definitely cried,” you insist, nudging his shoulder.

The movie plays, the food arrives. The fries are too hot and the burgers are too greasy, and it’s perfect. Bucky moans dramatically after the first bite and you laugh until your stomach hurts. He catches a fry mid-air when you throw one at him and nearly chokes from laughing too hard. You wipe ketchup from his chin. He eats the last bite of your burger when you pretend to be full, then steals a bite of cake and feeds you the rest.

It’s dumb and easy and warm in the way only home ever was.

Eventually, the movie ends, and your playlist begins, songs you chose just for him.

“I’ve been working on this for awhile,” you say, unlocking your phone and handing it to him. “I saved songs that made me think of you. Stuff you missed, stuff I think you’d like.”

He scrolls through slowly. “You made me a playlist?”

Your voice is quiet. “Of course I did.”

He smiles without saying anything, tapping the first song.

“Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls fills the space, soft, aching, familiar.

You turn your head to watch him, the way his eyes go soft at the chorus, the way his lips press into a line and then slowly part like he’s breathing the song in. He doesn’t say anything. He just listens.

Then comes “Super Trouper.” You both laugh when it starts, the way it always made you laugh, even when you were kids and had no idea what heartbreak really felt like.

And then “Mr. Brightside.” And Bucky groans, flopping back onto the pillows like he’s been betrayed. “This damn song I had it on repeat when I was deployed.”

“I knew you’d say that,” you grin.

You lie there in silence for a while after that, letting the music hum in the background, the lights low, the air filled with the scent of chocolate and salt and something warmer.

“I missed this,” Bucky says eventually, voice quiet.

You turn toward him. “What? Cake?”

He rolls his eyes, nudging your knee with his. “This…you. This feeling, like the world could actually be….soft, especially after everything.”

Your heart swells, too full to fit inside your ribs. “I missed it too.”

You both fall quiet again. Then something bubbles up, some memory, some line from the movie and you say it in a ridiculous voice. He snorts. You try to hold back your laugh, but it bursts out. He doubles over. You both laugh so hard your sides hurt, your cheeks burn, tears leak from your eyes.

The laughter fades. Slowly…gently. Until all that’s left is breath and warmth and the way you’re still looking at each other.

He reaches for you.

His fingers brush a piece of hair behind your ear, slow and reverent. His touch lingers, drifting along your jaw. Traces the curve of your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. His eyes are darker now, heavier with something unspoken.

His hand trails down to your chin, then to your lips. You’re breathing harder now. You don’t even realize it until his thumb drags lightly along your bottom lip, and your chest rises sharply, like your body is answering for you before your mind can.

He leans in, closer, his face inches from yours.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, his voice low and hoarse.

You nod. “I’m sure.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, barely there. Like a memory trying to find its way back. Then your hand finds the back of his neck, and he tilts into you, and the kiss deepens. Grows. Becomes something hungry and aching and full of everything you’ve both been holding back.

His hands slide under your shirt, fingertips skating along your skin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You tug at his, lifting it over his head, tossing it aside. He helps you out of yours. You’re both breathing hard now, chests pressed together, skin on skin.

There’s a pause. A moment suspended in time.

His forehead rests against yours.

“You’re still the only person I’ve ever done this with,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Only you.”

Your heart breaks open. You kiss him again.

It’s slow at first, painfully slow. Like you’re both rediscovering something you never really forgot, that you never got the chance to truly have, something you took for granted. His hands are everywhere. Yours are too. There’s a desperation in it, but also a tenderness. A need to be careful. A need to feel.

And when he finally presses into you, you gasp his name, your hands trembling where they clutch at his back. He stills for a second, his eyes locked on yours, and the look there, it’s worship.

You move together in a rhythm that feels like coming home. Every breath, every sound, every movement, it’s all laced with years of want and grief and hope. His skin is hot beneath your hands, the muscles in his back flexing under your fingertips as you cling to him. You feel his breath in your ear, his whispered affirmations, the way he groans softly when your name slips past his lips.

His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, his mouth trailing along your jaw, your collarbone, your shoulder. Each kiss is a vow. Each touch, a promise. It’s not fast or wild, it’s unhurried and reverent. Like you’re something holy. Like this is something sacred.

He murmurs things you can barely hear. You’re beautiful. I missed you. I missed this. I missed us. You feel his thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. You open your eyes to find his already on you, so full of you it’s almost too much to bear.

When your hips meet again, everything in you clenches. It’s slow, drawn out. You gasp his name, and he holds you closer, his forehead pressed to yours like he’s trying to fuse your bodies, your hearts, your souls. You wrap your arms tighter around him and breathe him in like he’s oxygen.

You feel every second of it, every inch, every wordless I love you tucked into the press of his body against yours. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t pull away. He moves with you, over and over again, until the ache becomes something molten, something rising and breaking and settling in its place like truth.

And when the wave crests, when your nails dig into his right shoulder and your lips part in a silent cry, he’s right there with you, hand cupping the back of your head, his own breath stuttering in your ear as he follows.

After, your bodies are tangled beneath the sheets. Skin against skin, legs woven together like you’re afraid of being pulled apart. His arm is wrapped around your waist, hand warm and steady over the dip of your back. You’re both facing each other, noses barely apart, breath shared in the hush between heartbeats. His eyes are heavy-lidded, glazed with something soft and unguarded. A sleepy smile curves at his mouth one of those quiet, private ones that only ever belonged to you.

He kisses your forehead. Then your temple. Then the corner of your mouth.

“It’s always been you,” he murmurs, voice low and thick with truth. His thumb begins to draw slow, lazy circles along the small of your back. “Only you ever was you.”

You reach for his hand and slide your fingers through his like second nature. Like no time has passed. “I know,” you whisper.

For a while, there’s only silence. It’s comfortable and intimate. His thumb shifts from your back to your hip, and when his eyes lift to yours again, they’re serious, searching.

“It’s not time yet, is it?” he asks, gently. Not accusing, just… knowing.

You shake your head, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I just want to tell Lily. I want to put everything behind me before we start anything new. I want it to be clean. Whole.”

He blinks too, and a single tear slips down his cheek, catching the light. But he doesn’t look away. “Don’t apologize,” he says, voice rough but unwavering. “Don’t feel bad. I told you before…I’d wait a lifetime for you.” His fingers squeeze yours. “I meant it.”

You stare at him, heart swelling so tight it almost hurts. “I can’t believe I’m worth all this to you, Buck.”

You lean in and kiss him, it's slow, reverent. Your foreheads pressed together, breath mingling in the quiet.

He smiles, the kind of smile that cracks something open inside you. “You’re worth more than the whole goddamn universe to me, beautiful.”

---

The chaos didn’t sound like freedom, not at first.

It sounded like more fire. More screaming. More boots stomping over dirt floors slick with blood. It wasn’t the first time the world had gone to hell around him, and it wouldn’t be the last. But this time… this time something was different.

Bucky’s vision was blurring around the edges. Too much blood loss. Too much pain. His left arm dangled off the edge of the rusted table they’d strapped him to, what was left of it anyway. Bone. Flesh. Muscle, ruined. Shredded. A machete, twice, clean through. They hadn’t even bothered to stitch him up, just wrapped the limb in wire and filth and left it to rot when the screaming stopped giving them answers.

The others had broken weeks ago. Sam was the only one still kicking and cussing and keeping the rest of them sane. God, Sam. Bucky didn’t even know if he made it through the night.

There was shouting outside now. Gunfire that wasn’t from their captors. A different rhythm, a different rage.

American.

It hits him slow, like a delayed explosion, this might be it. Not the end. The beginning.

“Bucky—” It’s Sam’s voice now. Close, too close. Bucky doesn't even remember the last time he saw Sam, probably the night they were taken.

He blinks, heavy lids fluttering. His body is ice, sweat coating his chest, making his dog tags stick. He can barely turn his head. But Sam is there, stumbling through the busted-open door, rifle still raised, blood smeared across his temple.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam breathes, voice cracking. “Buck—Buck, I got you. I got you.”

He’s at Bucky’s side in a second, eyes flicking down to the mangled arm.

“Oh my god.” Sam turns his head. “MEDIC! GET IN HERE! NOW!”

Bucky coughs. Tries to sit up. Fails.

Sam catches his shoulder, eases him down. “No. No, don’t move. You hear me?”

“You… look like shit,” Bucky rasps, lips split and dry.

“You’re one to talk,” Sam answers, but there’s no humor in it. His voice is shaking. “Shit. Buck. I thought you were dead. I heard the screaming and then it was just silent, I thought I lost you man.”

Bucky tries to nod, but even that’s too much.

“They did something,” he says instead, barely audible. “To my arm…”

“I see it, man. I see it. I got you, okay? We’re getting out.”

Bucky lets out a rattled breath. “Don’t think I’m gonna make it.”

“Don’t say that,” Sam snaps, grabbing a clean cloth from the medic who’s now at his side, pressing it against the open wound. “You don’t get to say that. You’re gonna make it.”

But Bucky’s eyes are fluttering now, his body starting to go slack.

He can feel it, his heart slowing, his body pulling away from itself.

“Sam…”

“No—no, no, don’t do this—”

“Listen to me,” Bucky croaks, forcing his eyes open, locking them on Sam’s face. “You go find her.”

Sam shakes his head, confused. “What?”

“Y/N,” Bucky says, every word a slice of glass through his throat. “You go find her. You tell her…”

Sam grips tighter, panic bubbling in his chest. “Bucky—”

“You tell her…” Bucky’s voice trembles. “I’ve been in love with her my whole damn life. Since I was eight. My life didn’t start until I met her.”

Sam’s eyes burn. “Buck—”

“You tell her that,” Bucky breathes, voice fading. “Please. You tell her.”

The medic is shouting something now. Hands on Bucky’s arm. Wrapping. Stabilizing. The hum of a chopper in the distance. Sam’s vision blurs, but he doesn’t let go.

“No,” Sam growls. “You’re gonna tell her yourself. You hear me? That was too damn poetic for me. You’re not dying on a goddamn monologue.”

Bucky lets out a weak laugh, a gasp of breath that’s more pain than sound, and then, he passes out. His head tips back, the table rattles. The medic curses.

Sam keeps holding his hand.

