#might just make him a bird idk

[ey3dye]

Q U E S T I O N

Since we know Goetia are based on more animals than just birds, and are usually chimeras, what animal(s) would Ford be?

[liminalcritter]

whoever guesses what bird he's based on gets a free cookie

[paddysol]

i wonder if parrot downplaying wifies death in comparison to dean or luigi (like lowkey straight up not acknowledging it in his videos even though he's in entire control of the narrative presented to the audience) is him playing meta with his character on the server in the idea that its uu! parrot, by the way of video editing, refusing to come to terms with the death of his friend

[magistralucis]

@absolut--kurant!

[telesodalite]

Thinking about KrokFire...

Thinking about them sparring in the cargohold, because it's a long trip, and cabin fever is setting in, and Misfire is gonna pop a gasket if he doesn't do something about it soon, since flying in open space gets real boring real fast, and it's making everyone a little nervous, but Krok has time to kill, and maybe, quietly, he's also two steps away from doing something stupid just to feel alive again after cruising around pointlessly, mindlessly, endlessly, for so so long... (It's barely been a month)

And sure, Misfire is a terrible sparring partner. He has no technique, no concept of proper balance, or an inkling of how to use the weight of his own frame. He rushes headfirst like he's more bull than fighter jet, he talks too much, he spits, he bites, and he can't stand losing. But, in a roundabout way, it almost makes him the perfect partner in Krok's eyes.

Crankcase won't spar, "can't" he claims flatly, gesturing at the gaping hole in his helm, but Krok can respect his want for distance. That occasional flash of fear and frozen unease in Crankcase's visor in close combat doesn't go over his head. He knows that look. He gets it. He won't push.

Fulcrum... well, a streetlight might be a tougher fight, or at least it would stay up longer and complain less. So much for a once respectable officer of the empire. What was Deathsaurus' command thinking promoting anyone without any actual combat training? It would almost be pathetic if Fulcrum didn't find a way to put the vitriol of thrown fists into his words instead. Now there was some swears Krok hadn't heard in a couple millennia, it would be inspiring if it wasn't his own spark Fulcrum had been damning to the pits and back through a bloody nose.

Spinister? Now Spinister was a good fighter, a better fighter, Krok wasn't so prideful to deny that truth. He'd tasted the dust of the cargohold floor enough to know it was a definitive fact. But Spinister held back, he was careful, he matched Krok's pace, his movements, he held himself defensively, any attack was quick, simple, and merely restraining. It was less a fight, and more a waiting game until Krok finally gave up, and that... well, that did sting a bit.

But Misfire? Misfire was a different beast all together. Sure Krok could dance circles around the flier all day, but it wasn't totally effortless work, he had to stay sharp, Misfire was so predictably unpredictable, he kept him thinking, moving, on his toes, and maybe it felt good to sidestep another stupid headfirst charge, easily grabbing and swinging Misfire around by his arm, so unbalanced all Krok had to do was let him go, and the weight of his own frame would send him careening into the crates stacked around them.

Most days, Misfire would give up by then, pull himself off the pile of overturned cargo with no small amount of burning shame and frustration, as he avoided Krok's optics and stormed off into the bowels of the ship before Krok could say something to ease the sting of losing again and again. Misfire didn't want his apologies though, and even as a pang of guilt ate at him over it, Krok knew he'd be back eventually.

But today, too pent-up and bored to quit now, Misfire pushed himself back onto his feet and charged back in again, and again, and again.

And Krok moved with him again, and again, and again. It was almost repetitive, but lively enough that he could feel the energon pumping through his head, a thrumming beat in his audials that reminds him of deafening battlefields and roaring stadiums, and oh, he'd missed this feeling, the adrenaline, the movement, more so than he thought he did.

Maybe it's the overconfidence that gets him then, or the memories pulling him out of the present, but Misfire's fist suddenly comes slamming down into his mask, and for a moment everything becomes a blur, until he finds himself on the floor, clutching at the shattered metal falling from his face in disbelief.

Faintly he can feel the twinge of broken mesh, of pain pinching dully across scarred flickering sensors, and maybe it's the adrenaline that pulls a suprised and breathy laugh out of him as he stares down at the pieces in his hand.

Maybe it's also the disbelief, the sudden shock at being struck hard enough to break his mask, by Misfire of all mechs. Or maybe he's cracked his helm, finally snapping something important deep in his processor, some vital function that kept him sane all these years.

Either way, an old familiar buzz of heady energy fills his chest, loosening his joints and straightening his struts as he stands back up, brushing off the broken remains of his mask as he stares back at Misfire, barefaced and bleeding and amused as the flier's optics go bright and wide.

And all Misfire can do for a moment is stand there, wide-eyed and breathless, his own adrenaline filled frame and hammering processor still trying to make sense of the broken plating of his knuckles and the energon trickling down Krok's scarred lips.

But connections are made, and it's a panicked realization at first, a cold dread, a 'ohhhhh fuck oh primus I fucked up I'm dead I'm so fucking dead-!' sort of feeling, as Krok's marred face breaks into an energon stained grin. But then there's another feeling, growing somewhere underneath the panic, a sudden curl of heat in his chest, a flush of pride, conviction, a sort of frenzied joy at the sight of broken mesh and fresh energon, and another rush of hot anticipation as Krok began to move again, circling, waiting, an unspoken question in the air as he rolls his shoulders back and flexes his hands.

And Misfire answers eagerly, suprising himself almost as he charges foward again, wanting more of that feeling, wanting to win again.

It's not really sparring past this point, and somewhere in the back of their minds they both know that. Every strike, every kick, every punch, it's all thoughtless instinct, each clash of plating, and bite of denta, and scrape of fingertips, is part of a mad dash for victory in the gladiator pit of scrap and debris they've built around themselves.

