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ofbatsandballads · 7 months ago

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i love you, i’m sorry

jason todd x fem!reader

word count: 4.2k

warnings: injured character, explicit descriptions of wounds, brief mention of reader having a panic attack, emotional angst, bad dad Bruce implied

a/n: i just feel like jason showing up half dead at your door would be a massive turning point in your relationship, y’know? can be read as a successor to this or as a standalone.

divider credit: saradika

When Red Hood comes to you, he’s almost always hurt. You’ve learned to keep a first aid kit that would make any hospital jealous and with no formal training you’ve picked up skills that rival that of an army medic. Over the last year, you’ve seen gashes, bruises, concussions, even a dislocated shoulder.

You have never seen anything like this.

You spot him the second you walk through your front door. He’s slumped against the wall just below your window. His armor has gashes in it and blood steadily drips from the tears. There’s more blood dripping down his chest, making the red bat symbol look like it’s melting. More concerning than anything else is the helmet. It’s broken. There’s a huge chunk of it missing on the left side of his head. You can see the red domino mask underneath, the battered skin that’s already coloring the initial red-purple of a black eye, and the blood flowing from a nasty looking cut on his eyebrow.

You freeze. A bolt of panic shoots from your head to your toes. No, not panic. Fear. Pure, undiluted fear. Because he looks like he’s dying. The thought startles you out of your haze and you slam your front door shut, locking the five different locks he’d insisted on installing around three months into your partnership. You run to him. You don’t know what to do. All you know is you need to get to him.

You drop to your knees and place your hands on either side of his head. For the first time, your right hand meets skin instead of cool metal. Maybe another time you’d savor that, but your hand is slick with his blood the second you make contact.

“Red?” you call, voice frantic.

You repeat the nickname over and over, fear rising into your throat when he makes no acknowledgment of you, when there’s no sign of life. You continue to call for him, begin gently shaking his shoulder. Finally, the white lens of the domino mask narrows and expands. A blink. He’s alive.

“Hey.”

His voice is broken, weak, filled with pain. He’s hurt in a way you’ve never seen him hurt. Underneath the fear you feel a surge of anger. Whoever did this to him…you want their head on a pike.

“Hi…hi,” you greet him shakily.

You’re lost. He’s in such bad shape you don’t know where to begin. You decide to look at the wounds on his torso first. There’s many, but the blood that leaks from them is the bright red of surface wounds. Most of the blood he’s drenched in comes from a brutal gash situated just between his helmet and his body armor. It’s a tiny sliver of skin, maybe an inch of exposure, but it’s raggedly cut open.

Whoever hurt him had aimed just right to target the inconspicuous vulnerability. The rage flares again before it’s swallowed up by fear. You press your hand against the wound to stem the flow of thick, dark blood. Your heart breaks at the groan of pain he lets out.

Finally, you look at his head. This is the first time you’ve seen any part of his face. You’ve longed to know who your nighttime companion is, who your friend is. You never wanted to see him like this. The eyebrow cut is long, a slice from just above his eyelid to the middle of his forehead. Bruises cover his brow bone, his cheekbone, his forehead. Every bit of exposed skin looks battered. It clicks in your brain in one horrifying instant.

His wounds aren’t from a shootout or a tussle with a criminal gone south. He’s been beaten. Badly. And there’s only one person who you can think of that would be capable of harming him like this. You pull your curtains shut and say a prayer to whoever’s listening that the World’s Greatest Detective isn’t still hunting him.

“Red? I need to get you to the bathroom, okay?” you ask, the cracking in your voice betraying any sense of strength you were trying to convey.

He doesn’t respond and you feel fear shoot through you again. Then his arm wraps around your waist and you breathe a sigh of relief. You can’t lift him to his feet, nor could you support his weight if you managed it. You realize you’re going to have to crawl to your bathroom.

The process is slow and awkward. Red Hood lifts himself off the wall, slumping forward toward you. You pull his arm over your shoulder, and even with both of you on the ground his weight is heavy against you. You keep one arm wrapped around his waist, the other slowly helping to drag the both of you towards your bathroom.

Your muscles are burning and your arms are shaky when you finally make it. With his help, you manage one last burst of strength to get him into your bathtub. You think that that’s the last bit of help you’ll get from him tonight when he goes limp against the tub wall.

You feel a sudden wave of anxiety come over you. You’re going to need to get his clothes off. Worse, you need the helmet off. You feel wrong even thinking about it. Once when he’d had a bad concussion, you’d woken him every hour on the hour with your eyes closed so as not to see his face.

“Red…I know you’re not going to like this, but I have to take off your helmet, okay? I need to see if there’s any other wounds under there,” you say carefully, slowly, like trying to comfort a wounded animal ready to bite.

You feel his shoulders stiffen under your hands. You wait for him to tell you no, to fight you on it like he has every time before. Instead he gives a nearly imperceptible nod of his head. It makes you feel even worse. You had hoped that if he ever revealed himself to you it would be because he trusted you, not out of necessity.

His hands reach up to push on the undersides of the helmet and you hear the distinct click of it unlatching. He weakly pushes it off his head and drops it on the bathroom floor. It’s more of him than you’ve ever seen and you try not to look too long. But then his hands are up by his face again and you can’t stop the look of shock that creeps on your face as he willingly pulls the domino mask off.

For the first time, you see his eyes. They’re a beautiful seafoam green. You feel your breath catch in your throat. You already felt a fondness in your chest for the man that keeps you safe. He scoffed when you told him that for the first time. Made some snide comment about if you were aware of the fact that he kills people. You just remained steadfast, told him that he protected good people, innocent people. You told him that he was good.

You never doubted the phrase, but now you know firsthand how true it rings. Eyes are the window to the soul. Now there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s good. And no doubt that you care for him deeply. He lets out one shaky breath that pulls you from your trance. He looks a little nervous, a little vulnerable. You suppose he is, so you keep moving.

“Lean forward for me, just a little? I need to see the back of your head,” you murmur.

He obeys, a slight hiss leaving him at having to crane his neck. You’ve got your hand pressed against the cut under his jaw and you feel blood gush as he tilts his head down. Your other hand gently combs through his hair as you look for gashes or bumps. Thankfully you find none, though you suspect he might be concussed.

“I’m gonna patch you up now, but I need to get all this off. Is that okay?” you ask.

He looks extremely put out by the idea of being undressed. The last thing you want to do is make him uncomfortable. After all, you don’t know how thrilled you’d be if you had to strip down in front of him. You think you could stitch him up through the tattered gear, but then he’d need to shower. He can’t even stand by himself right now. He realizes it too. He gives one jerky nod, his sea green eyes staring right through you.

You pull the easiest stuff off first. His boots, socks, and holsters lay abandoned on your bathroom floor next to your small waste bin. You move on to his body armor. He has to help you but you get it off without causing him too much pain. His tactical pants are next. Belt, button, zipper. Simple. You pull them off and add them to the pile of bloodied gear.

Now that he’s undressed you see that your lightbulb moment was correct. Bruises are starting to color across his body, a memento of blunt force. You fix what you can. It’s easy to stitch the little cuts on his torso, slightly harder to close the neck gash. Soon he’s all patched up, the blood beginning to dry on his skin in that uniquely gross sticky-crusty mix.

“Can I—I mean, would it be okay if I ran you a bath?” you ask quietly.