“You better hold on, Barnes,” he says, fierce and quiet. “She’s been waiting long enough.”

—

The light filtering in through the narrow hotel curtains is soft and golden, casting a sleepy warmth across the tangled sheets and the quiet space between you. You’re sitting at the edge of the bed, one sock on, the other dangling from your fingertips. The room smells like him. Like cedarwood and clean soap and something warmer beneath it that you can’t name but know by heart. It smells like home.

Behind you, Bucky stretches, shirtless, his arm slung over his face before he groans softly. “God, I hate being away from you,” he mumbles, voice still raspy from sleep.

You turn, watching him with a fond, amused smile. “You say that every time,” you tease gently, pulling your sock on.

He peeks at you through his fingers. “That’s because it’s true. I hate it. I wanna glue myself to you.”

That makes you laugh, soft and full and real and you roll your eyes as you stand and tug your shirt over your head. “That’d get uncomfortable quick,” you say. “You’d get annoyed with me by lunch. I’ve been told I’m annoying.”

He props himself up on one elbow, watching you like you’re the only thing that exists in the room. “Never enough of you,” he says quietly. “I’ve got years to make up for. Years I should’ve been there. All this lost time, it’s like a hole in my chest. Every second with you, it fills a little more of it in.”

You swallow hard, standing frozen in place for a moment. Because goddamn, he means it. You see it in his eyes. You feel it in your chest.

You cross to him, sitting at the edge of the bed again, brushing your fingers through his hair gently. “What’s your plan today?” you ask, keeping your voice soft.

He sighs and leans into your touch. “New physiotherapist, another new doctor,” he says, nodding toward his left arm. “It’s been acting up again. Some nerve issues, maybe. They want to run tests. I don’t know.”

Your brows draw together in quiet concern. “Your arm?”

He nods again, but it’s casual, like it’s not the thing that wakes him up some nights with a searing jolt or makes it hard for him to button his own shirts some mornings.

He doesn’t have his shirt on, and your gaze drops to the line of scar tissue along his shoulder. That old, familiar ache curls in your chest as you shift closer, kneeling up on the bed beside him. Your fingers reach out gently and trace the jagged line that runs along his skin. He holds still, barely breathing.

Then, without a word, you lean in and press a kiss to it. Then another. A slow, unhurried trail of soft kisses up his shoulder and down the line of the scar. He exhales shakily beneath you.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s not rushed. Not breathless. It’s steady and certain and worn into the fibers of who he is.

You lift your head, looking at him through the blur of your lashes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I know and I’ve always loved you, Buck. I always will.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, and then he exhales, huffing a soft, teasing breath through a crooked smile. “You always gotta one-up me, huh?”

You blink. “What?”

He grins wider. “I say I love you, and you gotta make it sound like a vow you carved into the damn universe.”

You laugh, pressing your palm to his chest. “Sorry,” you murmur. “I like winning and for the record, it is.”

Bucky sits up a little straighter, eyes narrowing in mock challenge. “You’ll never beat me.”

“At what?” you ask, amused.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just lifts your hand to his lips, kisses the inside of your wrist, and then rests it over his heart.

“This,” he says quietly. “I already won. I’ve got the greatest trophy of all time.”

You raise an eyebrow, playing along. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, eyes locked on yours. “Yeah, your heart.”

Everything inside you just… stills. There’s no smart reply, no flirty comeback. Just this moment. This man and the sacred truth that has always been sitting quietly between you.

You lean in and kiss him again, slower this time, more grateful than anything. Then you press your forehead to his and let yourself breathe it in, his calm, his warmth, the feel of rightness.

After a long moment, you pull back just enough to speak. “I’m going to Sarah’s,” you say softly, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Steve and I are telling Lily today.”

Bucky’s expression shifts gently.

“He texted me last night,” you say. “I didn’t say anything because yesterday was about us,” you say. “Just us.”

He nods again, lacing your fingers together. “Okay.”

You linger there for a while longer, tangled in each other’s warmth, until the world starts to creep back in the soft buzz of the phone charging on the nightstand. Eventually, you sit up and stretch, tugging your shirt over your head again, your skin still flushed, your hair mussed, you brush it and fix yourself up in record time. Bucky props himself up on one elbow, watching you, admiring you.

“You really have to go?” he murmurs.

You look over your shoulder at him, mouth tilted in a soft smile. “Yeah, I do.”

He nods, slowly. You can tell he hates it not because of Steve but because you’re leaving the room. Which means leaving this. The little pocket of time where everything felt suspended and untouched by reality.

Bucky sits up fully, swinging his legs off the bed. He grabs his jeans off the floor and tugs them on without breaking eye contact.

You kiss his forehead, then step back, reaching for your bag. “Alright,” you murmur. “Wish me luck.”

He leans against the doorframe, shirtless, eyes tracing you like he doesn’t want to forget how you look right now. “You don’t need luck,” he says. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You smile and step toward the door, then pause. “I’ll see you later?”

His eyes soften. “Yeah, you will.”

And then you slip out into the hallway, the door clicking softly behind you.

----

You wipe your palms on your jeans for the third time before Steve even pulls the car into park. The porch light is already on, casting a warm yellow glow over the steps, and you can see the soft flicker of something on inside maybe a candle, maybe the TV. He cuts the engine, then turns to look at you.

“She’s gonna love you,” he says, but the way he fidgets with his keys tells you he’s nervous anyway.

“You’ve said that three times,” you say, teasing gently, though your own stomach twists with nerves. You’ve been dating for months. Real months and this…the home visit, the meet-the-mom this feels like something more. Something heavier. Especially because you know…you’re the first girl he’s brought home since her. Since the grief that swallowed him whole. And this is your first time meeting anyone's Mom because with him it was never like this, Winnie met you the first day you met him, there was no big anxious meeting.

Steve exhales. “I haven’t done this in a long time. I haven’t brought anyone home since…”

“I know,” you say softly, reaching for his hand. “It’s okay.”

And it is, you’re not trying to replace anyone, you never have been. You know you never could because no one could ever replace Bucky. But you can’t pretend this isn’t a big deal, for both of you.

The door swings open before he can knock.

“There you are!” Sarah beams, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. Her hair is a little shorter than in the photos on the fridge you’ve seen at Steve’s place, streaked with more gray, but her eyes are kind, sharp. She pulls Steve into a hug and then, without hesitation, does the same to you. She smells like fresh herbs and something sweet in the oven. “Dinner’s just about done. Come on in, shoes off. I’m not mopping twice this week.”

You laugh, already relaxing just a little. Steve rolls his eyes but kicks his boots off, brushing your hand as you toe yours off beside his.

Dinner is simple, cozy. There’s a casserole bubbling in the oven, garlic bread wrapped in foil on the stovetop, a little bowl of salad that’s mostly croutons and cheese. The radio hums from the corner, some old song crooning softly beneath the clatter of dishes and Sarah’s storytelling. She talks fast, like Steve, and you recognize little bits of him in her, the sarcasm, the warmth, the way she smiles when she talks about someone she loves.

You and Steve settle into the old wooden chairs at the table while she finishes plating. When she asks him to run downstairs to the cellar to grab “the good wine, the one behind the pickle jars, you’ll know it when you see it,” Steve hesitates, glancing at you.

“I’ll be fine,” you say, smiling. “Go get the wine. I wanna know what the ‘good stuff’ tastes like.”

“Don’t believe her if she says I’m drinking more than one glass,” Steve mutters to his mom, but he kisses your temple before disappearing down the creaky stairs.

And then it’s just you and Sarah.

The silence isn’t awkward. It’s quiet, but it hums with something familiar. She sits across from you, tucking the dish towel in her lap like it’s muscle memory, and folds her hands.

“He’s happy,” she says. “He’s finally happy.”

You glance toward the basement door. “I hope so.”

Sarah smiles. “You’re good for him. I haven’t seen that look on his face in years. Not since…” She trails off, the implication hanging in the air like steam.

“Natasha,” you offer gently.

She nods. “It gutted him. Losing her like that.” Her voice dips lower, not mournful exactly, but honest. “I didn’t think he’d recover from it. He carried that loss like it was stitched into his skin.”

You swallow. “I understand that kind of loss,” you say. “Maybe that’s part of why we… why we understand each other.”

“I know you do,” Sarah says, and her tone shifts. Her eyes soften, her brows pull just slightly. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Your brows furrow. “What do you mean?”

“I see the loss of a great love,” she says. “It’s in the way you look when you think no one’s watching. That kind of ache, it doesn’t fade. It just gets quieter.” She pauses, then adds, more to herself than to you, “It’s the same look I see when I catch myself in the mirror.”

You blink. “Sarah…”

She lifts a hand to wave it off gently. “I’m not trying to put anything on you, sweetheart. I just… I’m saying I know that look.” Before you can respond before the silence can turn too fragile, Steve returns, wine bottle in hand and grin on his face.

“Found it,” he says, oblivious to the weight that’s just been shared. “And I only knocked over two pickle jars.”

Sarah stands and takes the bottle. “That’s a new record.”

You smile at him, still feeling the echo of her words in your chest, and when he slides his hand across the table to link his fingers with yours, you squeeze his hand just a little tighter.

Sarah says nothing more about it for the rest of the night.

--------

You pull into the driveway and park beside Sarah’s old Buick. The house hasn’t changed, the same rose bushes, same wind chimes, same smell of lemon cleaner and cinnamon that greets you the second you step inside. It still feels like home.

Before you can even knock, the door swings open and Sarah pulls you into a hug, warm and firm and familiar.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs against your hair. “It’s good to see you.”

You cling to her a second longer than you mean to. “You too,” you say, your voice a little shaky.

She pulls back and studies your face. “Come in. I made tea.”

You follow her into the kitchen, sliding into your usual seat at the table. The teapot is already steeping, and there are lemon cookies on a plate between you.

“Where’s Steve and Lily?” you ask.

Sarah smiles as she pours the tea. “Steve had to take her to get frozen yogurt. She wouldn’t stop asking.”

You laugh softly. “Of course she wouldn't.”

Sarah slides a mug toward you, then sits down across from you. Her eyes are gentle, knowing.

“You’re nervous,” she says.

You nod. “I feel… awful. Like I failed them. Failed all of us.”