Of course, it can't last forever. They're no real gladiators, no phase-sixers, no primes, and movements get sluggish, vents rattle and wheeze as coolant pumps reach their limits, and building condensation slides powerless punches right off of scuffed metal and mesh.

Even like this though, worn out and bleeding from more scrapes than he had half a mind to count, Krok is still better, and Misfire is still predictable, and it's no great feat to sweep his legs out from beneath him, landing him flat on the floor, wings spread out and chestplate heaving.

Overworked joints sharply protest as he goes to pin the flier down bodily, and finally Krok faces the fact he has to consider how to end this, so he might let his own beaten frame finally still for a moment to breathe.

But as Krok catches one flailing arm in his grip, scoffing at the desperation, still goading Misfire on even as he tries to end this, a hand stubbornly catches his throat, but stops before it can truly squeeze.

And once more they're not really moving, just staring, watching, but it's less wired and tense now, rather, its shaky, a little unfocused, as exhaustion filters out in heaving puffs of hot air between their frames.

Someone's plating is rattling, Krok isn't sure if it's his own or Misfire's, but the cost of adrenaline is painfully noticeable now. His grip loosens on Misfire's arms, and the idea of total victory is less sweet as his cables begin to ache throughout his inner-framework.

But Misfire's hand slides up to catch his jaw before he can lean back and relent to a truce, and he's pulling him closer, and Krok starts to push him off, call it quits before either of them breaks something past repair, but a flash of energon on Misfire lips catches his eye, and that hadn't been there a moment ago?

Before he can even begin to ask what that was supposed to mean, Misfire is pulling him down again, angling his helm upwards to feverishly meet his lips half-way.

Although the mesh of Misfire's face was throughly bruised and scuffed, Krok had frustratingly failed to return the favor of a busted lip. So, it had to be his own, smeared across Misfire's face at some point in the scuffle, it shouldn't have been interesting in the slightest, but Krok's processor was hazy, slow, and his optics trailed Misfire's glossa as he licked his lips and made an odd curious sound.

And maybe it was a stupid move to make so impulsively, one he'd regret making probably, but still too caught up in the waning heated high of the fight, Misfire figured he could worry about losing such a hard-earned battle later. Right now, this seemed far better than actually winning, and the taste of Krok's energon felt like a victory and reward nonetheless.

Bracing himself as Misfire wriggled his other hand free to splay out over his thigh, holding him desperately against his frame as he tried pulling him even closer, Krok considered the heat dispersion warnings flickering distractingly in his peripheral, and the very noticeable strain on his back and legs, even his arms.

It's not a great position to be in right now, after all they've done already. He'll regret it, he knows he will, his body will make sure of it, if Spinister doesn't first.

But then Misfire's glossa is sliding against the jagged edges of his teeth, and he's making hoarse little pathetic noises into Krok's mouth that stoke some sort of ego at having the flier so desperate beneath him, and Misfire's hands are warm and heavy over aching plating and seams, and really, on second thought, after weeks of boredom, why the hell not?

They've got nowhere to be.

[veunho]

I love love love drawing but I cannot draw poses in any circumstances

[todayisafridaynight]

fathers day is this month how am i going to inflict psychic damage on myself

[possibly-eli]

you will all rue this day. the day of Stupid Kobold Wizard

[sunsburns]

forget it — joaquín torres (marvel) !

⟢ synopsis. request: reuniting with ex!joaquín after his near death experience, but you’re the nurse assigned to his care after he gets out of surgery. you broke up a couple years ago because of your very demanding careers, and you don’t see him until you realize they put YOU on babysitting duty to nurse him back to health, yikes!

⟢ contains. spoilers for brave new world! joaquín torres x nurse!reader, so much angst you’re gonna want to block me!! mentions of death, blood, gore, possible inaccurate medical procedures (i am not a nurse idk how that works), open ending but it's honestly realistic and cute.

⟢ word count. 13.7k+

⟢ author’s note. i learned medical terms for this

You like to think that every decision you’ve made has shaped you into the best version of yourself.

A better student, a better nurse, a better person. You’ve spent years honing your skills, pushing yourself past limits, ensuring that when it matters most, you’ll be capable—prepared. You might not have superpowers, enhanced genes, or combat training, but you have your mind, your steady hands, your patience. That’s what makes a difference in the field you’ve chosen. That’s what saves lives.

And it’s paid off. You don’t work at just any hospital—you work at this one. A private facility that caters to soldiers, government agents, and the kind of people who make headlines when things go wrong. The kind of people who disappear into classified reports. The kind of people you don’t expect to see lying unconscious under your care.

But you love your job. You love the structure of it, the control. You love the fact that, in a world constantly spinning off its axis, you can still do something that makes sense. You have your patients, your colleagues, your friends, your family. You still go out when you can, still make time to shop, and still remember to water your plants. Life is steady. Good.

And yet—

There’s something missing.

It creeps in during the quiet moments, when the hospital halls are still, and the steady beep of a heart monitor is the only thing filling the silence. It lingers in the space between breaths, in the pause before you check a chart, in the phantom weight of something you can’t quite name. A presence that once was, or maybe never was, but should have been.

You have everything you’ve ever worked for. So why does it still feel like something’s missing?

You don’t let yourself dwell on it. It’s ridiculous. You have your health. You have your life.

And you know better than anyone how fragile both of those things can be.

You remind yourself of how lucky you are because you’ve seen the alternative too many times. Lives wrecked and ruined by things far beyond anyone’s control. You’ve watched the light fade from seven pairs of eyes. Seven people who didn’t make it. Seven moments that carved themselves into your memory, no matter how hard you try to forget.

You haven’t even been working for three years.

And yet—

You’d hate to see the day when someone you love is one of them.