He looks wide eyed at you. You tell him that it’s fine if not, that you can figure something else out. It’s important to you to be careful of his boundaries, always respecting what he was willing to give. Perhaps that’s why he finally gives a slow nod of consent. His final item of clothing comes off and you add his boxers to the literal laundry list of clothing on your floor.

You start running his bath, leaving to grab a washcloth and toss his bloodstained clothing in the washer while the tub fills. As you're setting the cycle to run, your mind flashes with muddled, disjointed thoughts.

Thoughts about pain and sacrifice and betrayal and trust. The Batman did this to him. The Batman also helped him take down a Falcone drug ring three weeks ago. The man in your bathtub was Robin, a bright light in a city so dark that it snuffs any glimmer of hope that shines through. The man in your bathtub is Red Hood, a scourge to the ilk of Gotham with so much blood on his hands that he’s drowning in it. It’s all so much. Then you wonder if anyone has ever extended their hand to him and never curled it into a fist later on. And it hits you hard and soft all at once: you’re in this forever now. You won’t leave him. You love him.

It’s ridiculous. You love this man whose face you had never seen until tonight, whose name you don’t know. But you know that he loves classic literature after the night that he’d browsed your bookshelf after you wrapped his sprained wrist. You know that he has a fondness for chocolate chip cookies after the night he crawled through your window while you were baking a batch. You know he’s kind after the night he came by just to check on you, only to find you having a panic attack on your bathroom floor. You know he’s gentle after he picked you up off the ground and carried you to your bed, after he put your hand to his chest and made you breathe in time with him, after he held you until you fell asleep. And what was a name or a face compared to a heart and soul?

You swallow down the confession you’ve made to yourself and head back to the bathroom because right now it doesn’t matter. He needs help; you can worry about your being in love with him later. The tub is just about full when you get back and you turn the knobs shut. You dip the washcloth beneath the warm water and grab your bottle of soap off the ledge.

“This is all I’ve got, so you may just have to deal with smelling like me for the night,” you say, attempting to crack a joke.

“Well, y’smell nice, so ‘m okay with that,” he mumbles, Gotham accent thicker than you’ve ever heard it.

You can’t see yourself, but you’re pretty sure your face is as red as his helmet. You busy yourself by squeezing an unnecessary amount of soap into the cloth, scrubbing it until it’s more suds than fabric. You begin slowly, making sure his watchful eyes can see every move as you bring the cloth to his neck. You wash the blood and sweat off him gently, careful not to go near the stitched up gash.

“Can you raise your arms for me, Red?” you ask quietly as you run the cloth over his shoulders

“Jason.”

Your head snaps to face him and you feel like someone’s just slapped you.

“My name’s Jason.”

He whispers it like it’s a confession. You smile at him, soft and warm.

“Okay, Jason. Can you lift your arms?”

You spend the better part of an hour bathing him. Once all the blood, sweat, and grime is gone, you give him a towel fresh from the dryer to wrap himself in and leave him to dry off. You give him a thick red hoodie and a pair of black sweatpants you’d bought for him after the concussion incident. You still feel bad about him having to sleep in his gear that night.

You turn your favorite classical music playlist on low volume and the two of you sit comfortably in silence on your couch. You’re reading an Agatha Christie novel and Jason is resting with his eyes closed, no doubt nursing the migraine you gave him some Tylenol for. You think that maybe he dozes off a couple times when his breathing goes even and deep.

You take the time to memorize details of him, uncertain if you’ll ever get the blessing of seeing him as he is again. He’s got inky dark hair that’s on the longer side of short. There’s a stark white tuft in the front that stays neatly curled to itself, not a single hair slipping into the night black mess of waves and curls. His hooked nose and strong jawline give him a striking, rugged handsomeness. Scars litter his face. Some are barely there little white lines, while others are thicker and jagged at the edges.

Scars cover the rest of his body too. Every bit of skin you saw while bathing him has some form of scarring. You recognized healed slashes from knives or glass, thick circles with rough edges from bullet wounds. The one that took you by surprise is the largest of them. It’s red and raised in the shape of a Y, the two forks extending from the edges of his collarbones and meeting in the middle to carve straight down, taking a little curve around his belly button before disappearing into the dark trail of curls that leads to his pelvis. You’ve seen enough NCIS to know what it is: an autopsy scar.

You can’t even begin to fathom how he got an autopsy scar. You quickly remind yourself that it’s none of your business and push the sharp ache in your chest down, down, down. Your mind is still a hazy mess, a deluge of thoughts that leave a faint numbness and sorrow in their wake. You feel so deeply for this man that lies quietly on your couch. You wish you could protect him, as ridiculous as the idea sounds. You don’t even realize you’ve lost yourself to your thoughts until his sweet voice pulls you out.

“You’re in your head again,” he says quietly.

You turn your head to him slowly, still in a daze.

“Sorry, just thinking,” you reply, giving him a strained smile.

Anxiety washes over his face. He pushes himself forward, elbows on his knees like he’s trying to take up less space.

“I’ll get goin’ soon. ‘M sure I’ve wasted enough of your time,” he murmurs.

“Please stay here tonight.”

You spit it out without thinking. The last thing you want is him to think you were spacing out because you didn’t want him here or because he was an inconvenience.

“What?” he asks blankly.

His eyebrows are furrowed and he looks an odd mix of dumbfounded and agitated.

“Please stay. I don’t want you heading back out there tonight. Please, just stay here where you’re safe,” you whisper.

It’s a quiet request, but a desperate one. You need him to stay. You need to know he’ll be safe, that he’ll make it through the night.

“I…” he trails off uncertainly.

“You don’t hafta take care of me, y’know?” he finally spits out, “I’m not somethin’ you can fix.”

You bristle. Is that what he thinks of you? Even after all these months? That he’s some fixer upper to you? Some pet project?

“I’m not trying to fix you, Jason,” you say firmly.

His name is new in your mouth, but it feels natural even in the midst of your frustration.

“Good, ‘cause I can take care of myself. Been doin’ it for years now,” he bites.

Okay, now you’re starting to get a little annoyed. He’s done this a couple of times over the past year. Pushing you away when you just want to help him, just want to make sure he’s okay. And that’s fine. You can handle that most times. But not tonight. Not when you’ve just coaxed him back to life, not when you felt like you were so close to losing him.

“Well, you don’t have to do it alone anymore!” you snap.

You see him tense at your harsh tone and you take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm your storming emotions.

“I…I’m not doing this because I’m trying to fix you. I’m doing this because you’re a human being. That first night…I’m sure you could’ve handled it yourself once you woke up. But I couldn’t leave you alone, hurting. Not then, not now,” you begin, leveling him with a stare so fierce that it holds him in place.

He goes to open his mouth, no doubt to argue, and you hold up a finger to quiet him.

“And I have no illusions that you won’t come back hurting again. None. I know you will. I know we’ll keep doing this over and over and over again. And I don’t care. I’m not leaving you alone. I won’t do it. So push all you want, but I refuse to be anything less than someone you can count on.”

Silence. The weight of your words is heavy in the air. You’re expecting him to leave. Even with his clothes still in your washing machine. You’re sure if he wanted to go, he’d just unplug the thing from the wall and throw his damp gear back on. You brace yourself for it. A small part of you even feels the pang of heartache at the thought that he might never come back.

You’re not expecting him to surge forward and thread his fingers into your hair to pull you into a kiss. You’re not expecting the burning intensity you feel him pour into it. You’re not expecting the warmth of his scarred mouth pressing against your soft lips. You’re not expecting how easy it is to kiss him back, as natural and simple as breathing.