Sarah takes your hand. “You didn’t fail anyone, sweetheart.”

“I left. I broke our family.”

She shakes her head slowly. “No. You loved with your whole heart. You tried. You showed up, every day. That’s not failure. That’s life.”

Your eyes sting. “I just… I worry about Lily.”

“She’s got two parents who love her more than anything. That’s what matters.”

You nod, wiping under your eye. “I didn’t want this to hurt anyone.”

Sarah leans back in her chair and smiles, slow and thoughtful. “You know,” she begins, “Steve’s father wasn’t my first love.”

That makes you pause. “No?”

She shakes her head. “No. I met someone when I was barely out of high school. Thought I’d marry him. Life had other plans. But if he showed up on my doorstep today…” She trails off, eyes far away for a moment. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

You’re quiet for a beat.

She reaches across the table again. “What you and Bucky have… it’s rare. That kind of bond, that kind of love, it’s once in a lifetime and I saw it then, when you first walked through my front door, clear as day. You don’t let that slip through your fingers especially when life is being gracious to give you a second chance at it.”

You swallow hard.

Sarah’s eyes glisten just a little, but her voice stays steady. “My son is a wonderful man, don’t I know it and my boy, he’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay.”

You nod slowly, letting the truth of it settle inside your chest.

Then the door creaks open and you hear Lily’s laughter burst through the hall.

“Time to talk,” Sarah says gently.

You hear the sound of little feet thudding up the stairs before you see her, her laughter floating into the kitchen as Steve trails behind her, carrying the remains of a half-melted frozen yogurt in a to-go cup. He looks a little more tired than when you saw him last, like everything he’s been carrying finally settled into his shoulders overnight.

“Mommy!” Lily beams when she sees you, and you open your arms without hesitation as she throws herself into your lap. She’s sticky from the yogurt, her cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, but she smells like coconut shampoo and sunshine, like childhood bottled into something you want to hold on to forever.

“Hey, Bug,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around her, breathing her in.

Steve pulls out the chair beside you, setting the yogurt cup on the table with a quiet clink. Sarah slips out of the room without a word, giving you space like she somehow knew before you even asked.

“Lils,” Steve says gently, his voice soft in the way he only ever uses with her. “We were hoping we could talk with you for a little bit.”

Lily leans back in your lap, blinking at the two of you like she’s trying to figure out if she’s in trouble or if this is one of those grown-up talks she’s supposed to sit still for.

You stroke her hair back from her face. “It’s not bad, sweetheart. Nothing scary. We just… we want to talk to you about something important. Something about our family.”

She nods solemnly, lips pressed together, already bracing herself for something she doesn’t fully understand yet.

Steve glances at you. You nod. And then he begins.

“You know how sometimes families look a little different?” he says gently. “Some kids have two moms. Some have one parent. Some have step-parents. Some have two dads. Every family’s a little different, and that’s okay.”

Lily nods. “Like Emma in my class has two houses.”

“Exactly,” you say softly, smoothing her hair. “Like that.”

Steve leans forward a little. “Your mom and I… we’ve been trying really hard to make things work. We’ve been talking a lot, and we’ve decided that it’s best if we don’t live together anymore.”

Lily’s eyebrows furrow. “You’re getting divorced?”

The word lands heavier than you expected. You feel it in your chest, sharp and inevitable. But you nod, holding her hand. “Yes, we are. But that doesn’t mean we’re not still your parents. That doesn’t mean we don’t love you. You’re everything to us, okay?”

She’s quiet for a long beat, her little fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve. Steve reaches across the table and takes her other hand gently.

“You’re still going to have both of us,” he says. “We’re going to work together. We’re going to be a team. And we’re going to make sure you always feel safe, no matter where you are.”

Lily swallows, her voice small. “So who do I live with now?”

You exchange a glance with Steve again, and you smile, reassuring. “You’ll have two homes. You’ll stay with Daddy during the school week, and you’ll come see Mommy every weekend. We’ll figure out holidays together. You’ll always have a place in both our lives, baby.”

Her eyes brim with tears, and your heart seizes. “But I like when we’re all together,” she whispers.

You pull her close again, pressing your cheek to her temple. “I know, baby. I know. We do too. But this way, you get more love. More space. More people who care about you.”

She sniffles into your shirt, and Steve reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“You’re the best thing that ever happened to us,” he says. “Nothing about that changes.”

She pulls at a string on the cuff of her sweatshirt. “So… are we not a family anymore?”

That question slices through you, clean and cruel and innocent. Steve’s hand finds yours between you on the couch, squeezing gently. He answers first.

“We are always a family,” he says, voice low. “We’re just going to be a different kind of family now. Two houses. Two places that are home. But the same love. The same team.”

You nod, trying to blink back the sting behind your eyes. “We love you so much, baby. That’s not changing. That will never change.”

She stares at you for a long moment. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” you both say at once.

You reach forward, taking her small hands in yours. “No, baby. Not even close. This isn’t about you, it’s about us. Sometimes, even when people love each other, they realize they’re better as friends and that’s okay.”

Lily’s lips press together tightly. Her eyes flick to Steve. “Are you mad at each other?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, bug. Not mad. We’ve just… grown in different directions. But we still care about each other. A lot.”

She looks down. “So I’ll go back and forth?”

“That’s right,” you say gently. “And we’ll talk all the time. You’ll always know where you’ll be, and you’ll always have a say.”

Her nose scrunches. “But what about Christmas?”

You smile a little, tears spilling over now. “We’re going to do our best to spend holidays together, if that’s what you want. It might be different, but we’ll figure it out. Together.”

She nods slowly, processing. There’s a long silence. The kind where you want to reach for her, but you’re not sure if it’ll help or make it worse. She crawls off the armchair and settles between the two of you on the couch without a word. Your arm comes around her instinctively, and Steve mirrors it on her other side. She rests her head against your chest and closes her eyes.

After a beat, her voice floats up small, steady, and certain. “As long as we still love each other… we’ll be okay, right?”

“Right, bug,” Steve says, his voice thick with emotion.

She grins, nabs a cookie off the plate like she’s earned it, and hops off your lap. In a blur of curls and socked feet, she darts down the hallway, her voice trailing behind her. “I’m telling Grandma I want pancakes for dinner!”

And just like that, she’s gone light on her feet, all sunshine and survival. You and Steve sit there, side by side, “I didn’t think it’d go that well,” he murmurs after a moment.

You exhale, your eyes still on the spot where she disappeared. “She’s stronger than both of us.”

Steve looks over, and there’s something reverent in the way he does it. “She’s strong like you,” he says. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

You don’t answer. You just reach for his hand one last time.

Because love, even when it changes shape, still leaves something soft behind.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes x oc

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snail-day · 23 hours ago

Note

I should be writing my dissertation but....

Nanami is the kind to just speak of his plans for the future while he is fucking his darling,

to debate his favourite baby names aloud as he spreads her legs. To talk about the countryside house with a garden big enough for a vegetable plot and a little pond as his fingers draw out another orgasam over and over. That this current apartment is just temporary until you two finally have a child who needs all the extra room, planning out what colour lecreuset's will decorate the kitchen drawers and which kitchen aid appliances she will get the most use of as he rails into her.

Kissing her afterwards with a sigh as he fixes the gag muffling her swears and cries, he just needs to train more before she's perfect and domesticated

🪻

Sayyyyy less more anon

Tw: Overstimulation, Kidnapped reader, Mentions of breeding

This fits too well for both Nanami and Geto. Except their both delusional in their own way <3 silly guys.

Geto who whispers threats like he's reading his vows to you. Tells you what’ll happen if you run again, all while stroking your tear stricken cheek, slow and soft. “You think I’d ever let you leave?” he laughs against your lips, pressing into you, as his cock brushes against your cervix one more time. Ensuring you can still feel the sting from the thirty to fifty spankings you received earlier.

Nanami is something else entirely. (Wouldn't be my second or first choice to end up with)

Nanami fucks you like he’s securing your future together. Like every harsh, mean thrust is a nail in the home he's building for you in the country side. Spreads your legs wide, gaze narrowed onto the gag (wishes he could take it off without you biting him so harshly), and talks, so calmly, about the future he’s already decided on.

“You’ll need to stop this attitude once the first one comes,” he says, voice even as his cock presses cruelly into your cervix. “I’ll plant your favorite along the fence line. You'd like that wouldn't you?”

You sob something incoherent, but it doesn’t matter. He presses a hand over your belly, possessive. Not much reassuring. “You’ll love it there. Quiet. Isolated. Perfect for raising children. Perfect for keeping you safe.”

And when he makes you come - again, and again - he keeps going. His tone doesn't falter as he discusses baby names, house layouts, and how many drawers he’ll need for your favorite Le Creuset pieces. You’re crying, overstimulated, wrists bound and gag soaked through. But he just hums softly, kisses your temple. “You're so emotional these days. Must be the hormones.”

(And oh, of course he wants home births. In the master bedroom, sunlight streaming through gauzy curtains. He’ll hold your hand through the contractions, murmur encouragement between contractions, wipe sweat from your brow and tell you how beautiful you look. So brave. So obedient.)

Afterward, he wipes you down carefully. Fixes the gag, brushing a kiss to your forehead as if you weren’t begging for mercy just moments ago. “You’ll learn,” he promises softly. “You’re not quite ready yet. But you’re mine. And I’ll train you until you are.”

Nanami Kento is one patient bastard. He’s waited this long for you. He’ll wait a little longer for the version of you he’s cultivating, his quiet, pregnant housewife, docile and full of love and his children. Even if he has to break you apart to make it happen.

#Godddd this was so freaking yummy #Yandere #Yandere jjk #🪻anon forehead smoochies #Go write your dissertation 😮‍💨 college kids these days #Slacking off writing smut /j #Snail yaps #I do have thoughts that he would stalk a mom at the park with her kids but thats for another time #yandere jujutsu kaisen #Yandere nanami kento

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veinsfullofstars · 2 days ago

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Meet the Families: Gear Dee, Eva, & Treble Dee

You guys might’ve heard me talk about Bow’s extremely cool moms before (and maybe mention her sullen older brother once or twice), and now I finally get to introduce you to them! Check below the cut for more deets and fun facts!