The thought grips you too tightly, too suddenly, and you only realize you’ve been staring at your hands under the running faucet when the sound of your name cuts through the fog.

“Look what I made!”

You blink, water still rushing over your fingertips, skin already pruning. A slow exhale leaves you as you reach for the faucet, shutting off the tap. The chill lingers on your skin even as you tear a paper towel from the dispenser, crumpling in your damp grip as you turn.

Maria is sitting up in bed, dark eyes bright with excitement as she holds out a carefully folded piece of olive-green paper.

She beams at you, her small fingers cradling the delicate shape with a reverence that makes your heartache. It takes a second for recognition to click. An origami bird.

“What’s this?” you coo, stepping closer.

Maria is a few weeks shy of nine. She should be at home planning her birthday party, picking out a cake, laughing with friends. Instead, she’s here. Confined to this sterile room, surrounded by too-white walls and the soft beeping of machines monitoring the inexplicable changes in her body. She isn’t dying. But she isn’t getting better, either.

Exposure to some strange quantum disturbance in San Francisco had led to her transfer here, to Washington, under your care. Away from reporters, away from speculation, away from anyone who might pry too closely while the government tries to figure out what happened to her.

“It’s a bird. Like the one on TV.” She explains, her tiny fingers carefully adjusting the wings.

You glance at the television, expecting to see another nature documentary—the kind she’s grown fond of in the past few weeks. But when your eyes land on the screen, you freeze.

A news channel. A live interview. Captain America and the Falcon, still in their gear, standing at an Air Force base. The headline scrolling across the bottom of the screen is a blur. Something about a mission. About another near disaster averted.

Falcon stands just behind Captain America, posture sharp, hands clasped loosely in front of him, expression serious but composed. His suit still bears the scuffs of combat, a faint tear along the armoured plating at his ribs. You wonder if it hurts. If he’s bleeding. If he even let anyone check.

A small huff leaves your lips before you can stop it.

You can’t remember the last time you saw him. Now, here he is again, on a screen in a hospital room, larger than life.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” You force a lighter tone, turning back to her, moving to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“You like superheroes, Maria?” you ask, forcing a lighter tone as you move to check her monitors. It’s unnecessary—you already did this when you came in—but it gives your hands something to do.

“I love superheroes,” she exclaims, voice full of unshakable certainty.

“Yeah?”

“Yes!”

She watches you closely, studying your face with a look that’s far too perceptive for someone her age. Then, after a beat—

“Who’s your favourite Avenger?”

You pretend to think about it. “Hmmm... I don’t know. Maybe... Hawkeye?”

Maria immediately groans, rolling her eyes so hard it nearly makes you laugh. “That’s so boring!” She throws her arms up in exasperation, nearly tugging her IV loose in the process.

“Hey, hey—“ you reach out, gently taking her hands, steadying her before she can do any real damage. “You’re really gonna judge me for that?”

“So boring,” she insists, her signature sass making an appearance. “My mom likes Thor because he has big muscles.”

You snort. “Wow. Okay. And what about you?”

Maria’s expression turns mischievous, blushing slightly as she glances back at the screen.

“The Falcon.”

The words land like a punch to the ribs.

You swallow hard, but the lump in your throat stays put. You should have seen it coming, the way she lit up at the sight of him on TV, but it still catches you off guard.

Because for Maria, it’s admiration.

For you, it’s something else entirely.

“He’s so cool,” you manage, your voice lighter than you feel. “I don’t think he’s an Avenger, though.”

Unless he is and you have missed that entire chapter of his life. A lot had happened in the last few years—you wouldn’t put it past him to just forget to mention something like that. Not that either of you were on speaking terms anyway.

Maria grins, a small, mischievous thing, and before you can move, she takes your hand in hers and presses something into your palm.

“Here.”

You glance down.

The bird.

You blink at the delicate folds of olive-green paper, the slight tilt of its wings. It’s small, fits perfectly in your hand, but somehow, it feels heavier than it should.

“You have it.”

You open your mouth—to tell her she should keep it, that it’s hers—but the words never leave your throat. The sincerity in her gaze keeps you quiet, so instead, you close your fingers carefully around the paper bird, holding it like something fragile.

“Thank you, Maria,” you say softly.

You still have the bird.

It sits on your nightstand even now, weeks later, its delicate folds untouched, a reminder of that small moment. Of Maria.

You hadn’t thought much about that conversation at the time. Maria’s gift had been sweet, and you had found it endearing—the kind of innocent kindness that children offered so easily.

It wasn’t every day you cared for someone so young in this hospital, and while that was a blessing, it didn’t make it any easier when that child was rolled in on a stretcher.

And it wasn’t until a week later that you remembered Maria’s words.

Not until you watched a familiar face get wheeled into the hospital.

You had heard about it first—on the news, in passing conversations between coworkers. Another mission. Another near-tragedy. Another casualty.

And then you saw it.

The frantic rush of bodies in the emergency bay. The whine of a helicopter’s rotor blades still echoing through the halls, rattling against the glass doors. The sharp, sterile scent of antiseptic burning your nose, mixing with the metallic tang of blood—so much blood, too much of it pooling beneath the stretcher, staining the floor, the sheets, the hands of every ER staff trying to keep him together.

Your coworkers moved fast, their voices sharp and urgent as they swarmed the broken, battered body like bees to a collapsing hive. You barely recognized him at first. His suit—scorched in places, torn in others—hung off him in tatters, the once-pristine armour dented and smeared with something dark.

His skin was pale—too pale.

His lips were slightly parted, chest rising and falling in short, uneven gasps like every breath cost him something.

The blur of medical jargon barely registered in your mind, words overlapping, breaking, reforming into pieces that didn’t quite fit together. But certain ones still made it through the haze, lodging themselves somewhere deep inside you, where they twisted like a knife.