He pulls away all too quickly. Doubt flashes in those sea green eyes and his entire body recoils back from you. You don’t let him run far, fingers curling in his night black mess of hair. You pull him back to you, his forehead resting against yours even as his body is strung tight as a bowstring.

“Well now I can’t let you go,” you whisper.

“I shouldn’ta done that,” he mutters shakily.

“You should do it again.”

You have no idea where the sudden burst of confidence has come from. It’s so very unlike you, you who are normally so passive, so calm and docile. But it seems to bring Jason to his knees because a desperate noise sounds from deep in his chest and his big, warm hands come up to cradle your face as he slots your mouths together again. You sigh his name against his lips when he pulls you closer and then he’s pushing you away. With no effort at all, he picks you up and gently shoves you to the other side of your sofa. He rises too quickly and sways on his feet.

“I can’t–I can’t do this. I won’t do this to you,” he rushes out as he staggers toward your window.

You’re bolting in front of it before you can even think.

“You’re not doing anything to me. You’ve already told me the risks of being associated with you. I’m okay with them. I want this. I want you,” you tell him, and you’re so earnest that it leaves no room for doubt.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for. You can’t just show me a little kindness and fix me up to love you right,” Jason insists.

You should be mad again, but this time his statement lacks all the bite that it held before. Instead, you can hear the self-loathing in his voice, recognize the burn of it from the countless nights you two have sat on your floor debating whether he’s a hero or a necessary evil. And that just won’t do. You cradle his face and angle his head down to lock eyes, anchoring him in place.

“All I want is you, just as you are, come what may.”

There’s a shine to his pretty eyes, soft silver pools in the pale moonlight of the Gotham night. He shakes his head.

“Can’t make me somethin’ I‘m not,” he says, “‘m not made for this.”

And, oh, how your heart aches for this beautiful man. He’s so convinced that he’s violence incarnate, nothing but blood and gunpowder.

“We decide what we’re made for, what we want to be made for. What do you want, Jason?” you ask him softly.

Your hands are so gentle combing through his hair, thumb stroking his cheekbone sweetly. He flinches at the contact and you go to pull away, but he leans into your touch once he recognizes it won’t hurt him.

“I…don’t deserve it,” he whispers.

There’s something unspoken there. Something buried deep down in his chest. It aches to get out. He wants to scream it but the walls he’s built brick by brick around himself muffle the noise. I don’t deserve it, but I want it. He doesn’t have to say it, though. You understand loud and clear. And that alone is comfort to him, that he doesn’t have to say the quiet part out loud, that you just know him. No one has known him in years.

“This isn’t something you have to earn. And even if your answer truly is no, I’ll still be here in any way you want me to be.”

That’s what breaks him. Because it has only ever been something he’s had to earn. He had to earn it from his mother; earned it with cans of stolen soup heated in a rusted pot when Catherine was lost in the fog of her addiction, earned it with each spoonful he held to her mouth. He had to earn it from Bruce; earned it with every case solved, with every batarang that landed home in a bullseye, with every civilian saved. He had to earn it from Talia; earned it with every hit and kick, every blade mastered, every life taken. He’s had to earn love, earn affection, earn open hands instead of curled fists all his life. And you’re here offering up your love for free. You’re not even asking for him to love you back.

So as his defenses scream at him to tell you a thousand words that would cut you to ribbons–I don’t want you at all, go find another soul to save, you’re wasting your time–his heart hammers, demanding he be honest for once. He takes one shuddering breath before he whispers two words that change the trajectory of his life.

“…I’ll stay.”

And he does. He lets you nurse him back to health with water and painkillers. He lets you read to him after he sheepishly asks what your book is about. He lets you sit closer to him, shoulders and knees brushing under the soft blanket you’ve tossed over both of you. He even lets you guide him to your room, lets himself fall asleep tucked under your covers with your pinkies interlocked. It’s the first night that Jason Todd spends in your bed. It will hardly be the last.

#jason todd #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood x reader #red hood x you #remy writes 🖋️#yeah this is a long one folks. sorry about that.#jason gets the girl universe

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dakusan · 2 days ago

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What Happens If You Get Injured In Front of Them

Vampire!SKZ OT8 x Reader | eight vampires. eight triggers. and every brutal, beautiful way they lose control—because of you

🩸synopsis: You never meant to bleed in front of them. But once it happens—once your blood hits the air—everything changes. In a world where scent-bonds mean soulmates and blood is more than just power, your injury sets off a chain reaction.

💌a/n: late fic today bc i was out touching grass and then proceeded to get very high. this piece is… part blood, part panic, part “what if eight hot vampires completely lost their minds the second you got hurt.” i think it was supposed to be angsty??? it’s definitely something. it’s got blood. it’s got breakdowns. it’s got chan looking like god left him on read. so honestly??? enjoy. p.s. REBLOG OR YOUR VAMPIRE BOYFRIEND THINKS YOU DIED AND GOES RAGE-FERAL IN FRONT OF HR p.p.s. tell me your fave boy's reaction! tell me which one made you sweat or sob or both p.p.p.s. and if you get hurt irl—maybe don’t do it in front of a vampire unless you’re ready to be claimed

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Silent Cry — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:29 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍

A jagged piece of glass slices across your palm during an equipment accident. You're in one of Luxe’s secure upper labs, visiting him between meetings. It happens fast—just a stupid reach, a wrong angle. You gasp. Blood beads instantly, trickles down your wrist.

You don’t even realize you're hurt until you see the look on his face.

He doesn't move at first.

He just stares.

Like the blood on your skin is a vision from a nightmare he never thought would materialize. Like his world, so carefully arranged—you, so delicately kept—just fractured at the seams.

Then: Veins flare faintly beneath his cheekbones. His voice is so soft it's terrifying: “Don’t move.”

He’s across the room in an instant. But he doesn’t touch you—yet. Instead, he closes his eyes for a full five seconds. Forces his control back down. His breathing is steady—but his pupils are blown, throat working hard.

He’s not afraid you’ll bleed out. He’s afraid he’ll lose control.

🩶 WHAT HE DOES:

Wraps his jacket around your hand before you can even flinch. His hands are warm, steady. He's not shaking—but he’s not far from it.

Carries you to a private medbay personally. No assistants. No techs. Just him.

Silences anyone who tries to ask questions with a single look. Eyes glowing slightly.

Cleans the wound himself, hands precise, gentle, overly cautious. You can feel the way he aches not to lean down and lick the blood away.

Talks to you like you’re already dying even though it’s just a deep cut:

“You should’ve waited for me.” “What if it had been worse?” “Don’t do that again. I mean it. Never again.”

And that night, he’s silent. He won’t let you out of his sight.

You find him kneeling beside your bed, forehead pressed to your uninjured hand like he’s praying to you.

“Do you understand what you are to me?” “You are not allowed to bleed in front of me. Not again. Not like that.”

His control is godlike. His love is worse. Because it’s total. And it terrifies him.

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐇𝐎

It’s not even meant for you.

A hostile vampire—disguised as a Luxe affiliate—gets too close. A flicker of movement. You step back instinctively. Too slow.

The blade cuts across your ribs—shallow, but clean. Enough to make you stumble, hands catching the wall, blood immediately soaking your shirt.

You don’t scream. You don’t have to. Because he heard the sound of the blade slicing you.

And then the world ends.

There is no delay.