(OC info updated as of 05/07/25.)

Started 04/22/25, finished 05/06/25. | Childhood Friends AU Masterpost

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Some fun facts about Gear Dee:

-Raised in a certain city off-world, Gear grew up deep in the heart of Air Ride culture, surrounded by roughnecks and gearheads who absolutely adored her and always treated her like one for the family. Her father - a trophy-winning racer - taught her all the tools of the trade (mechanics, vehicle operation, pyrotechnics, etc.) and fostered in her a love of fast starships and thrilling races. (He maaaay have also let her test out the machines before she was old enough to drive one, but the authorities never found out, so who’s to say how true that is?)

-Once she was old enough to enter, Gear quickly made a name for herself in local Air Ride competitions, living mostly for the thrill and the speed rather than victory. Her vehicles of choice tend to be either the Turbo Star and the Formula Star.

-Her first relationship was… a messy one. During her early days running in the city trials, she fell head-over-heels for an awkward but charming Waddle Dee who always showed up for her races, taken in by gifts, pretty words, and - though she didn’t know at the time - empty promises. Her father and friends never approved of him, but Gear has never been one to follow any path but her own, moving in to his grungy apartment partly out of stubbornness and partly upon learning they had a kid on the way. She’d tried her damnedest to make it work, even as their love started to sour, as her career prospects flagged, as his debts and gambling problems became known, as the shouting matches grew more and more frequent. It wasn’t until the birth of their second child that she’d had enough, packing her bags and ignoring his protests and pleas as she left with the kids, moving in with a certain seamstress friend of hers across town.

-Things improved a bit during her stay with Eva. She didn’t have much time for races anymore thanks to the kids but found enough fulfillment in ancillary mechanics work to make up for it. Her friendship with Eva quickly blossomed into something more, the transition near-seamless given how close they’d grown in the years prior. She saw Eva’s meek demeanor open into something bright and personable, the pressure of city life easing off as she found her footing. It warmed Gear’s heart to hear her talk about patterns and textiles and fabric quality with a fervor that only came when she was at her happiest.

-When the phone calls came, Gear blocked his number. When the letters arrived, she tore them up. When he appeared on Eva’s doorstep - teary-eyed with his pockets turned out, offering the same empty apologies and poor excuses as before - she slammed the door in his face. Almost one year since she left, she once again decided she’d had enough and packed up her things for a second time, now with Eva at her side. They said their goodbyes to their families and friends with promises to keep in touch (and to not tell him where they were going) and boarded the next starship out of the city, making their home in a little middle-of-nowhere village on Gear’s birth planet, Popstar.

-It’d taken some time to get used to more rural living, but Gear settled in well enough. Popstar - for all its peace and quiet - is not without its own avenues of entertainment and thrill. And there’s always need for a handywoman around, whether it’s to fix a busted toaster or build a new fence or see what’s wrong with the family warp star. It’s fulfilling, in its own way (plus, with some help from the Poppy Bros. family, she also gets to be in charge of fireworks on holidays, so there’s that). She does miss the city sometimes, though, especially the races. She hopes she can visit again someday… though, not right now.

-Gear isn’t entirely sure what happened between her and Treble. He used to be such a sweet boy before… well, all that. She’s tried to talk with him about it, but he never wants to hear it, either brushing her off or starting another shouting match. It reminds her a lot of herself at that age. Maybe that's why it strains her patience with him to its limit so often. (That, or seeing his father in those blue eyes...)

-Raising Bow was a journey that Gear wasn’t entirely prepared for - nothing in those stupid parenting books about atypical Copy Abilities. If it hadn’t been for Eva’s help, she has no idea how she would’ve managed. Even now, Bow’s still a handful, but she’s also Gear’s little firecracker, a tiny spark of excitement and energy who loves fun and danger just as much as she does. She can’t wait to take her to the city someday - Bow would love the races, she just knows it.

-Gear will never stop talking about how cool her wife is.

Some fun facts about Eva:

-Eva doesn’t talk about her life before the city. Full stop. For all she cares, her life didn’t begin until she hitched a ride on a passing starship and stepped out into the blinding lights of that sprawling metropolis. The city was hardly kind to her in those early years, forcing her to run with some tough crowds and make some tougher choices in order to survive, but she did survive, finding home and friends and purpose in those grimy, noisy streets. Compared to the nest she’d clawed her way out of, it might as well have been paradise.

-While working in a laundromat to pay for her meager apartment, Eva bumped in to very punk-rock Waddle Dee who introduced herself as one of the many Air Ride racers that populate the city. They got to chatting and hit it off right away, becoming fast friends in a handful of weeks. She learned all about Gear and her life in the city, her interests, her goals, the sound of her boisterous laughter. Eva could feel her heart reaching even then and found herself feeling brave enough to share bits of herself, her own experiences - good and bad - carving out a life in the city. She learned of Gear’s kids and the disintegrating state of her relationship, saw the frustration and misery in her warm eyes, and - though trying to remain respectful - did try to act as a voice of reason regarding Gear’s flaky partner, perhaps the one that finally convinced her to leave him.

-Though Gear and her kids moving in came rather suddenly, it proved to be some of the happiest days of Eva’s life (before coming to Popstar, anyway). It was far from easy, but they shared the weight as evenly as they could, supporting each other and talking through what needed talking through. She watched the life return to Gear’s eyes, her drive returning in earnest as she pursued her passions once again (even if they had to be tweaked a bit). It was Gear who took her to get her first piercing. It was Gear who took her to the Garden in the Sky and showed her the stars high above the city. It was Gear who used her connections to help Eva land a job with an esteemed boutique, a dream she’d had since coming to the city. After all that, how could she not fall in love?

-They’d discussed leaving the city long before the calls and letters. Eva might have come there seeking a fresh start, and learned so much in her time living there, but she never quite took to urban life as readily as Gear did, despite her efforts. Gear was understanding… if a bit hesitant, at first. After all, she had a life here already, family and friends and a potential career. Obviously, Eva didn’t want to tear her away from that, only wanted Gear and her kids to be happy, but she couldn’t help but wonder if there might be a better home for them all elsewhere… It was only when Gear’s ex started coming by that the prospect seemed a lot more inviting.

-Within a year of moving in together, they’d found a new home far away from the city, in a quiet little village full of kind folks that took them in readily. Eva quickly found that the countryside suited her much better than the city, enamored with the clean air and vast blue skies unblemished by skyscrapers and smog. She’d been so used to the roar of vehicles and commuters that she’d almost forgotten the sounds of nature, animals and leaves and wind and silence. She’s never felt so… at home than she has here.

-Though she still takes commissions for custom outfits and accessories, Eva has mostly relegated her clothing passions to the comfort of a beloved hobby, spending most of her time working with her neighbors as a community organizer instead. She’s still the first on call when someone needs fashion advice or a rip repaired, though, and she’s knitted at least one sweater for almost everyone in the villager.

-If Gear had been unprepared for a sulky teenager and a hydrokinetic baby, then Eva even less so. She loves Bow and Treble dearly, of course, cares for them as if they were her own children… but, stars, they can be a handful sometimes. It’s so hard to keep up with Bow’s energy, and Treble looks at her like she’s personally responsible for every bad thing in his life… It’s fine, though. If her time in the city has left her with anything, it’s the ability to adapt to whatever life throws at her. She can be patient. She can be strong. She can be a good mother to these kids who deserve the world.

-Eva likes to call Gear her wife despite the fact that they never officially got married.

Some fun facts about Treble Dee:

-Unlike Bow, who was too young to remember her brief time in the city, Treble has no trouble recalling his early childhood. He remembers their tiny apartment, with its faded wallpaper and water damage stains that looked like animals if he squinted. He remembers his dad carrying him on his back out by the wharf, telling him stories and showing him the lighthouse and buying him the best ice cream he’d ever had. He remember his mom coming home smelling like motor oil and letting him play with toy spaceships she brought back from the races. He remembers having friends and going to school and hearing music on the street all the time. He remembers being happy there.

-He remembers his dad being gone a lot, while his mom paced and fumed over the bills on the tiny kitchen table. He remembers hearing them argue a lot through the walls when he was supposed to be asleep. He remembers peering down into the crib with the tiny Waddle Dee inside, feeling crowded despite how small she was.

-Once, his dad bought him a ukulele for his birthday. His mom taught him how to play it, promising to teach him how to play her guitar when he got bigger. He loved that little uke and played it all the time, making up silly little songs that made his dad laugh and tell him he was going to be a star one day. He forgot to pack it up when his mom said they had to leave. He wonders if it’s still there.

-He didn’t like Eva’s apartment. It smelled weird, and the water stains in the ceiling looked like faces laughing at him. He had to share a room with Bow. She cried a lot, so much that she broke one of the pipes in the kitchen. He had a nightmare the first night there, hearing his dad calling out to his mom and begging her to come back. Eva found him crying and tried to hold him until he calmed down. He pulled away. He never got to say goodbye.

-He didn’t cry when they left the city. Just sat with his cheek pressed against the window of the starship, watching the only home he’d ever known fade behind the clouds, and then the stars. He kept his headphones on so he couldn’t hear Bow crying or his mom talking to Eva.

-Treble learned to play bass on his own. Mostly out of spite, if we’re being honest. (Gear’s too proud of him to see it that way, though.) Yes, he’s aware of the irony of being named Treble and playing the bass - stop bringing it up. Also, he's in a band with his friends. Called the Mellow Dees. They're gonna make it big one day, you'll see.

-He wishes his mom didn’t push her interests onto him all the time. Yeah, it’s cool that she taught him how to write music and dye his hair and stuff, but then she wants him to listen to all her weird old-people music or go skateboarding with her and Bow or some other dumb thing he doesn’t care about. Then she gets on his case for staying inside all day and not spending time with people. He is spending time with people, just not her. He has a life, y’know? Friends his own age who actually like the things he likes. He’s not gonna hang out with his parents all the time. That’s so lame.

-He wishes Eva wasn’t so nosy. It doesn’t matter that she’s nice or whatever, she’s such a starsdamn busybody. Always asking what he’s doing and what he’s working on and does he want a snack and ugh, stars, just take a hint already. Does she think he’s still a baby or something? Just leave him alone. He doesn’t want to talk to her. He never wants to talk to her.