“Heart palpitations—“

“Severe burns—“

“Broken arm—“

“Breath is weak—“

“We’re gonna need a defibrillator—“

“Won’t make it to the OR—“

Your heart stuttered.

You would’ve rather never seen Joaquín Torres again for the rest of your life than see him like this. Like that.

And after that, you were moving on autopilot.

The rest of the day blurred together, slipping through your fingers like sand. You went through the motions, nodding when spoken to, keeping your hands busy, but nothing really stuck. The only thing that did was time—how it crawled, stretched, and bled into itself.

One hour turned to two.

Two turned to four.

Four turned into a sharp, sickening pause.

You were just about to punch out for the night, car keys hanging loosely from your fingers when you heard it.

“His heart gave out. Medically dead for T-minus 30 seconds. Extra hands needed.”

You froze.

The words echoed, hollow and distant like they were being spoken underwater. A strange ringing had started in your ears. You weren’t sure if it was real or just something inside your own head—maybe both.

You had already been hesitant about leaving without checking in on him. You could’ve gone in. You had clearance. But you didn’t.

And now?

Now, you were hearing his heart gave out?

Your mind ran ahead of you, filling in the gaps before you could stop it—could almost hear the faint, dull whine of the machines, the inevitable, lifeless flatline.

The surgeon calling out the time of death.

Your own heart lurched violently in your chest.

Your feet were moving before you even made the decision, carrying you faster than you thought possible. You nearly crashed into the doors of the emergency wing, swiping your card into the OR viewing room, stumbling into the dimly lit space. Your breath came short, choppy, your pulse hammering in your ears.

Your eyes locked onto the glass.

And then—

“Clear!”

Joaquín’s body jerked violently, his back arching off the table before collapsing again.

From where you stood, you couldn’t see or hear the monitor. Couldn’t tell if there was a beat or if it was still that awful, empty silence.

“Clear!”

His body seized again, limbs convulsing before falling limp.

You flinched, a breath hitching painfully somewhere inside you.

The panic clawing up your ribs only loosened when you saw the doctors start to relax, their frantic movements easing back into precision. You watched, rooted to the spot, as they worked—saw the ventilator strapped tightly around Joaquín’s face, the way they were cutting into him, the deep burns covering his side.

But it didn’t feel like him.

He looked dead.

He looked so, so dead.

Your fingers dug into the ledge of the viewing window, knuckles white.

And suddenly you can remember the last time you saw him. A memory that grabs you like a vice.

He was so alive, and he was crying.

His eyes were red and bloodshot, but he wasn’t making a sound. Just staring at you, jaw clenched so tight you swore you could hear his teeth grind. His hands—warm, steady even in their trembling—gripped yours, his touch so familiar, so safe. His fingers curled around your palms like he could keep you here just by holding on tight enough. Like if he let go, he knew he would never get to touch you again.

His skin burned beneath your fingertips.

Like home.

But the warmth of him, the heat of his touch, it didn’t reach his eyes. And you knew—God, you knew—this was the last time.

The ring that sat on your finger was like a wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding.

You hadn’t even noticed the way your breath had started to shake, the way your shoulders had drawn in like you could shield yourself from what was coming. The weight of his forehead pressing against yours was the only thing keeping you grounded, the rise and fall of his chest meeting yours in a rhythm that was almost enough to trick you into believing, for just a second, that nothing had to change.

And then he pulled away.

It was slow like he was giving you time to stop him. Like he wanted you to stop him.

But neither of you moved.

His fingers ghosted over your left hand, tracing over the ring like he was committing the shape of it to memory. You swore his breath hitched when he touched it, but he didn’t hesitate. Not when he curled his fingers around the band. Not when he gave the gentlest, barely-there tug.

The metal slipped from your skin.

The absence was instant. A phantom weight. A missing limb.

Your breath stilled.

He turned it over in his palm once, twice, before slipping it into his pocket, the movement almost absentminded. Like he wasn’t crumbling apart inside. Like he wasn’t shattering this thing between you both with his own two hands.

And then you kissed him. And he kissed you back.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was desperate. A broken thing—raw, aching, more plea than passion. His lips pressed to yours with the kind of hunger that tasted like regret, like grief, like goodbye. There was no hesitation when his fingers slid up to cradle your jaw, no distance between your bodies when he pulled you in, chests flush, like he was trying to fuse himself to you, trying to rewrite the ending of this moment with the press of his lips alone.

You tasted the salt of tears.

Yours or his, you couldn’t tell.

You felt his hands tremble when they skimmed over your skin. It hurt—fuck, it hurt—the way you knew neither of you wanted to pull away, but you would. You had to.

But you stayed. For a minute. For a breath. Lips lingering, foreheads pressed together, hands gripping tighter even as the seconds slipped away from you both.

He was the first to move.

The absence of his lips was instant—a cold, hollow thing. But he didn’t pull away entirely, not yet. His nose brushed against yours, his fingers curled at the back of your neck, like if he could just stay here for another second, one more second, maybe none of this had to be real.

Then, finally, painfully, he let go.

That kiss was one that lingered, burned, long after he was gone.

He was alive then. And so were you.

But when the door shut, a part of you had died.

And watching his body, motionless on that operating table, you thought maybe a part of him had, too.

It was hard to grieve someone who had never died.

You don’t realize how long you’ve been standing there, staring through the glass, until someone says your name.

Your body jolts, and when you spin around, you're surprised to find Sam Wilson standing a few feet away. His voice had been steady, but his eyes—God, his eyes—heavy with something unspoken, something worn. You wonder how long he’s been there. You think it must’ve been a while, judging by the exhaustion shadowing his face. The bags under his eyes aren’t just from one night of lost sleep.