No scream. No gasp. He doesn’t even blink. He turns toward the attacker and walks—walks—like a machine of holy vengeance. There’s no warning. No words.

By the time you look up again, the attacker is on the ground, neck snapped, eyes wide open. Minho doesn’t look back.

🖤 WHAT HE DOES:

Kneels beside you silently. Doesn’t touch you until he’s sure his hands are clean of rage.

Removes his coat and folds it into a makeshift pad, pressing it just tightly enough to stop the bleeding.

His voice is a low whisper: “I need you to breathe for me. Just breathe.” “It’s shallow. You’ll be okay.” “I killed them. Look at me—I already took care of it.”

His eyes are dead calm. But underneath the surface, he’s unravelling. Because it wasn’t meant for you. And yet it still touched you. Which means he failed.

He doesn’t leave your side for 48 hours. Doesn’t sleep. Doesn’t speak unless spoken to.

When you wake in the Luxe recovery suite, he’s sitting by your bed, hands still covered in dried blood—his own, from where he clawed his palms into fists so tight they broke skin.

You try to say his name. His head lifts instantly.

“You can’t scare me like that again.” “You’re not a bargaining chip. You’re not collateral. You’re not part of any game.” “You’re mine. And I don’t lose what’s mine.”

𝐒𝐄𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐍

You’re helping him clean up one of Luxe’s sparring rings after hours—sweaty, laughing, throwing towels at each other. It’s a soft night.

Until your foot slips on the edge of the mat, and you fall backward—right into the edge of the bench press. The sharp metal corner slams into your back, just under your ribs. It knocks the wind out of you.

You try to stand. But you crumple instead.

Pure silence. Then—

“No. No, no, no—baby, look at me—look at me.”

He’s on the floor with you in seconds, eyes wide with full-blown panic, fangs visibly clenched to hold in his scent response. He lifts your shirt just enough to see the spreading deep purple bruise, and the sharp cut from the corner—already bleeding.

His hands hover, trembling.

“You’re bleeding. That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—God, I’m so sorry—”

💥 WHAT HE DOES:

Loses his composure instantly—his worry floods past his control.

Scoops you up even as you protest. “Nope. Not listening. You’re not walking. Not a chance.”

Carries you to the Luxe medical bay himself, barking orders at the staff like someone died.

Stays in the room the entire time you’re being checked. You can hear him pacing. Cursing himself.

He’s not just worried. He’s furious with himself. Because he was there. And it still happened.

Later that night, you wake to him curled at the foot of your hospital bed like a guard dog, hoodie half-over his head, one hand on your blanket like he’s anchoring you in place.

You murmur his name.

His head lifts. Voice hoarse.

“I didn’t even smell it coming. I should’ve caught you. That’s on me.” “If you had hit your head—if it had been worse—”

You reach out to him. He just folds into you. Not sobbing. Just breathing in your skin like it’s the only thing keeping him sane.

𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍

You’re in the gallery wing of Luxe HQ, where he’s curating a sensory exhibit for vampire/human hybrid art therapy. You’re admiring one of the kinetic light sculptures—until the sound rig fails.

The top bracket snaps. A shard of reinforced crystal drops like a guillotine. You shove Hyunjin out of the way. It cuts down across your upper shoulder and collarbone.

The way he reacts? It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You’re still standing, hand pressed to your shoulder. Your fingers come away drenched in red. Hyunjin just stares at you—his expression completely blank.

Then his knees give out. He crawls to you, hands open like he’s approaching a dying star. “Don’t fall. Please don’t fall. Please don’t—”

He reaches your hand. Sees the blood. And just starts whispering.

Not to you. To himself.

“It’s not mortal. It’s not mortal. You’re not leaving. I won’t let you.”

🌒 WHAT HE DOES:

Wraps your shoulder in his shirt, whispering over and over: “Let me carry this. Let me take it instead.”

Starts glowing faintly—that eerie Abnormal shimmer beneath his skin. His veins bloom at the temples. His body is on the edge of rage mode, but his grief holds it back.

Cradles you in his lap like a sculpture, whispering every sacred thing he’s never said aloud: “I thought I had time.” “I should’ve kissed you this morning.” “I swear to God I’ll fix this—just stay.”

By the time medics arrive, he’s covered in your blood and doesn’t notice. Doesn’t care. Won’t move.

He doesn’t just visit the hospital. He brings paintings with him. Canvas after canvas—your shoulder rendered in gold leaf, your bandage in soft brushstrokes, your breath in splattered ink. He sends so many the nurses start storing them in a separate room.

When he comes to see you this time, he kneels.

“You don’t understand. I’ve imagined centuries with you.” “But I never imagined your blood on my hands.” “I’ll fix it. I’ll become better. I’ll build a world where you never bleed again.”

And the worst part? He means it. He’s already sketching blueprints for a new architecture rig that can’t fail. Already rewriting building protocols. Already painting you as if by immortalizing your pain, he can erase it.

𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐉𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆

It’s your fault. At least, he’ll say that for the rest of his life. You’re helping him debug a sensory-feedback training prototype. It’s wired to simulate mild adrenaline spikes for trauma rehabilitation.

You’re laughing—he’s teasing—and you go to unplug one of the ports.

You touch the wrong one. A current arcs. You jolt, scream, and hit the floor. You don’t pass out—but the flashburn singes your forearm badly. The skin is blistering. The pain is immediate. Tangible.

“No—NO no no no no—”

He speeds across the room. Slips. Nearly falls beside you. Grabs your face like he can ground himself in your skin.

His voice is too loud. Too sharp. His pupils are pinpricks. His breath? Gone.

“It wasn’t supposed to—it’s not even live—it’s capped at 7 volts it’s not it’s NOT—”

He pulls you to his chest, crying already, shaking so hard he bites his own lip trying to shut up.

⚠️ WHAT HE DOES:

Screams for emergency staff. Not calls—screams. His voice goes hoarse from how hard he yells.

Tries to carry you to the med floor himself—but his hands are shaking so badly he almost drops you. That nearly destroys him on the spot.

Paces outside the recovery chamber, muttering every possible blame scenario: “I wired it wrong. I should’ve shut it down. She trusted me—she trusted me—”

He refuses to see you for two days. Because he thinks if he does, you’ll look at him like he’s dangerous. Like he’s what he fears becoming: a vampire who hurts people.

He only returns when you find him—in his lab. Lights off. Hoodie pulled over his face. Sitting on the floor beside the unplugged prototype, blood drying on his lip from where he’s been biting it open.

You sit beside him. Silently. He doesn’t look at you.

“You were just trying to help.” “And I—I should’ve known—should’ve stopped you—” “I would’ve taken the hit. I’d rather burn than see you like that again.”

When you hold out your arm and show him your bandaged forearm, he goes pale again. But when you place his hand over it—and smile—he breaks. Not loudly. Not publicly. But you feel his breathing start to hitch.

And you realize: He’s not terrified of your injury. He’s terrified that you trusted him with your safety—and he thinks he failed.

𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗

It’s a riot drill. Luxe is running a lockdown simulation across compound levels—standard quarterly protocols. You weren’t supposed to be on the lower floor. You wanted to surprise him with coffee.

But the fire door slams shut behind you. A feedback surge in the security matrix fires a live pulse round—nonlethal for vampires.

Not for you.

It hits you across the ribs. Your body slams into the wall. You crumple, barely conscious. When the lockdown lifts three minutes later—he finds you.

At first? Nothing.