-He thinks his baby sister is annoying and wishes she’d stop bothering him when he’d busy doing his own thing. Her friends are just as bad, the little brats. Stars, he hates it here.

-Well… okay, maybe he doesn’t hate it here, living in the village. It’s… fine, he guesses. The weather’s always nice. Food’s good. He even made some new friends who are actually pretty cool. He just… misses the city sometimes, is all. The lights, the music, the tall buildings, the crowds of people, even the smell of the alleyways. He doesn’t miss the races, though. Not even a little bit.

-He does miss his dad sometimes.

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whereianonymouslypostfics · 23 hours ago

Text

Tribulations Part 2

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Word count: ~9k

Summary: Continuation of part 1

A/N: This part is a bit angstier

Warnings: angst, discussions of death, illness, and injury

Rogue’s sitting up in his run whining periodically as he watches everyone move around outside of his glass prison. He is still tired from his walk outside and disappointed that he didn’t get to leave, but that was hours ago. He wasn’t sure why he was still here and he was getting antsy. He was also getting sick of his cone. He’d tried removing it with his paws or bashing it against the side of his run, but he never made much progress. He was stopped before he got anywhere close to taking it off, so he’s a little confused that only a few hours later they’ve taken it off of him.

His tech is currently setting his cone aside and disconnecting his fluid line which makes him think it’s time for another walk. He stands up excitedly, if a little unsteadily, in preparation, and whines impatiently. The sound of a laugh catches his attention and he stares at the source as a slip lead is placed around his neck.

“I know, bud, this is going to be exciting!”

Rogue doesn’t know what she’s talking about, but he doesn’t really care. He’s excited for another chance to flee this place, so he’s prepared to walk back out into the fenced off area behind the ICU. When they turn a different direction he’s confused, but no less excited to see the outside. He hopes he can leave soon. He doesn’t feel great yet, but he’s only a little unsteady and tired. His insides don’t feel like they’re on fire anymore which is nice.

“Come on, Rogue. They’re in here.”

Rogue’s ears perk up in confusion as he’s led to an unfamiliar door. He waits patiently for it to open, hopefully to the outside, but as he steps in he realizes it’s something better.

It takes him a moment to recognize his doctor sitting in a chair that’s facing him. She’s talking to two people who immediately turn and Rogue’s tail is wagging before he even registers who they are.

“Hi Rogue!”

“Are you feeling better, my sweet boy?”

The only response his moms need is Rogue running into the room and practically launching himself at them with an excited whine. He’s a bit uncoordinated in his attempt to climb into Wanda’s lap, and you’re there to hold him off so he doesn’t cause too much damage. He’s so excited to see her, and watching Wanda’s face light up makes you realize she probably wouldn’t care if he actually did sit in her lap, but it wouldn’t be comfortable for her.

“It’s good to see you too. We missed you.”

Wanda’s already tearing up as you try to get Rogue to sit, but it’s useless. He’s way too amped up, so you just settle on holding the leash that he’d yanked out of the tech’s hand to keep him with at least two feet on the ground. You watch with amusement and a peculiar tightness in your chest as your wife loves on her dog.

“Gentle, bud. You need to be careful.”

Rogue only whines in response as he rubs his giant head against Wanda’s hands as he tries to get as close as possible. You ignore all the fur and Wanda ignores all of the slobber as she kisses her dog’s head with a relieved smile. She’d gone with her blonde wig today because she’d worn it last night, but she had only applied enough makeup to cover her injury. She’d decided that she couldn’t exactly walk in with sunglasses again. You’d told her that it would be fine, and no one would notice, but Wanda had still been a little anxious about it up until Rogue had walked in.

You glance to Rogue’s doctor with a wry smile before muttering something under your breath.

“Obviously you can see who the favorite is here.”

Audrey laughs and Wanda spares a few seconds to roll her eyes, but she doesn’t offer a response beyond this. She is too distracted by Rogue putting half of his weight in her lap as he tries to cuddle against her. She just cradles his huge head against her chest as she pets him lovingly. It’s as adorable as it is ridiculous, but you can’t deny the two of them this after the last 24 hours they’ve had.

“Believe it or not, sometimes it’s even more obvious than this.”

You laugh in response before you reach out to scratch Rogue behind the ear. His eyes that had been closed in bliss snap open to look at you. He licks your hand a couple of times before snuggling back into his mom. You can’t even pretend to be upset as this is honestly more attention than you thought you’d get from Rogue today. You also love how much he loves Wanda, and you’d never want to get in the way of that.

Audrey excuses herself to give the three of you the rest of your limited time alone. She has rounds in an hour for shift change, but as she walks back into the treatment area, she’s not surprised to see the doctor who’s going to take over for her here early. She almost always is. “Dr. Lancaster, is it 6 o’clock already?”

The brunette turns away from the tech she was talking to, and Audrey sees that familiar affection that she tries to hide with a dramatic eye roll. Although the duo doesn’t work together often, honestly, they keep opposite shifts for a reason, they get along well enough. They’d been able to get past their brief dating history from a few years back when Audrey started working here, and if pressed, Rachel would admit that they were almost friends at this point.

Still, Audrey can’t help the urge to rile up the brunette every now and again. Not that it ever works. Not here at least. This is evidenced by the fact that Rachel just offers her a slight smile before leveling her with a challenging gaze.

“Not yet, Dr. Cohen, but I caught wind that tonight would be a busy one, so I decided to stop in sooner rather than later.”

Audrey can’t argue with that because although they’d only had 6 inpatients last night, throughout the day, that had grown to over a dozen. It would definitely take longer than the designated hour to review each case. For this reason, she doesn’t waste time giving the other doctor any more grief before leading them back to the ICU. She sighs at the appearance of the organized chaos of having so many patients here.

“It definitely will be. We have everything from an ulcerated GI mass to foxglove ingestion. Where would you like to start?”

Despite her assumptions, the pair was almost finished with rounds by the time that Rogue came back to the ICU. Reluctantly came back to the ICU. Luckily most of the cases were relatively straightforward, and it didn’t take much beyond just a basic history to get Rachel up to speed. They are distracted by the sound of loud whines coming from the treatment area, and Audrey quietly sighs in defeat.

“Here comes your last patient. Rogue a 3-year-old male neutered GSD. Approximately 36 hours ago, he ate a whole foxglove flower. Or tried too. His mom somehow managed to get him to spit out a majority of it right when it happened which probably saved him. He’s received two doses of the antibody therapy, and as you can hear he’s doing much better.”

Rachel just watches as the dog comes into view only to dart out of sight immediately. That made sense. Honestly, she could count on one hand how many well-behaved, anxiety-free shepherds she’d treated. Hopefully this one was well-behaved despite being terrified.

Another few seconds pass before the duo hears a groan and the tech that took Rogue to visit his parents appears. She’s holding the slip lead that’s around Rogue’s neck, but Rogue isn’t walking behind her like they expected. Someone has the almost 100lbs dog in their arms as they walk as quickly as possible toward the dog’s run.

“You’re being ridiculous, Rogue. We’ll be back tomorrow. You’ll see your favorite person again soon.”

You roll your eyes when Rogue just whines pathetically despite not struggling now that he’s in your arms. He must know that he’s not going to get out of this, and perhaps that behaving will get him home sooner. He’s panting by the time that you arrive at his run only to see two familiar faces. You smile but wait until you can set Rogue down before greeting them. He’s unhappy about it and grumbles in distaste, but he doesn’t struggle or try to flee as he’s hooked back up to his IV line and a bowl of food is placed beside him.

“Sorry for trespassing, Dr. Cohen, but he well…you know how it is. Dr. Lancaster, nice to see you again.”

You recognized the brunette immediately and were grateful that you could see who was taking over for Dr. Cohen now that the day was ending. You had no doubt that all the doctors who worked here were competent, but the two in front of you were next-level smart.

“That was actually less painful than last time, so no complaints from me.”

You smile as you glance toward Rogue who’s still getting settled as his tech gets everything hooked up. You notice the cone that was waiting in his run has been placed on the ground outside and you wonder if they don’t think it’s necessary anymore. You know Rogue gets destructive if he’s bored, so you can’t help but wonder if he’ll try to chew out his catheter. You don’t want to step on anyone’s toes though, so you say nothing as the other doctor speaks up.

“You too, Y/n. I’ve been told that Rogue is doing well and should be out of here by this time tomorrow if all continues to progress as expected.”

You smile at the news and the fact that the other doctor remembered your request from last time to be called by your first name. You consider how you’ll make a hasty exit, but Rachel speaks up again and her astuteness catches you by surprise.

“Do you think he’s more likely to behave with or without his cone?”

Rogue’s been left to his food now and he’s eating while lying down which makes you suspect he’s tired. He must have worn himself out during his time with Wanda, but hopefully that just meant that he will sleep better. You still aren’t sure of the correct answer when you speak up a few seconds later.

“It’s hard to say. He’s definitely the troublemaker at home who likes to chew things when he’s bored. I’ll leave it up to your discretion.”

Both doctors in front of you just nod before sparing a glance at Rogue whose head is lying next to his bowl as he stares up at them with sad eyes.

“I better get back to the favorite. Bye, Rogue, love you! Be good buddy…and he doesn’t care, alright. Thanks, you two. Have a good night.”

As you hurry back to Wanda who you’re certain is anxious about how long you’re taking, you miss the amused look passed between the two vets you left behind.

“She’s funny. I hadn’t met her before yesterday.”

Rachel nods in agreement as she remembers the time that she met you over drinks with a mutual friend.

“She is. I met her through Sidney a while ago. They worked together for a bit.”

Audrey nods before she notices that Rogue is already asleep. He really must be exhausted. She decided they’d leave him cone-less for now, but they’d just have to see if he became bored enough to warrant it later. She turns back to Rachel who’s glancing over her notes with a thoughtful expression. They’re done at this point, and Audrey will likely be able to leave work soon. This thought causes her to smile and she shoots the brunette beside her a questioning look.

“I think that’s it for patients. Is there anything else you wanted to catch up on?”

She watches as Rachel hesitates for a split second before she shakes her head. Audrey figures that’s it so she nods and gets ready to make her leave, but she’s stopped short when Rachel speaks up.