You’ve met him plenty of times before—hell, you’ve had dinner with the guy on multiple occasions—but something about seeing him now, here, leaves you speechless. Maybe it’s because he’s not just Sam. He’s Captain America, the man Joaquín idolized. And he looks... helpless.

You feel your entire body tense. “Sir—“ Your voice cracks at the word, and you hate it.

Sam exhales, long and slow. “I was gonna call. I mean, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re still the kid’s emergency contact.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I just... I didn’t know what terms you guys were on. I know the breakup was pretty bad and...” He trails off, looking at you like he’s bracing for impact. “I didn’t know if you’d show up.”

“I…” You swallow thickly. You should say something. Anything. But you don’t know how to find the words.

“Were you working?”

You glance down at your scrubs as if you need to confirm it. “Yeah... I just... I heard about his heart, um... how long was he...?”

Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to say it. But he does. “Two minutes.”

You suck in a breath, sharp and cold, and instinctively look back through the glass. Joaquín is still now, the chaos momentarily subdued. He’s always been restless, always in motion, a man who never seemed to sit still to save his life. And now he’s just... lying there. You feel nauseous.

You don’t know what to say. You think Sam doesn’t either.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is hoarse. “I’m sorry. For Joaquín. I never meant for this to happen. I’m always telling him to be more careful, but you know how he is—”

Do you?

You don’t know how much someone can change in the time you and Joaquín have been apart. You think you still know him. You remember how he used to be—stubborn, hard-headed. Kind, too. Always quick with a response, always teasing. Always warm.

You don’t think you’re remembering him the way Sam asks you to.

“Um... sorry.” You blink, realizing how long you’ve been zoning out. You should say something more. Something meaningful. But your throat is tight, and your hands shake at your sides. Sam looks just as lost as you feel.

“Fuck, sorry,” you mutter, rubbing at your face. “Are you okay?”

Sam blinks. He looks genuinely surprised by the question. “Am I—? Are you okay?”

You nod too fast, stuffing your hands into your back pockets. The heart monitor beeps steadily in the background, grounding you in the moment. “Yeah, I just… You were out there too. Did you get hit? I can check for a concussion.”

Sam says your name, and the way he says it—soft, sad—makes your lip quiver. When he steps forward, you don’t resist. You meet him in the middle, letting him wrap his arms around you, his warmth solid and steady. You tuck your face into his chest, only realizing you’ve been crying when you see the darkened patches on his shirt. He smells like coffee, and—funnily enough—a little bit like Joaquín.

“I’m sorry, kid.” His voice is tight, thick. Like he’s been holding back his own grief for too long.

You hum under his hold. “It’s not your fault,” you say because you think it’s what he needs to hear. You don’t know what happened out there, don’t know who made what call, but Sam relaxes just a fraction at your words. You hug him back.

The hours bleed together after that. You sit with Sam in the waiting area, watching the surgery unfold from a distance. Neither of you leave for long—only to grab coffee, maybe splash cold water on your face—but you don’t sleep. Sam doesn’t either, even when you suggest it. He stays rooted to his chair, jaw clenched, watching the clock.

He doesn’t move until the surgery is almost finished, until the surgeon is finally stitching up Joaquín.

And even then, he stays put.

So do you.

It’s nice, in a way, sitting in this heavy, aching silence. You don’t know what you would’ve done if Sam wasn’t here. You don’t know what he would’ve done if you weren’t.

Sam seems to relax even more when a friend of his shows up—Bucky. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him in person before, but you recognize the way Sam’s shoulders loosen just slightly like something fragile inside him can take a break. Bucky nods at you, then at Sam, and without a word, he takes a seat next to him.

You don’t say anything either.

Because you don’t need to.

For the first time in hours, Sam exhales like he’s not carrying the world on his shoulders.

You leave only when he urges you to, though it takes less than a minute after Joaquín is sent out for recovery.

You barely remember the drive home. The world outside the hospital blurs past in streaks of streetlights and empty roads, your hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. Every red light feels longer than it should, every breath harder to take. By the time you step inside your apartment, exhaustion settles in your bones, but sleep never truly comes. You close your eyes and see glimpses of him—Joaquín on the operating table, still and silent in a way he never should be.

You wake up before the sun rises, restless, your body aching with the kind of fatigue that sleep can’t fix.

By the time you return to the hospital, it’s at a strange hour—too early for the day shift, too late for the night crew. The hospital is caught in that eerie in-between where the halls are too quiet, where the few people still moving about do so in hushed voices. The fluorescent lights overhead hum, stark and artificial against the pale blue of the walls.

You’re running on espresso shots and the growing pit in your stomach, a weight that presses heavier with every step.

Joaquín is here. You know that. You have known that for almost twenty-four hours now.

But the thought still makes your hands cold. It was easier when you didn’t know what State he was in, or what he was doing—if he was even in the country.

You don’t let yourself think too much about it. You go through the motions, moving from patient to patient, checking vitals, signing off charts, trying to push through the fog in your mind. It almost works—almost—until you step out of Maria’s room and spot Amanda, the Chief Nursing Officer, walking toward you.

She smiles, clipboard tucked under her arm, but there’s something in the way she looks at you. Something unreadable.

You can already feel the dread start to wrap itself around your ribs.

“Hey, how’s it going?” she asks, falling into step beside you.

“Good,” you reply automatically. “What’s up?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she takes your tablet, her fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long. You furrow your brows, taking it from her, but your stomach twists at the hesitance in her gaze.

“There’s been a bit of a change,” she finally says. “Kit’s taking over Nicholas now.”

That makes you pause.

You've been taking care of Nicholas for a little over a month, an older man who came back from the blip different, well… different was a nice way to put it.

“Oh?”