He walks toward you with complete, unnatural stillness. Eyes glowing just slightly. Pupils blown wide. Mouth tight. Shoulders rolled forward like he’s suppressing a snarl.

Then he’s kneeling. Touching your pulse point.

You flinch.

“Oh, angel. Oh no. No, no, no…”

And he breaks. Instantly. Hands shaking. Voice cracking. “You’re not supposed to be hurt. Not you. Not by me—”

Because it was his system. His failsafe. His design. And it touched you.

☀️ WHAT HE DOES:

Scoops you up, arms trembling—even though he’s so strong he could lift a car.

Carries you to the Luxe emergency floor without speaking to a single soul.

Guts his entire department afterward. Not figuratively. Literally dismantles the code for the security grid and rebuilds it from scratch.

Refuses to use any Luxe-issued systems in his personal quarters ever again. He builds custom safe zones for you, coded to your heartbeat.

He doesn’t sleep for three days.

When you’re finally well enough to argue with him, he just kneels beside your bed and places his forehead to your sternum.

“I’m not allowed to be the reason you hurt. Not even once.” “You’re the only thing that feels like warmth anymore. If I can’t protect that—what’s the point of any of this?”

And when you touch his hair—his whole body shakes.

Later, you find a tattoo on his ribs, etched just beneath the skin with spell-ink only visible under moonlight. Your heartbeat line. Right over the spot where he thinks the pulse round hit you.

It glows.

He calls it his holy place.

𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍

It’s not even Luxe-related. You’re walking home late from a cafe, on a route he told you was safe. A petty thief thinks you’re alone. They go for your bag—and their knife slices deep across your forearm during the struggle.

You escape. But you’re bleeding, trembling, in shock. You call him.

He doesn’t say “what happened.” He doesn’t say “are you okay.” He just says: “Where are you?”

And hangs up.

He gets there before the medics. By the time he reaches you, you’re sitting on the pavement, back against a bench, blood still dripping between your fingers.

He kneels down. Eyes hard. Voice low.

“Give me your arm.” “Good. Now breathe. In. Out.” “Can you walk?”

You ask if he’s mad. He doesn’t answer. But his jaw flexes. Once.

⚖️ WHAT HE DOES:

Picks you up bridal style, expression neutral, heart racing underneath.

Doesn’t take you to Luxe. Takes you to his personal flat—he doesn’t want any reports, any paper trail, any witnesses.

Cleans and dresses the wound himself, wordless. Efficient. Exact.

Then? He leaves. For two hours. When he returns, there’s blood on his sleeves. You don’t ask.

He doesn’t tell you. But that petty thief never exists again.

The next morning, you find a brand-new reinforced security bracelet on your nightstand—coded to his own aura signature. It will electrify any vampire or human who grabs you without permission.

You tell him he’s overreacting. He leans in. Calm. Quiet. Terrifying.

“I gave you that route.” “I told you it was safe.” “You bled. So I fixed it.”

When you try to argue further, his voice drops to something so cold it makes your spine ache: “Don’t ever ask me to be rational about you. That’s not part of the deal.”

𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍

You’re in the field with him during a Luxe outreach mission—he begged you to come. Said it’d be safe. Said he’d protect you.

And he did. Until the very end. When a rogue vampire—wounded and unregistered—barrels out of a back alley and knocks you down hard, slamming your shoulder into sharp concrete.

The attacker doesn’t stop. Tries to flee. Your breath stutters. Blood seeps into your collar. You’re dizzy.

Jeongin turns around and sees you crumpled. Then—

something changes.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He walks straight past you, expression blank, heartbeat deafening—and intercepts the rogue mid-air.

One second, it’s a vampire trying to escape. The next, Jeongin has them pinned against the wall by the throat—eyes glowing, veins flaring across his cheekbones like cracks in porcelain.

“You hurt her?”

His voice is wrong. Too deep. And then he moves. Fast. Too fast for a Normal.

🩶 WHAT HE DOES:

After the threat is neutralized (read: gone), he rushes to you, still not quite right.

His hands hover—afraid to touch you, afraid he’ll snap back into what he just was.

You whisper his name. That brings him back. “I’m okay,” you say, lying through your teeth.

He just stares at your blood-soaked shirt and starts to cry. “You’re not. I felt it. I felt it happen.” Because his Abnormal side is tied to your scent. Your safety. Your pain. And it’s starting to win.

Back at Luxe, you’re bandaged, stitched up—and worried sick. When he finally walks in, eyes still red, scent off-balance, shoulders hunched—

He doesn’t speak. He drops to his knees beside your bed, head on your lap.

“I didn’t know it would feel like this.” “Every second you were hurt—I could feel it under my skin.” “I think I’d burn the world just to keep you breathing.”

You tell him that scares you. He whispers: “It scares me, too.”

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy

#stray kids #skz #stray kids angst #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han x reader #felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #vampire!skz series #wreck me wednesday #skz angst

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pretty-little-mind33 · 1 year ago

Text

James Potter x best friend!fem!reader

Summary: James panics when he sees what his boggart is.

Genre: hurt and comfort

Warnings: mentions/descriptions of reader's death, crying, panic attacks, swearing

~ anon, this idea was amazing! thank you ☺️ ~

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

James's arrogance is his Achilles's Heel.

He truly can't help it sometimes—especially now when that arrogance is accompanied by his friends' laughter as he teases everyone about their stupid boggarts. Emma Johnstons' was a spider, which scared Peter, but had Sirius and James in tears at the back of the classroom.

"Wait until it's your turn, Potter," an annoyed Emma hisses as she walks by them, still pale from fright and embarrassment. She sends James a murderous look and continues, "Then we'll see who's laughing in the end."

James's grin only widens and he sees her words as a challenge. His hand shoots up in the air and he bounces on his heels. "Oi! Professor?! Can I be next?!"

Professor Windward looks at him behind his small glasses, already exhausted by James's antics but he allows him to walk up to the front of the classroom anyway. James sends his best friends an obnoxiously confident wink and struts up to the front of the line.

James isn't in any way prepared for his boggart.

He's expected something mundane—like an animal, or even death eater—or maybe some scary creature he'd read about in library books. What he didn't expect was to see you, dressed in your uniform and robe, your shiny hair sprawled across the wooden floor-board as blood slowly dripped from your mouth.

Your eyes are round but they're lifeless and your clothes are soaked in crimson liquid. You aren't moving and it looks too real that, for a moment, James is completely frozen.

He hears the whispers of his classmates—whispers of your name and reminders of your relationship with James. Friends, the word rings around the classroom just as James's mind breaks and he completely panics at your body on the ground in front of him.

He drops his wand, breaking into an awkward run to where you lay, entirely prepared to skid across the floor and hold you in his arms, but Professor Windward is quicker. He grabs James by his collar and pulls him back, his arms encasing around James's shoulders as he makes the boggart disappear with another spell.

It seemed too cruel to turn the image of your dead body into something ridiculous.

No one in the room is laughing, not even Emma Johnston, as James makes a pained sound and attempts to shove past Professor Windward and hold you like he'd planned. His mind is racing and he's panicked as the sounds around him make him feel like he's trapped underwater.

"Son, it's a boggart. It cannot hurt you. It's not real," Professor Windward explains, his grip on James firm, but James doesn't seem to understand him. Sirius, Remus, and Peter are beside James in an instant, holding him up and comforting him.