“No, not at the moment, but maybe when we both have a night off, we can catch up then?”

Audrey just smiles widely before nodding in agreement. She couldn’t wait.

You’re grateful that the somber mood of last night is absent as you and Wanda arrive home. Seeing Rogue really did improve her spirits and she cuddles her cat with a renewed fervor as she scoops the tabby up from the couch. Fletcher has absolutely no complaints, and you leave the duo alone as you retreat to the backyard to walk Boone.

You consider everything you’ve been told and how Rogue will likely come home tomorrow. You’re thrilled that the very expensive treatment was effective, and you’re glad that you’ll have your family back together again. This thought makes you pause and you stand on the second to last step off the deck with a frown. There is very little that you want more than to see your wife happy. As cliché as it sounds, it truly does make you feel lighter, fulfilled when Wanda is happy.

There’s a lot to be arranged and there will likely be more arguments in the future, but you believe Wanda when she says that she’s going to get out. This isn’t just the nebulous claim that she’d made to you years ago. This time you felt that Wanda was dedicated to formulating and executing a plan that would hopefully get her, and the rest of the family away from crime for good.

You don’t realize how long you’d stopped to think until Boone is running back toward you. His tail is wagging and he sniffs you for an unusually long time before rubbing his head on your hands. You realize he must smell his brother, and you smile at the fact that the shepherds are so bonded. You never would have guessed this would happen when you first saw them tearing at each other that night in front of the compound.

“Y/n?”

You turn around to see Wanda standing on the deck shooting you a concerned look. You realize you do look a bit strange, and you walk back up the steps so you’re at eye level, more or less, with your wife. She takes steps toward you and reaches out for your hand.

“Is everything okay?”

It’s a loaded question that you can answer in many ways. Wanda realizes this too as her concern shifts to curiosity before your eyes. You wonder for maybe the hundredth time since getting married, if you’ll ever be able to hide anything from her.

Finally, you nod as you think about how by this time tomorrow, all five of you could be lounging on the couch relaxing together. Of course, you don’t want to think about Wanda going back to work so soon, but you’d be a fool to think that it was impossible. You want to keep your promise and not discuss your argument before Rogue is home, but you don’t want to lie either. You especially don’t want interacting with your wife to become tense.

“Yeah, I was just thinking about Rogue coming home and how we’ll be one big happy family again.”

Wanda smiles slightly as you say this, but you can tell by how her shoulders drop that she’s realized what you’re hinting at. She takes your hand and leads you toward one set of deck chairs. She sits first before gesturing to the seat beside her.

“I’m excited for that too, Y/n. It…the thought of all of us together makes me want this all the time. I want to make it happen.”

You squeeze your wife’s hand with a smile, ignoring as Boone shoves his head in your lap with a whine, before bringing it to your lips.

“I want it too, Wands. We’ll make it happen, together.”

Wanda offers you a smile so bright that you can’t help but feel a little dazed.

Dr. Lancaster frowns as she glances around the ICU. Honestly things are stable at the moment, and she’s discharged 4 patients during her shift. She takes this as a win, but even this doesn’t make the fact that the one patient that was doing so well seems to have backtracked.

She glances at the telemetry screen across the room and frowns at the slowest heart rate on display.

She didn’t understand why Rogue had been doing so well only to worsen drastically since his visit with his parents. It’s likely not the cause, but he hasn’t woken up for hours and his heart rate has dropped precipitously. The only thing that made sense was that he ingested enough of the plant to need supportive care for longer than they anticipated. Two doses may not be enough despite almost costing $14k, and the most concerning part was she isn’t sure how many doses it would take.

It's nearly 3am, and she sighs in defeat before leaning back in the chair behind the tech station. The duo is working around the room, so she took the advantage to sit and gather her thoughts. She was considering her next steps as the bloodwork she has running for him finishes up. If it’s anything but perfect, hell even if it is, she might end up giving a third dose. She recalls what Audrey told her earlier about getting approval for treatments for Rogue. Rather, she remembers how she’d been told that it wasn’t necessary since both parents had expressed to do ‘whatever he needed’.

Rachel tried not to pay too much attention to billing and how things added up, but it was part of her job. She mostly tried not to let it influence her thoughts on what the best treatment is for her patients. That said, when there are obvious financial restrictions, she does take that into account. It’s just a balancing act that she finds harder to manage in severe cases such as Rogue’s.

Luckily, she doesn’t have to worry about it too much in his case since it sounds like you barely batted an eye when you paid another hefty deposit before leaving last night.

Rachel does something that she never is tempted to do when on shift. She reaches into her pocket and takes out her phone to check on something. The only times she uses her phone at work is for the calculator or to reference one of the many textbooks she has on it. This time; however, she goes to her messages and scrolls down until she finds what she’s looking for.

It’s a group message with Sidney, Caitlin, and an unsaved number that she assumes is yours. Sidney had set up this group chat to let them all know where to meet. She hadn’t responded since they were carpooling, but she sees that Caitlin had given the message a thumbs up, and you’d told her that you would be there. She never had a reason to save your number or even think about it again.

Until now.

She only considers texting you for a few seconds before shaking her head and shoving her phone back into her pocket. This should be no different than any other case. She’s not going to bother you in the middle of the night. Especially when she already has permission to do whatever she deems necessary for Rogue.

She turns back to look at the sleeping shepherd who has barely moved since he fell asleep. He was spared from his cone since he was never awake to show any interest in his catheter, but Rachel would have preferred that to the eerie stillness that overcame the dog as soon as he lost consciousness.

The quiet beep from the computer in front of her alerts her to Rogue’s bloodwork being finished. She glances at the results and immediately skips to the chemistry. She closes her eyes and curses silently before getting to her feet.

It was time for a third dose.

You wake up first, well second really, to the feeling of someone stepping on your neck. You grimace and resist the initial urge to push whoever is on top of you off. You did that once, and Fletcher yowled bloody murder which of course woke up Wanda who fretted over her for nearly five minutes when you’d only put the cat on the floor. Gently.

You knew better than to start the day like that again, so you just roll away and let Fletcher reach Wanda undisturbed.

You wait for a few seconds to see if your wife will wake up, but when you just hear Fletcher continue to purr you breathe a sigh of relief. You glance at the clock to see it is only 7, so you close your eyes and try to go back to sleep.

You only manage a few minutes before your phone vibrates against the bedside table forcing you to open your eyes. You figure it’s important given the early hour so you reach for it with a yawn before looking to see who’s texted you. The unfamiliar number makes you frown, but as soon as you read the message you turn to make sure Wanda’s still asleep before you jump out of bed to make a call.

Y/n, it’s Rachel. Call me when you get a chance? I have an update on Rogue

You make sure you close the door behind you as you escape into the hallway. You find Boone lying in wait, and you smile as you reach out to pet him as he sits up quickly to greet you. You lead him downstairs quickly so he won’t wake Wanda, and you let him outside while you rush to the coat closet to grab a jacket.

Once you’re dressed as warmly as you can be for the time being, you follow Boone outside and unlock your phone.

The shift change has already occurred, but after rounding with Audrey, she decided to be the one to reach out to you. She’s still in the hospital so she can keep an eye on Rogue’s condition, but she’s not currently responsible for his care so she can afford to call you.

Since coming back from after Rachel’s shift was over, Audrey was disappointed to find that Rogue was not doing as well as she expected. She had hoped that he would be gone by the time her day off came, but instead she came back to find him worse off than she left him. His heart rate has dropped again and his potassium is through the roof putting him at risk of deadly arrythmias.

This was not what she wanted to see, and she was certain that this was not the news Rachel wanted to give at the end of her shift.

Audrey honestly finds starting the intensive, time-sensitive treatments preferable to calling you with bad news. She watches Rachel pace as she’s on the phone with you, and she shakes her head with a sigh. She doesn’t envy the brunette right now.

Rachel takes a deep breath before she answers her phone that rings barely two minutes after she sent you the text. She was glad you were so prompt because otherwise she would have had to wake you up and hit you with the bad news while you were likely only half-conscious.

“Hi Y/n, sorry to bother you so early.”

She hears panting and the sound of a tags clinking in the background before you respond. She catches the wariness in your voice, but you don’t seem surprised that she’s calling.

“It’s okay, I was already up. Also, I figured whatever you had to say was important.”

Rachel nods before she begins to pace and tell you everything that’s happened in the last 12 hours. Rogue’s lethargy, cardiac issues, and bloodwork abnormalities. She mentions how she gave him another dose early this morning and she fears that if it doesn’t lead to any improvement by this afternoon, she’s not sure what else she can do beside combating whatever side effects continue to arise.

“We’ve already started administering Calcium gluconate and we’ll follow that with aggressive fluid therapy, but…”

Rachel trails off uncertainly. Although she knows that you’re aware of the risks and the prognosis at this stage, she doesn’t want to be insensitive by just saying it outright. She doesn’t know you very well, but she doubts she needs to sugarcoat this for you. That said, a bit of tact will likely be appreciated.

She doesn’t have to consider how to proceed because you beat her to it with a contemplative hum.

“We’ll just have to see how he does.”

Rachel only hesitates for a second before she nods in agreement. “Yes.”

You take a moment to think about how you’ll tell Wanda all of this, but even through your disappointment, you realize that you don’t need to take up the other doctor’s time for this. You sigh as you stand up from the chair you’d sunk into during Rachel’s update. Boone is on his feet ready to head inside, but he just whines when you stand in place and stare out into the yard with a frown.

“I understand. Thank you for calling. We’ll…we’ll avoid visiting again in case that had anything to do with it.”

Rachel wants to disagree so you don’t feel guilty, but she can’t honestly say that the visit yesterday had no effect on Rogue’s condition. If she thought it would be any consolation to you, she’d say that he likely would have crashed regardless of your visit, but she knew better.

She promises to have someone give another update today before she hangs up with a groan. She doesn’t like the idea of leaving on this note, but she has to go home and get some rest. Like Audrey, she is working two days in a row, and she needs to be ready to come back tonight. She decides to stop in and make sure the blonde doesn’t need anything before she leaves.