Amanda nods, opening a new file on your screen before watching you closely. “Here,” she says, passing you the updated patient file. “Your new assignment.”

You take the tablet, adjusting your grip as you glance down at the screen—only to feel the air sucked from your lungs.

Captain Joaquín Torres.

The name alone makes your heart lurch, when did he become a captain? But then your eyes drop to the image beneath it.

You freeze.

Joaquín, unconscious. His skin is bruised, his face pale under the harsh lighting of the hospital room. The ventilator is taped to his mouth, bandages covering his side where the burns must be. He looks… wrong.

Your stomach turns.

“Um.” You barely recognize your own voice. “I don’t think I can take this one.”

Amanda’s brows knit together. “Why not?”

“It’s…” You swallow, suddenly hyperaware of how dry your throat feels. “It’s a personal case.”

“I know.”

That makes you look up, and when you do, Amanda is already watching you with that same careful expression—understanding, but unwavering. “That’s why I’m assigning it to you,” she says, soft but firm.

You stare at her, trying to process the words.

“Familiar faces help in recovery,” Amanda says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Waking up to someone he knows might do him some good.”

Your grip tightens around the tablet, fingers pressing into the smooth surface as your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Not everyone gets shot out of the sky by the military and lives to tell the tale.”

She’s right. You know she’s right.

But Joaquín isn’t just anyone.

And it’s been a long time since you’ve been a familiar face.

Would he even want to wake up to you?

You don’t ask that. You don’t let yourself. Instead, you swallow around the knot in your throat and force a nod. “Okay.”

Amanda watches you for a moment, searching your face like she can see everything you’re trying to hide. Then, she squeezes your shoulder, her touch warm and grounding. “You got this.”

You wish you believed her.

You suck in your pride as Amanda walks away and your fingers tighten around the tablet as you glance down at Joaquín’s medical file, his name printed in bold letters at the top. You already know his blood type, his medical history, his baseline vitals—things you shouldn’t still remember but do anyway. It feels strange seeing them laid out so clinically like he’s just another patient.

Your thumb swipes down the screen, scanning through his injuries. Severe burns on the left side of his torso. A broken radius and a fractured humerus on his right arm. The notes estimate he’ll be unconscious for a few more days, maybe a week at most. The doctors don’t think it’ll be a long coma.

He might wake up anytime.

Your stomach twists.

The live security feed on the tablet shows a grainy, black-and-white image of him, still and silent in the hospital bed, wrapped in layers of bandages and hooked up to machines that beep in steady intervals. The sight of him like this, unmoving, is almost more unsettling than the injuries themselves.

The elevator ride to his floor feels endless, but when the doors finally slide open, the hallway ahead stretches on like something out of a dream—too long, too empty, too quiet. The soft hum of fluorescent lights overhead fills the silence, and your shoes barely make a sound against the polished tile.

You’ve never hesitated like this before. No patient has ever made your heart pound this hard before you’ve even stepped into their room.

You stop in front of the door, your ID card clutched tight between your fingers.

He is hurt, you remind yourself. A wounded soldier. He needs care. That’s all this is. Just do your job.

Your hand trembles slightly as you swipe your card for clearance, and for a second, your eyes flicker down—out of habit, maybe—toward your left hand. The ring is gone. Has been for a long time.

You press your lips together and push the door open.

The room smells like antiseptic and fresh flowers.

Your eyes find him instantly.

He’s barely recognizable beneath the layers of medical care—IV lines, gauze, the rigid brace securing his arm. But it’s still him. His curls have grown out, the longer strands curling over his forehead, though the sides are still neatly trimmed. His face is slack with unconsciousness, lips parted slightly as he breathes in slow, measured rhythms.

There’s already a small collection of bouquets on the bedside table, a mix of bright yellows and deep reds—he always liked bold colours. You know more will come, especially once his mother finds out what happened. You pity whoever has to make that phone call.

Your pulse is loud in your ears as you move toward the sink, washing your hands on autopilot before slipping on a pair of gloves. The scent of hospital soap clings to your skin even beneath the latex.

You set the tablet down and step to his bedside, the weight in your chest settling heavier now that you’re standing this close. You can see the damage now. The discoloration where the burns peak through the bandages, the bruises blooming beneath his skin. His arm rests stiffly in its brace, fingers curled loosely at his side.

You hesitate before touching him.

Then, with careful hands, you reach for the hem of his hospital gown, lifting it just enough to expose the bandages on his torso. The dressings are damp, already beginning to seep through.

Too gentle.

You’re taking too long, moving too carefully. This should be routine—cleaning, reapplying, monitoring for infection. But your hands linger a second too long over his skin, your fingers ghosting over the edge of a bandage before you force yourself to focus.

You work in silence, methodical but deliberate, peeling away the old dressings and replacing them with fresh ones. His chest rises and falls steadily beneath your hands, the only sign of life in his otherwise motionless body.

When you finish, you pull the blanket up to his chest, tucking it carefully around him.

You don’t leave right away.

You should. You have other patients to see, and other rounds to make. But you linger for a moment longer, just watching him.

Being here—being this close—feels like stepping into something half-forgotten. Something you’re not sure you’re ready to remember.

With a quiet exhale, you turn away, stripping off your gloves and tossing them in the bin before grabbing the tablet again.

This is just a job.

And you have work to do.

The next few days slip into a pattern—one you follow carefully, almost methodically, because routine is easier than thinking too much.

Joaquín remains unconscious, but his condition improves. You can see it in the subtle things: the way his breathing becomes steadier, how his colour starts to return beneath the bruising, how the tension in his features eases little by little. His body is still healing, but it’s doing what it’s supposed to—recovering, piece by piece.

Somewhere along the way, his mother and grandmother are flown in.