Without much convincing, Professor Windward lets them lead him outside into the corridor and down the stairs. James is a mess and he keeps looking around for danger or you. His mind screams at him that he's being unreasonable, that it wasn't real and he knows this, but his heart is in a complete panic.

"Prongs, hey, it's okay," Remus tries to explain as James's hand tightens in Sirius's. "She's probably in her dorm—she's okay."

"Should we take him to her?" Peter squeaks, looking between his friends with concern.

"No–"

"Yes–" James interrupts Remus's answer and he turns to Sirius, his eyes round and desperate. "I wanna see her. Please. I wanna see her now. I need to know she's okay!" Remus doesn't think it's smart to bring James to see you when he's like this but Sirius can never deny James what he wants so all the boys pile into the door to the Common Room and then quite obnoxiously, James and Sirius start to scream your name as Peter rushes up to their dorm to find the map.

A moment later, when you still haven't answered, Peter scampers back down from their dorm and holds up the map. "She's in the library," he says breathlessly. Sirius jumps up, snatching the map from Peter's hands.

"Onwards," he shouts in an attempt to lighten the mood but that only earns him a sniffle from James and a glare from Remus.

* * *

You're peacefully unaware of the chaos that's about to ensue as you're curled up in an armchair, a book in your lap. You absentmindedly chew on your lower lip as you concentrate.

"Y/n!" a familiar boy screams your name and you look up, sitting normally in the armchair as your four very anxious looking friends stumble in front of you. "Look, she's okay," Peter points, sounding relieved as well as he moves aside to reveal a very distressed looking James Potter.

You stand up, dusting your uniform and your eyebrows crease. "What's happened?" you ask seriously and then you feel James's arms wrap around your shoulders as he pulls you into him. His lips find the exposed skin of your collarbone as he inhales your scent and almost crushes you closer to him.

James's always been an affectionate person. Since you can remember, he's never not taken an opportunity to kiss your cheek, wrap his arms around you, or even hold your hand, but this is extreme even for him. You glance at the other boys, confusion evident on your expression, and they send you sympathetic looks.

"Jamie," you whisper and hug him back, your hand hesitating but ultimately finding his hair.

You hear a choked cry and you realize he's almost in tears. Concern overwhelms your senses and you pull away only to have James's hand find yours. His eyes are shiny with tears and, as if he's reminding himself, he mutters, "You're alive." His thumb caresses your palm.

"You two should talk," Remus interrupts bluntly and sends Sirius, who seems entertained by the scene in front of him, a sharp glare, "Alone." Remus pulls Sirius away, ignoring the latter's hump of protest as Peter trails behind them.

James doesn't seem to care as he stares at you, he looks much calmer now.

"What do you mean? Of course I'm alive." you ask gently, pressing your palm to his cheek.

He leans into your touch. "I saw you dead. In Defense Against The Dark Arts. Professor Windward was showing us boggarts and it was funny until it was my turn and that dreadful thing turned into your lifeless body, right there in front of me, and—and I didn't know what to do because I realized if you died, I would just have to die too," James explains, sounding like he's made up his mind if the scenario ever comes up.

Boggarts? James's biggest fear was your death? You can hear the sincerity in his voice and you can't help the way your heart jumps for his.

"Does that make you the Romeo to my Juliet?"

James frowns and asks, "Who?" which reminds you that James hadn't heard of some muggle writer like Shakspeare and that even if he had taken Muggle Studies last year, like he was supposed to, he wouldn't have listened that intently anyway.

"Star-crossed lovers," you shrug, ignoring how warm your cheeks have become.

James's shoulders relax and he chuckles. "So, you're saying we're star-crossed lovers now?"

You like that your little quip has lightened the mood successfully so you shrug again, deciding to tease him. "Never said that. Why? D'you want to be star-crossed lovers?"

"No. Because I don't want our relationship to be doomed," James deadpans and he runs a hand in his curly hair nervously. He looks behind you through the stained glass window of the library and hears the soft patterns of afternoon rain. "It's raining," he says and he moves closer, his hand finding yours again as he fiddles with your fingers.

"It appears so," you answer in a whisper. You look at him, trying to read him. You squeeze his hand. "I'm right here, James. 'M not going anywhere."

A moment of comfortable silence passes and James looks so serious as he stares into your eyes, his breathing becoming harsh again. He leans in and he's wearing the same look on his face every man does before he kisses someone—only James Potter wears it well. Your breath hitches and your eyes flutter shut, nerves bubbling in your stomach.

When his lips touch yours they're accompanied by his hands around your jaw. He's gentle with you, kissing you like he's savoring your touch. He pulls away only to press his forehead on yours.

"Merlin's beard, I've wanted to do that for so long. You're intoxicating, Y/n," he whispers as if he's just made a revelation and he takes your chin in between his thumb and index, smiling like the love-sick fool he's always been.

"I really like you."

Your eyes widen. "You do?"

James's smile turns into a smirk. "Yeah, 'course I do. Was that kiss not enough confirmation?" He raises an eyebrow and leans in again, this time peppering open mouth kisses across my entire face, "Here. I really really really like you," he mumbles and enjoys the sound of your giggles as you shy away from his kisses.

"I really like you too," you say, finally escaping his kisses as James pulls away. He looks over the moon happy.

"The boys are never gonna believe this," James mutters, completely unaware that unlike him, it hadn't taken Sirius, Peter, and Remus this incident for them to realize James is madly in love with you. They'd known from the first time James had uttered your name.

"Shit, you're already the best girlfriend I've ever had—not that I've had many," James says, almost to himself as he tucks some hair behind your ear.

You laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Woah, slow down there. Take me on a date first, then we'll talk about labels," you joke, knowing damn well that by the end of the date James would be proclaiming his love for you to everyone who would listen and you don't mind one bit.

James's eyes shimmer at the opportunity to spoil you. "You have a deal, m'lady."

You laugh. "Merlin, you're so cringe, James." You take his arm and pull him towards the window where a bunch of pillows are laid out on the edge and you plop down, momentarily looking out the window at the rain.

James follows your lead and when he leans against the wall, you lay your head on his chest and rest in between his legs.

"Stay with me for a bit?" you ask.

His heart feels like it's fluttering at your closeness and he's completely calm—the memory of your dead body completely distant now. It's now a memory he'll only remember in the dead of night, when he'll have you to hold him and kiss all his worries away.

James nods and then he leans his head on the wall and looks outside, his hand playing with your hair as you hum and continue to read your book. The soft sound of rain is like a piano melody as he watches the droplets fall down the glass. They're racing in his mind like they would when he was a child and he smiles.

He kisses the top of your head, earning him a giggle as he mouths, "I love you," into your hair.

One day soon he'll say the words out loud, just not now.

Today, he's happy just being near you and knowing that he finally has you in some significant way—in a way he'd denied himself for way too long.

You nuzzle in him and turn your page, your gaze so focused, and his heart swells.

I love you, he thinks again. I love you so damn much.

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newobsessionweekly · 3 months ago

Text

I won't remember you

Main masterlist | The rookie masterlist

Protective!Tim Bradford x girlfriend!reader

Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: After an attack leaves you bleeding out, Tim races to your side, terrified of losing you. In a desperate moment, you confess your fear of forgetting him after death. Tim swears nothing, not even death, will ever take you from him.

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of injury (stabbing, blood loss), panic, anxiety, fear of death ,near-death experience, heavy emotional distress, Protective!Tim in full force

Angst

Words: -

Fear lived in you now.