Wanda finds you and Boone in the kitchen when she finally is able to detach herself from Fletcher. The cat was being abnormally clingy, but given the circumstance, she decided to let it slide for another day or so. She couldn’t really complain given the fact she was down one clingy pet.

“Morning, Y/n.”

You’d been getting everything ready for Wanda so you could serve her coffee and breakfast before telling her about Rogue. You weren’t excited to ruin the decent mood that she’d only just managed, but you couldn’t lie to her about this. She deserved better than that, and it would likely only end in disaster for you both.

You smile at your wife before greeting her with a kiss as she wanders into the kitchen. You hand her a mug of coffee made just the way she likes it before finishing up with her breakfast. You set the plate in front of her seat at the counter before pouring your own coffee and grabbing the milk.

“Morning, Wands. How did you sleep?”

Wanda opens her mouth to tell you that she slept great and only woke up because Fletcher was aggressively head butting her face, but she stops short. She watches you fill your mug with milk, and grab your plate in your other hand. She sees them shake slightly as you settle beside her after placing everything on the counter. You try to force your posture to relax, but Wanda is able to see how tense you are in how high you hold your shoulders and how straight your spine is.

She sets her coffee down as she turns her body to face you. She can’t help but fear that something is wrong, and the only thing that comes to mind is the first thing that leaves her mouth.

“What is it? Has something happened to Rogue?”

Wanda can’t stand the idea of this any more than she could yesterday or the day before. However, last time she saw him, he seemed to be fine and everyone was hopeful that he would be home soon. Today even. As she watches you frown and your shoulders slump, she feels her stomach drop.

You don’t hesitate to explain the situation to Wanda. You don’t leave anything out including how precarious the situation was right now. You’re honestly not sure what caused him to tank, but if it was the excitement of seeing them (Wanda) again, the crash unfortunately would have happened either way. You suppose it’s ideal that it occurred while he was in the ICU. You watch as your wife processes what you’ve said, and you hate how you can see the anxiety roll off of her in waves.

“How many treatments can they give him? Is there any point in continuing them if this last one shows no improvement?”

You hate that Wanda’s asked this question because it was one you had thought of yourself. The answer was easy for you to reach, but you hadn’t wanted to tell Wanda how bleak things would look if Rogue didn’t improve. You wanted her to have another ten hours or so before she thought about that.

Instead of saying all of this though, you just shake your head with a defeated sigh.

“I don’t know if there’s a limit, but if he doesn’t respond well, we might have to consider stopping.”

Tears fill your wife’s eyes immediately and she stands up from her chair and walks into the living room. You’re surprised by this, but you don’t say anything as you watch her walk toward the back door with a frown. She doesn’t go outside like you thought she would though. She just stares outside and holds her clenched fists at her side stiffly. You are afraid she’s going to lash out at something and hurt herself, so you abandon your breakfast and take a few tentative steps toward her.

“I’m sorry, Wanda.”

You’re apologizing for many things: having to ruin her morning, not being able to promise that Rogue will be okay, and finally, that you started an argument with her that led to this entire ordeal. You feel guilty for many reasons, but mostly you just want to make sure that your wife is comforted. It’s very unlikely that you’ll be able to keep her from being upset, so you settle for the next best thing.

Wanda shakes her head but doesn’t turn to face you as she continues to stare outside into the vast backyard.

She’s always wanted to do something with it, as pretty as it was, but she never had the time. She considered putting in pool, but that seemed unnecessary and strenuous. She also thought about closing off part of it for a garden. She loved the idea of watching food or flowers flourish, but that undertaking was almost more daunting than having a pool put in. How would she find the time to keep up with everything that would grow? It would require planning, dedication, and attention to detail that she couldn’t spare.

Not unless she quit her job.

She thinks about wandering through rows of food with you and her pets while trying to keep them from eating whatever she plants. Rogue for sure would need to be watched carefully.

This thought makes Wanda’s tears fall faster and she shakes her head again as she realizes that this may never happen. She may never see the day where she’s free a majority of the day every day, let alone with Rogue by her side. She desperately wants this though. She’d give almost anything for it.

She wipes her eyes with a heavy sigh before turning around to face you. If Rogue recovers enough to come home, she’ll make sure that this happens. For him.

For her family.

Rogue spent two days unconscious after the visit with you and Wanda. He’d needed a urinary catheter, and feeding tube placed, and one of his added treatments was rotating him every 4 hours. During this time, multiple vets battled the cardiac side effects with aggressive treatments that either kept things stable or minimally improved. It wasn’t a great outlook and by Tuesday, it was decided that his 4th dose of the antibody therapy would be his last. The third dose didn’t seem to improve his situation, and after a long discussion with a doctor you hadn’t met, you and Wanda decided that you wanted to stop.

You didn’t want to think about Rogue just lying in his run unconscious for hours on end, and Wanda couldn’t stand the idea of him being in pain. She wanted to give him a fair chance to recover, but 4 days after he’d first been admitted, he was closer to death than anything else.

You two had gone to visit him on the 5th day because you knew that it would be time to call it soon. If he wasn’t going to improve soon, how was it fair to just keep him in a comatose state? Wanda hated the idea of stopping his treatments, but she agreed with you in the end.

The visit to the ICU was a cage side one since Rogue wasn’t walking, let alone awake. You sat next to Wanda on the floor as she pet her sleeping dog with teary eyes. She talked to him, and made sure to tell him how much he was missed and who was at home waiting for him. You have to look away from him after a while because watching him just lie there is too much.

Your gaze wanders around the room because you can’t help it, and then you see Rogue’s ECG.

It’s unremarkable except for the bradycardia, and you just watch it flash a dangerously low number for nearly a minute before you blink slowly. You were staring at it for so long, you wouldn’t be surprised if you were imagining things, but after blinking again, you see that the number beside Rogue’s name has doubled. You continue to watch for a few more seconds to make sure it doesn’t return to a lower number, but it stays where it is.

You frown as you turn toward Rogue who is showing no signs of waking up, and you carefully move into the run beside your wife. Wanda looks up immediately, confused and stricken, but you just shake your head and offer her a reassuring smile. You glance at your watch as you kneel behind Rogue and reach for his leg.

“It’s okay, I’m just checking something.”

Wanda shoots you a worried look, but you don’t say anything else as you reach out to feel Rogue’s pulse. You look to your watch to count, and you are surprised to see that it is truly higher than it was a few minutes ago. You open your mouth to tell Wanda this but you notice that she’s staring at Rogue wide-eyed.

“Y/n…he’s whining.” You frown as you lean in to listen, but you don’t hear anything immediately. It takes a few seconds in your uncomfortable position to hear him it’s so faint, but you smile as you stand up to look for someone to help you.

“That’s great, Wands. His heart rate is a little higher too.”

Wanda’s talking to Rogue again as you step out of the run to find his vet looking between your dog and his monitors. He seems a little surprised as he asks,

“Is it really that high?”

You nod as you tell him what Wanda said, and minute later the two of you are standing beside the tech station watching as Rogue is examined thoroughly. He’s propped up so he’s sitting upright, but he still hasn’t opened his eyes. His whining grew a bit louder, but other than that he was still mostly unresponsive.

Both you and Wanda left a bit later feeling confused but hopeful. You weren’t going to get too excited, but you couldn’t help but be optimistic.

Shortly after you wake up next morning, you’re informed that Rogue has opened his eyes and is becoming more responsive. Despite wanting to go back and see him, you and Wanda are in agreement that you don’t want to risk his recovery. You both have to go to work, but you make sure to have your phone on loud and with you all day long just in case.

Nothing new happens that day, or the next, but by his 7th day in the ICU, Rogue sits up on his own.

The doctors are able to remove his feeding tube and urinary catheter when he’s standing and eating on his own by the 9th day. He’s very unsteady on his feet, but with two people, one holding a sling underneath him, and the other leading him in front, he’s able to walk.

Wanda’s bruises are almost completely healed by the time everyone deems it safe to visit again.

Rogue has been improving steadily in the last week, and he’s becoming restless from being hospitalized for nearly 2 weeks. Although he wasn’t able to walk on his own very well, he’d shift around in his run in a manner that resembled pacing for hours on end. After hearing this, you were hopeful that he’d be ready to come home soon.

Wanda was reluctant to visit again since she feared a repeat of what happened last time. You’d told her it was unlikely given his progress, and ultimately her desire to see her dog won out over her paranoia. The two of you showed up at the ER with Boone since the shepherd was becoming equally restless in this brother’s absence. He’d started to stare outside or wander around the house as if looking for him, and you realized that it was time for him to be brought into the loop.

Audrey Cohen was the attending again when you came to visit a second time. She didn’t have anything to update you on, so she left you to visit alone while she kept an eye on the comings and goings in the ICU. Things were busy as usual and she still had a couple of hours left on her shift, so she was making the rounds again. She was glad that Rogue was doing better and although she would learn from last time and not be too hasty with discharging him, she was hoping he’d be ready soon.

Rogue’s anxiety was becoming more apparent as time passed which was a double-edged sword. It was good that he was feeling more normal and his personality was returning, but unfortunately his anxiety made him a little higher maintenance. As you’d alluded to, in his boredom, Rogue had become destructive. He’d tried to take out his catheter after chewing through his fluid line. He’d also started to try and dig his way out of his run, or at least that what it had looked like when he’d ripped up the potty pads on top of his blankets.

Audrey decided that after another 24 hours of normal vitals and Rogue being able to walk on his own, she would discharge him.

Boone sits impatiently in the visitor’s room with his parents. He knows he’s not here for him since he feels fine, and because you told him that they were here to visit someone. He hoped it was his wayward brother, but he couldn’t tell with all of the different smells in this place.

It wasn’t until he heard voices and scuffing paws outside the door that he realized that he was right.

You and Wanda sit up in anticipation as the door opens. You see two techs leading Rogue in on a help-em up harness and you smile widely at the sight of him. He’s obviously very weak, and he can only take slow, deliberate steps, but seeing him standing after the last time you visited him was such progress you feel your eyes burn with unshed tears.

“Hi buddy.”