You make sure you’re nowhere near the hospital that day. You tell yourself it’s because you need the rest, that you’ve been pulling extra shifts, that you could use the break. But you know the truth.

You aren’t ready to face them.

You can barely bring yourself to stand in the same room as Joaquín, let alone look his mother in the eye. She always had a way of seeing right through you, of reading between the lines of what you said and what you didn’t. You don’t want to know what she’d find if she looked too closely now.

So you take a sick day. You ignore the tight feeling in your chest when you imagine them sitting at his bedside, his mother smoothing down his curls, his grandmother murmuring quiet prayers over him. You wonder if she blames you. If she thinks you should’ve been there when it happened. If she wonders why you’re here now, after all this time.

But you don’t ask. You don’t want the answer.

The next morning, when you step back into Joaquín’s room, there are more flowers.

The table beside his bed is overflowing now—bouquets of sunflowers, carnations, lilies, roses in every colour. Some are from coworkers, others from people you don’t recognize. A small card tucked between them catches your eye. You don’t pick it up, but you already know who it’s from.

His mother’s handwriting is easy to recognize.

A fresh wave of guilt washes over you, but you push it aside. You busy yourself with checking his IV, adjusting his blankets, making sure everything is in order. The steady beep of the heart monitor is the only sound in the room, save for the occasional rustling of flower petals when a breeze drifts through the open window.

Sam visits often.

He comes at random hours, able to bypass the strict visiting times the hospital has set up, sometimes lingering for only twenty minutes, sometimes staying for hours at a time. You catch glimpses of him in the security feed before you even enter the room—his tall frame slouched in the chair beside Joaquín’s bed, one ankle resting on his knee as he flips through a book.

He plays music sometimes, a quiet hum of familiar songs drifting through the room. You recognize the playlist—the same one Joaquín used to blast while working late, the one he’d force you to listen to whenever he got too excited about a new artist. It’s a mix of genres, the kind that shouldn’t work together but somehow do.

You pretend you don’t notice the way Sam watches you when you walk in, his eyes lingering like he’s waiting for you to say something. But he never pushes. He just nods, sometimes offering a small update about Joaquín’s family or a passing comment about work before settling back into his chair.

Neither of you talk about the fact that Joaquín still hasn’t woken up.

Instead, you go through the motions.

His burns are healing faster than you expected. The bandages come off, revealing raw, pink skin that will take time to fade. His arm is no longer suspended from the ceiling, the rigid brace replaced with a looser sling. His body is catching up with itself, putting itself back together the way it always does.

You try to keep the windows open as the sun sets later and the spring weather gets warmer, letting the sun come into the room. You hope it might bring back that golden tan to his skin.

The air in his room changes as the days go by. The tension shifts—subtle, but there.

The sun sets later now, casting golden light through the blinds in the evenings. You start leaving the windows cracked open, letting the spring breeze filter in, replacing the sterile scent of antiseptic with something softer.

It makes the room feel less like a hospital and more like something else. Something warmer.

But warmth can be deceptive.

Because the closer he gets to waking up, the more real this all becomes.

And you still don’t know what’s going to happen when he finally opens his eyes.

One day, while cleaning his burns, you notice something—something small, but enough to make your breath hitch.

The heart monitor.

The steady rhythm you’ve grown so used to suddenly shifts—just a faint change, barely noticeable, but it’s there. You freeze, your gloved hands hovering over his burned skin, waiting to see if it happens again. The beeping stabilizes after a moment, falling back into its familiar, constant pattern.

You swallow hard, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Maybe it was nothing. A fluke. You’ve seen it happen before—small involuntary fluctuations that don’t mean anything. You force yourself to shake it off, to keep going.

But the moment your hands brush against his skin again, the heart monitor spikes.

This time, you see it. The sudden jump, the erratic beep, the undeniable reaction.

You pull back immediately, like you’ve been singed. Your heart lurches, panic flashing through you because—did you hurt him?

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan his face, searching for any sign of pain. His expression doesn’t change. His eyes remain closed, his body still. But the numbers on the monitor flicker with every beat of his heart, betraying what his body won’t show.

And then it hits you.

He feels it.

He’s not just lying there, unaware of the world around him. His body is reacting. It means he’s drifting, slipping from unconsciousness, slowly clawing his way back to waking.

Your chest tightens.

This is what you’ve been waiting for. What you should want.

You should be relieved.

But you’re not.

Because for all the times you’ve wished he’d open his eyes, you never stopped to think about what it would mean when he finally did.

What if the first thing he sees is you?

What if he looks at you and all you find in his face is resentment?

What if he asks why you’re here? Why you even bothered?

Your breath catches in your throat, torn between anticipation and fear. Your fingers curl into your palms, gloves crinkling under the pressure. You wait, holding yourself still, eyes locked on his face, waiting for the inevitable flutter of his eyelids, the slow, unfocused squint as he adjusts to the light.

But it never comes.

His breathing stays even, his lashes unmoving, his expression unchanging. His body is stirring, but his mind isn’t ready yet.

Your hands feel cold.

You force yourself to take a step back, creating distance—just in case. You reach for the tablet to record the change in his vitals, trying to make sense of what just happened, of what almost happened.

You practically jump out of your skin when a voice cuts through the hallway, sharp and frantic.

“¡Mija!”

Before you even see her, you feel her—Esperanza’s presence sweeping toward you like a storm, her heels clicking against the tile. The next thing you know, you’re wrapped in her arms, your face pressed against the soft fabric of her floral blouse, caught in a hug so tight it knocks the breath out of you.

“Mi amor, ¿cómo andas?” she asks, her voice thick with worry and affection.

You barely have a chance to respond, still stunned by the unexpected embrace. She smells the same—warm vanilla and roses, a scent so deeply tied to holiday dinners that it nearly knocks you off balance.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t let you go completely. Her hands clasp yours, fingers curling over your knuckles like she’s afraid to let you slip away again.