It wasn’t always this way. You used to be able to kiss Tim goodbye before a shift without feeling like you were sending him off to war. You used to be able to close your eyes at night without fearing you might never wake up. But lately, it had taken root inside you, growing deeper with every passing day.

It started as a whisper—soft, insidious thoughts creeping into your mind at odd hours. What if something happens to him today? What if you don’t wake up tomorrow? What if you forget him?

You told yourself it was just anxiety. That you were being paranoid.

Then, the panic attacks started.

Some nights, you’d wake up gasping for breath, your heart slamming against your ribs as if trying to claw its way out. Other nights, you didn’t sleep at all, too afraid that if you closed your eyes, you’d never open them again.

Tim noticed. Of course, he did.

He had always been good at reading you, knowing when something was wrong even before you did. At first, he didn’t push, just watched you carefully, his sharp blue eyes tracking your every move. But when he caught you trembling after waking from another nightmare, your arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold your body together, he couldn’t stay silent.

"You’re not okay," he had said one night, his voice low, careful, as if afraid to spook you.

You had tried to lie.

"I’m fine."

"Don’t do that." He had stepped closer, fingers grazing your jaw, tilting your face up so you couldn’t look away. "Talk to me, sweetheart."

You had broken then, the dam inside you shattering all at once.

"I’m scared," you had admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "All the time, Tim. I can’t—I can’t shut it off."

His arms had been around you in an instant, his body solid and warm against yours. "What are you afraid of?"

You swallowed, gripping the front of his shirt like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. "Losing you."

Tim had tensed at that, his grip on you tightening. "That’s not going to happen."

"You don’t know that." Your voice cracked, a tear slipping down your cheek. "You leave for work every day, and I—I feel like I can’t breathe until you come home."

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t pull away. He just held you, his lips brushing against your hair.

"I always come home," he murmured. "I will always come home to you."

"But what if you don’t?" Your fingers curled into his shirt, your breath shaky. "What if one day, something happens, and I lose you? What if I lose me? I don’t—I don’t want to die, Tim."

His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears slipping down your cheeks.

"You’re not going anywhere," he said fiercely. "Neither of us are."

You had wanted to believe him.

But now, as you lay on the pavement, blood pooling beneath you, you realized—you should have believed him while you had the chance.

It had been a normal evening.

You had left the apartment to pick up dinner—Tim’s favorite, because you knew he had a long shift and would come home exhausted. The air was crisp, the streets familiar, and you had felt safe.

Until you weren’t.

You didn’t hear the man coming.

One second, you were unlocking your car. The next, an arm wrenched you backward, slamming you against a brick wall.

A blade pressed into your side.

"Give me your bag," a low voice hissed in your ear.

Your breath hitched. Your heart pounded so hard it hurt. You nodded quickly, hands shaking as you slipped the bag from your shoulder, pressing it into his grip.

But he didn’t let go.

"This ain't enough," he snapped, his fingers digging into your arm. "You got a phone? Jewelry?"

You reached into your pocket, but he must have thought you were going for something else. Before you could speak, pain exploded through your side.

The knife slid in, hot and deep. You gasped, the world lurching as agony tore through you. For a second, you didn’t even understand what had happened. Then, warmth bloomed beneath your fingers.

You looked down.

Blood. So much blood.

The man cursed, shoving you backward before disappearing into the night.

You staggered, your body trembling violently as you pressed your hands against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding.

Someone screamed. Someone called 911. But not you.

You should have called your boyfriend.

Tim had seen people die before.

He had seen officers go down, had pressed his hands against bullet wounds, had watched blood stain the pavement, had heard final breaths rasp from broken bodies.

But nothing—nothing—had ever prepared him for the moment he heard your name come through dispatch.

"Victim is y/n y/l/n. Possible GSW. Medics en route."

It was like the world snapped.

The air was sucked from his lungs, his heart stopped beating, and for a split second, everything froze.

Then—he ran. He didn’t think. He didn’t breathe.

He was in the car before anyone could stop him, the sirens screaming as he tore through the streets, his hands clenching the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. His mind was a chaos of images, panic clawing at his throat—

You on the ground.

You gasping for breath.

You—motionless.

His foot slammed on the gas. The drive was a blur. The city rushed past him in streaks of color, his own breath coming in short, ragged bursts. His heart was pounding against his ribs, so fast it hurt, so hard he thought it might break right out of his chest.

Please. Please. Please.

The second he saw you, his entire world collapsed. You were on the pavement, blood was everywhere. A dark crimson stain spread across your side, soaking into your clothes, pooling beneath you like an open wound in the earth itself.

Tim’s knees hit the ground before he even knew he had moved. His hands—steady on the field, in firefights, in life-or-death situations—shook as they pressed down over yours, trying to stem the bleeding.

"Y/n!" His voice cracked, his breath ragged. "Baby, I’m here."

You gasped, barely conscious, your eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his.

"Tim…"

The way you said his name—weak, broken, like you weren’t sure you’d ever get to say it again—ripped him apart.

"Hey, hey, baby, stay with me." His fingers curled over yours, pressing against the wound, desperate to stop the blood, to fix this, to save you. "You’re okay. Just hold on, sweetheart. Just—just stay with me."

You blinked up at him, your lips trembling.

"I didn’t call you," you whispered.

Tim’s jaw locked, his breath shuddering.

"Why the hell not?" His voice was sharp, raw, barely controlled beneath the sheer terror gripping him.

You swallowed, your fingers twitching against his. "Didn’t want you to… hear me like this."

A choked noise caught in his throat.

"Jesus, y/n" His hands tightened on you, pressing against the wound, his body instinctively shielding yours like he could keep you safe just by being there. "You always call me. Do you hear me? Always. I don’t give a damn what I’m doing—I will always come for you."

A soft sound left your lips—half a breath, half a whimper.

"Scared," you murmured.

Tim exhaled sharply, his chest aching at the fragility of your voice.

"I know, baby," he whispered. His fingers brushed against your face, streaking your cheek with your own blood. "I know."

You inhaled shakily, a weak tremor racking through your body.

"I don’t… I don’t want to die."

Tim clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached. A burning sensation settled in his chest, threatening to consume him.

"You’re not going to die," he growled, his voice shaking. "Do you hear me? You’re not leaving me. Not now. Not ever."

You blinked sluggishly, your pupils unfocused.

"But if I do…"

Tim’s stomach dropped. His heart stopped dead.

"Don’t," he begged, voice hoarse. "Don’t say it."

Your hand—so cold, so weak—curled around his wrist.

"But if I do…" you whispered. "I won’t remember you."

Tim’s entire body locked. A shuddering breath left him, raw and wrecked.

Tears blurred your vision as you forced yourself to continue, despite the sharp ache in your chest. “They say—at weddings, they say ‘till death do us part’ because when you die, you forget. You forget the people you love. And I don’t want to forget you.”

Tim broke. The breath he sucked in was sharp, painful, like glass cutting down his throat.

"You’re not going to die," he choked out, his grip tightening on you like he could physically hold you here, keep you tethered to him.

Your lips trembled.

"But if I do… Will you find me?"

A tear slipped from Tim’s lashes, burning against his skin. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath warm and unsteady.

"Always." His voice shook, barely above a whisper. "I will always find you, baby. No matter what. I swear to you."

Your lashes fluttered.

"’Til death do us part," you murmured.

Tim flinched. No. No, he hated that phrase.

He hated the finality of it. The implication that death was the end. That you could be taken from him and there would be nothing after.