Rogue’s tail begins to wag and you hear Wanda sniffle beside you as you two wait for your dog to be brought to the bed that had been set out for him. Boone stands up excitedly and begins to whine as he waits impatiently for his brother to get settled. You tell him to sit and he does, but it can barely count with the way that he’s sliding across the floor with the intensity of his tail wagging. You decide to let it go since he’s obviously as excited as you are, but you make sure he stays out of the way as the duo lay Rogue down.

You thank them for their help and as they leave you tell Boone he can go say hi. Wanda waits until the shepherds greet each other excitedly with sniffs and headbutts before getting on the floor beside them. She sits beside Rogue’s bed and smiles tearily at his attempts to stand. You can tell that he wants to play with his brother, but he doesn’t have the energy. Boone seems to catch on and he goes from his play bow to sitting beside Rogue. He licks the other shepherd’s face before he places his head on the ground next to his brother, and watches as he greets Wanda with a whine.

“It’s so good to see you up, bud. How are you feeling?”

You join the trio on the floor but just watch as Rogue greets his mom with enthusiasm that’s muted by his low energy. Still, he manages to lick Wanda’s hands half a dozen times before he falls into her lap with a whiny yawn. He lays his head against her and lets her love on him thoroughly as he closes his eyes. He looks content and you smile as you reach out to scratch him behind one of his ears.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, Rogue. We hope to have you home in a couple of days. How does that sound?”

The rest of the visit goes well and you, Wanda, and Boone leave hopeful that you’ll see Rogue again soon. You stopped by the front desk to see if you owed anything at this visit, but after being told that any remaining balance can be paid at discharge, you leave. You don’t think about how the bill so far has definitely been enough to pay for a new car as you walk outside to meet your wife and dog. The smile on her face and Boone’s excited tail wags are worth far more than any price you could pay.

“Ready to go home?”

The next time you see Rogue, it’s two Fridays after Wanda brought him here. It’s almost 7pm and this time it’s just you. Wanda had to work late tonight, and despite insisting that what she was working on now would lead to her retirement, you still didn’t like it. You knew it was unfair. You couldn’t ask Wanda to leave and then expect her not to have to do any work to make it happen. You couldn’t have your cake and eat it too. Honestly the most annoying part about visiting Rogue alone tonight was that you knew he wasn’t going to be very happy to see that Wanda wasn’t with you.

You ignore the tendrils of jealousy associated with this as you walk into the lobby. You greet the CSR who you’re on a first name basis with at this point.

“Hi Michelle. How are you?”

The redhead smiles at you and shrugs as she gestures to the ringing phones.

“Busy as always, but it’s good to see you, Y/n! Dr. Lancaster said to send you on back. She had something she wanted to tell you.”

You’re a little surprised by this but you just nod before leaving Michelle to the phones. You don’t have a badge to get into the back, but before you can worry about it too much, you’re nearly knocked over by a brunette rushing out. Apparently to meet you.

“Oh! Sorry Dr. Y/l/n. I was sent to let you in. I’m Antonia.”

You smile before introducing yourself and following the tech into treatment.

“Hi, you can call me Y/n, Antonia. You helped with Rogue when he was first admitted?”

You know the answer since Wanda had told you about this over a week ago. She’d mentioned how when he was first brought here, he was understandably stressed, and she’d needed to assist with some things to get him settled. She didn’t remember much detail other than that the staff she’d been instructed by had been helpful and understanding which, regretfully, she hadn’t appreciated at the time given how stressed she was. Recalling everything with you later though, she’d mentioned how grateful she was and you’d joked that everyone in vet med was like that.

Although the sad truth of it was that they weren’t.

You watch as Antonia seems to hesitate, you must have caught her by surprise, before she nods thoughtfully. She stops in her tracks to let someone walking a partially paralyzed dog past go first, and she turns to you with a small smile.

“I did, yes. I’m really glad he’s doing better. He’s such a sweet, if a little mischievous, boy.”

You laugh at this and follow Antonia as she heads through the IMC toward the hallway that leads to the ICU. It’s nearly empty except for two people in white coats, doctors, standing awfully close together. You look away before you even really register who it is, and you pretend to stare at your hands as you fiddle with your wedding ring.

“That’s pretty accurate honestly.”

You’re grateful that by the time you look up, all you see is Rachel standing alone looking at something in her hands. A notebook. She looks up at you and Antonia, and you don’t see any sign of anything amiss in her expression, so you decide to ignore what you just saw.

“Good evening, Y/n.”

You nod and offer a smile in greeting as Antonia excuses herself to get Rogue ready for his visit. You wonder if you two will just stand in the hallway for this, but you don’t have much time to consider it before Rachel’s turning away and waving you along.

“Evening, Dr. Lancaster. I hope Rogue isn’t causing too much trouble today.”

You see the other doctor smile and she shakes her head as she pushes the door to the ICU open.

“Not any more so than yesterday. He’s only destroyed one cone today. We put some chew toys in his run to see if this would deter him, but of course he only wants to eat his bedding or the many layers of vetwrap around his catheter.”

You groan in annoyance and sympathy as you look around the bustling room. The door to Rogue’s run is open, but you don’t see him so he must be outside on a walk. You come to a stop behind Rachel and watch as she glances around the room as well. On a second pass, you realize that Dr. Cohen is nowhere to be seen.

“What a pain. I’d apologize on his behalf, but I’m certain he’s not sorry.”

You’re led farther into the ICU and when you stop by Rogue’s run you confirm that it is in fact empty. You turn around to face Rachel who stopped behind you, but your gaze goes to something else first.

“Rogue, look at you!”

Your dog is being led back inside, or rather he’s walking himself, with no obvious lameness, and you’re thrilled to see it. You smile widely as he nearly drags Antonia toward you, and reach out for him. He sniffs your hand and moves closer so you can pet him. He’s looking around all the while and you can’t help but laugh despite the desire to roll your eyes.

“Hi Rogue. Sorry, it’s just me this time. Mom’s working.”

You nearly let out an undignified snort when Rogue whines long and low in despair, before sitting at your feet. You look up and realize that you’re being watched by two pairs of eyes, and at that time you realize that Rachel hasn’t told you whatever it is she had planned to.

Antonia hands the leash to you when someone calls her for help across the room, and once she’s gone you return your attention to the other doctor.

“So, he’s doing well?”

The brunette just nods before she says something that honestly surprises you almost as much as it excites you.

“He’s doing remarkably well. All of his vitals and bloodwork have come back normal. I would say that he’s even safe to be discharged tonight, if you wanted to take him home with you.”

You glance down at Rogue with wide eyes as you consider your options. You want nothing more than for Rogue to come home for good, but another part of you is too anxious to jump on this opportunity and run home with it. You think about what Wanda would want if she was here, and you nearly smile at the thought of her already being on her knees and hugging her dog gleefully.

Yeah. You really want him to be home.

As if sensing your reluctance, she offers you a smile and another form of reassurance that is enough for you to make your decision.

“Even if he was a perfect patient that wasn’t trying to eat his way out of here, I would say that he was ready.”

This is how you end up walking out of the ER, after paying another $4k, with your excited dog and a weightless feeling.

Wanda is barely able to stomach the idea of dragging herself out of her car and into the house. She’s so exhausted that she could fall asleep where she’s sitting right now, and probably not wake up until tomorrow. Today was ridiculously busy given her short break from work, and she was feeling the effects of it. She’d talked to her brother earlier this week about retiring, and that had led to a very long and tense discussion about expectations for the future.

Pietro wanted her to be happy, but he also wanted her to be practical, and safe. There was a lot that went into getting out, as they’d discussed, but despite having a migraine after their conversation, Wanda felt a bit better. She had a solid, or at least tenuous, plan in place to get the ball rolling. She had been excited to share this with you last night, but you’d been stressed by your own work schedule, so she’d decided to wait until tonight.

Thinking of you reminded her that she’d missed a visit with Rogue tonight and she frowns at the thought. She’d checked her phone multiple times since the time of your visit had passed, but you hadn’t updated her. She’d jokingly, except not really, asked for at least two pictures of her fur baby, but she’d received nothing yet.

Her desire to find out how her dog was is what eventually motivates her to get out of her car and walk toward the door. She stifles a yawn as she shuts off the light behind her as she walks into the mudroom.

“Y/n?”

You’re not anywhere in sight and not even Boone or Fletcher comes to greet her. She frowns in confusion as she searches for you when you call out to her.

“I’m in the den!”

She walks through the kitchen quickly, eager for an update, only to find the door closed. That’s weird, but she’s not going to let that stop her from checking in. She sets her bags down on the counter before heading your way.

“How was Rogue? Did the visit go well?”

There’s an obvious pause before she hears you speak up in a tone that would have likely frustrated her even if she wasn’t exhausted.

“It went. Nothing really of interest to report.”

Wanda’s nearly scowling as she reaches the door to the den and starts to push it open.

“What the hell does--?”

Wanda trails off and stops in her tracks when she looks into the room to see that you’re sitting on the couch with Boone, and Fletcher’s tucked up against her brother while she grooms herself. Her attention then drifts down to who’s sitting as close as physically possible to the door, and now at her feet, and her eyes widen.

“Rogue! You’re home!”

Wanda drops to her knees at the same time that Rogue jumps to his feet, and they collide in a furry, wet hug. Wanda’s arms wrap around her dog’s neck as the shepherd turns to lick her face, and it’s messy but she doesn’t care in the least. She doesn’t realize she’s crying until she soaks Rogue’s fur and it starts to stick to her face, but she just holds him tighter as he whines excitedly.

“It’s so good to have you home, sweet boy. I missed you so much.”

You smile widely as you watch your wife greet her dog enthusiastically. You don’t realize how long you’ve been watching them until Wanda turns to you red-eyed but visibly happy. Rogue is leaning into her and panting as he looks between the two of you.

“You were supposed to send me pictures.”

Wanda tries to sound annoyed even though she’s not, but you still shoot her a guilty look as you run a hand through your hair. Boone is lying on top of you so you can’t really get up, but the expression on Wanda’s face makes you want to hold her close. That said, you’re sure that Rogue’s already called dibs on cuddles for the foreseeable future.

“I know, but I thought this would be better?”

Wanda looks back to her dog before nodding tearfully. She kisses his nose before running her hands all over him as if to reassure herself that he’s real. He’s here. He’s okay.

She turns to you as she admits,

“It is. It’s so much better.”

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