His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones, smearing blood over your skin.

"Not even death," he whispered fiercely. "Not even death could take you from me."

You shivered beneath his touch, the cold creeping into your bones. Tim felt it and it terrified him.

"Stay with me, sweetheart," he pleaded, his voice breaking. "Please."

Your lips parted then your body went limp. His heart stopped.

"No—no, no, no—y/n!" His voice was a roar, pure desperation as he shook you, as he pressed his hands against the wound, as if he could force life back into you. "Stay with me!"

The paramedics were suddenly there, voices shouting, hands pulling him back, but Tim fought them.

"No!" He thrashed against their grip, his voice ragged, his hands bloody as they tried to push him away from you. "I’m not leaving her!"

"Y/n, stay with me, baby, please—"

They wrenched him back, and suddenly—he couldn’t touch you anymore. He couldn’t feel you.

"Her pulse is weak—get the stretcher, now!"

"She’s lost too much blood—"

Tim’s breath came in ragged, painful bursts, his hands shaking so violently he couldn’t control them.

He watched—helpless—as they lifted you, as the sirens screamed, as your head lolled to the side, your skin too pale, your breath too shallow.

Panic clawed at his throat.

He shoved past the medics, gripping your limp hand.

"You’re not leaving me," he whispered, his voice shattering.

They loaded you into the ambulance, and Tim didn’t let go.

He climbed in after you, his fingers clutching yours, his forehead pressing against your knuckles.

"I will always find you," he whispered, a silent prayer.

"Just—please—find your way back to me."

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ari-ana-bel-la · 7 days ago

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hii! can you do one with Carlos or Charles 4 years old daughter that suffers from a asthma because she was born prematurely

she has an asthma attack and she doesn’t know what to do and she only wants her daddy to make her feel better, she is scared and doesn’t know how how to use the inhaler alone

you can finish however you like

thank you 🫶🏻

Asthma Attack

The warm summer breeze swept through the small coastal town in Spain where Carlos and his little girl, Yn, had retreated for the Formula 1 summer break. With Rebecca off for the weekend with some of the other drivers' wives on a well-deserved getaway, the house was unusually quiet—just the hum of cicadas outside, the occasional chirp of birds, and the comforting, rhythmic sound of Carlos moving around in the kitchen.

He was barefoot on the cool tiles, chopping up vegetables and humming a tune that had been stuck in his head since the last race. It was one of Yn’s favorites—the one she always made him sing before bedtime. He glanced out the window every few minutes to check on her. She was in the backyard, playing with her stuffed dog, Coco, under the shade of a big olive tree. She had a small picnic laid out on a colorful blanket, and she was humming to herself in that sweet, airy voice of hers.

Carlos smiled softly. It had taken so much time and energy to reach this peaceful moment. Yn had been born premature—so small, so fragile. They had spent weeks in the NICU, with alarms and wires and constant fear. And even now, four years later, the worry never quite left. Her asthma was a lingering reminder of those early days. It wasn’t always a problem, but when it struck, it hit hard.

Still, today looked like a good day. She’d been giggling when he brought her juice out earlier, her curls bouncing as she danced around her blanket. He’d warned her not to run too much in the heat and made sure her inhaler was within reach. She had nodded like a little soldier, hugging him tightly before getting back to her tea party with Coco.

“Papá!” she had shouted half an hour ago. “I made you a sandwich! But it’s made of grass and flower petals, so you can’t eat it!”

He’d laughed, leaning out the back door. “Gracias, mi amor. It sounds... delicious.”

Now, though, the silence outside tugged at him.

He glanced at the stove, turned down the heat under the simmering pot, and wiped his hands on a towel.

“Yn?” he called out, his voice casual but loud enough to carry through the open window. No answer. He frowned. Usually she’d yell back instantly, or run inside to show him a rock or a leaf she’d found.

“Yn?” he repeated, stepping out onto the patio.

Nothing. Not even the rustle of her little footsteps.

And then something deep inside him twisted.

Carlos didn’t wait. He sprinted across the patio, heart beginning to race. As he rounded the corner of the olive tree, he found her—curled up on her side on the grass, clutching her little chest, her tiny face red and scrunched up in fear.

“Oh, dios mío. Yn!”

Her eyes flicked up, glazed and wide with panic.

“Papá...” she rasped.

He was on his knees beside her in an instant, scooping her into his arms with one strong, careful motion.

“I’m here, I’m here, baby,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice calm even as terror clawed at his throat. “Shh, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

She coughed—short, shallow, wheezing gasps that sounded like knives in his ears.

“I... I can’t breathe,” she whimpered, pressing her face against his chest.

“Shh, mi amor, I’ve got you,” he said, rocking her gently. “We’re going to use the inhaler, remember? Just like Mama showed us.”

“But... I don’t know how,” she sobbed. “I tried... but it’s hard.”

Carlos fumbled for the pocket of her little sundress. The inhaler was there, thank God. He pulled it out and cradled her closer, supporting her head with one hand.

“Look at me, Yn,” he said gently. “I’m going to help you, okay? I need you to trust me.”

Her lips were trembling, but she nodded weakly.

Carlos exhaled slowly, trying to steady his own nerves. He shook the inhaler, then gently placed it to her lips.

“Take a deep breath with me, mi corazon. Ready? One, two, three...”

He pressed the inhaler, watching her try to inhale. It was shallow, but something got through.

“Good girl,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Again.”

Another puff, another breath.

The wheezing began to ease, just a little. Enough that she could cry a little louder.

“Hurts,” she whispered.

“I know, baby. I know. But you’re doing so well. I’m so proud of you.”

He held her for a long moment, letting her body relax against his, the tension slowly melting as the medicine began to work. She clung to his shirt with her tiny fingers, her breathing evening out into shaky little hiccups.

“Coco... I dropped Coco,” she mumbled.

Carlos turned slightly and reached out, grabbing the stuffed dog from where it had fallen beside the blanket.

“Here’s Coco. He was very brave too, waiting for you.”

She hugged the toy close, still sniffling.

Carlos ran his hand through her curls, kissing the crown of her head. “Let’s go inside, okay? Let you rest a little. I’ll carry you.”

She nodded into his chest.

He stood carefully, one arm supporting her back, the other under her knees. She was light—too light sometimes—but warm and real and breathing.

Back in the house, he sat down on the couch, keeping her tucked against him.

“Do you want some water, cariño?”

She shook her head, face pressed against his collarbone.

“Just you.”

He smiled, a little tear slipping down his cheek. “Always.”

They stayed like that for a while. The lunch forgotten. The breeze still dancing through the open windows.

After a while, Yn stirred.

“Papá?”

“Sí, mi vida?”

“Did I do good?”

Carlos pulled back just enough to see her eyes, soft and sleepy.

“You did amazing. So, so amazing. I’m so proud of you, Yn.”

She smiled faintly. “Mama’s gonna be mad.”

He chuckled softly. “Maybe a little. But she’ll also be proud. And she’ll be home soon, and we’ll tell her all about how brave you were.”

Yn yawned, cuddling into him again.

“I love you, Papá.”

“I love you more, little sunshine.”

Outside, the sun continued to shine over the olive tree and the scattered petals of a grass-and-flower sandwich that never got eaten. Inside, Carlos held the most important thing in his life and thanked every star in the sky that he’d looked outside when he did.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d let her eat ice cream for dinner. After all, heroes deserved a reward.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

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