“Esperanza,” you manage, breathless.

Her eyes shine with unshed tears, her lips pulling into a grin so familiar it makes your chest ache.

“What are you doing here? Visitors can’t be here for another hour,” you point out, grasping for something—anything—to ground yourself.

She waves a dismissive hand, scoffing like the very idea is ridiculous. “Ay, enough with that,” she chides. “When has that ever stopped me?”

And then she stops. Really looks at you.

Her expression softens, and suddenly, you're under a gaze so warm it makes your throat tighten.

“Wow, look at you, my dear. Hermosa,” she murmurs, shaking her head like she can’t believe it’s really you standing in front of her.

You let out a small, breathy laugh, flustered. “I look like a mess,” you correct, glancing down at yourself. You’re in scrubs, nearing the end of a long shift, and you know you must look exhausted. Especially after dealing with Maria throwing up glowing vomit all over you earlier today. There’s no way you look anything close to hermosa.

But Esperanza just smiles knowingly, squeezing your hands once before tugging you toward the chairs lining the hallway. She sits down, keeping her grip on you like she’s afraid you might disappear through her fingers if she lets go.

You follow, hesitating only slightly before settling into the seat beside her.

"It’s been so long," she says, her brows furrowing with something between disappointment and relief. "You haven’t called in months. I thought you were sick! Do you hate me?"

"I could never hate you," you say quickly, shaking your head, a little horrified she would ever think that.

And then she smacks your arm.

"Then why haven’t you answered my calls?" she scolds, her voice laced with exasperation. "Your mother tells me you moved away and what? I don’t hear a word from you?"

You blink. Your mind stutters at the revelation.

"Wait—" you pause, trying to piece it together. "My mom… and you? You’ve been talking?"

Esperanza gives you a look, like it should be obvious. "Of course," she huffs. "What, you thought just because you and Quino broke up, I was going to stop talking to my comadre?" She rolls her eyes like the very idea is ridiculous. "Por favor."

Your mouth goes dry.

Your mother and Joaquin’s mother—keeping in touch this entire time. Behind your back. Talking about you, probably about him, too.

Your stomach churns, and suddenly, there’s something heavy pressing against your ribs.

You open your mouth, but she’s already shaking her head.

"Oh, lo sé," she sighs, exasperated. "The dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. If it were up to me, you two would’ve been married by now. Given me a grandchild, too."

Your laugh comes out a little too flustered, a little too forced. You glance around the hallway, avoiding her gaze, trying to ignore the way your heart wrings at the thought.

"Yeah," you mutter because you don’t know what else to say.

Esperanza exhales, her posture softening. She lets go of one of your hands just to reach up and brush your hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with the same gentle touch Joaquín used to.

The same way he always did when you were talking too much, or overthinking, or when he just wanted an excuse to touch you.

You let out a long, quiet sigh, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.

It’s too much.

Too much familiarity, too much of your old life creeping back in all at once. You don’t think you’ve gotten enough sleep to process any of it properly.

"Mija," she murmurs, her voice softer now, more careful. "I don’t care whether you and Quino are together or not. I loved having you around. I still want to have our little chats. You are like one of my own. And when he told me you broke up, I just…" she shakes her head, pressing her lips together like she doesn’t want to say it. "I hate that it took him getting hurt for us to talk again."

"Esperanza…" you start, but she just shakes her head again.

"I know, I know. Perdóname," she says, waving it off as she stands up. She smooths down the front of her dress and sighs. "It’s so good to see you again, mi amor. You keep taking good care of my son. I’ll be in the city for another week, so please—call me. Maybe we can get coffee."

Before you can respond, she scans her visitor’s pass on the key panel and walks into Joaquín’s room, disappearing behind the door without another word.

But she leaves the question hanging in the air, thick with nostalgia and something painfully close to longing.

And she leaves the scent of rosy perfume lingering in her wake.

You stare at the closed door, your heart thudding unevenly in your chest.

You should go. You need to go—your tablet is already beeping, pulling you back to reality, reminding you that there are other patients who need you, that there’s a crisis waiting for you three flights down.

Still, you hesitate for just a second longer, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat before finally turning away.

There’s no time to process this right now.

But you have a feeling that, no matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to shake this conversation anytime soon.

Maria’s hand grips the IV pole tightly, her small fingers curling around the metal as she rolls it beside her, careful not to let the wheels catch on the tile. The fluorescent hospital lights cast a soft glow over her—too pale against her skin, too sterile—but despite it all, she beams.

You’ve never seen someone so excited just to walk.

But today is special. It’s her birthday.

She didn’t ask for much—just this. A chance to stretch her legs, to be somewhere other than her hospital room. Her parents had begged you to keep her busy while they decorated, slipping streamers and balloons inside the room like they could somehow make up for lost time.

Maria hadn’t argued. She had just grinned up at you when you asked if she wanted to go outside.

Now, she’s practically glowing, her feet sinking into the grass as you lead her through the small hospital garden.

She tips her head back, eyes fluttering closed as the breeze ruffles her hospital gown, lifting strands of hair from her shoulders. Pink cherry blossoms sway on the branches above, petals drifting onto the ground like delicate confetti.

"Did you know cherry blossoms only bloom for a few weeks?" you tell her.

Maria gasps. "Really?"

"Yep. It’s called hanami in Japan. People go outside just to watch them bloom."

Her eyes widen in pure delight. "That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. They should be watched. They’re so pretty."

You smile. "Yeah, they are."

For a moment, she just stands there, soaking it in. And you let her.

It’s one of those rare times when she doesn’t look like a patient. No tubes, no machines, no sterile smell of antiseptic—just a kid. A kid enjoying the sun, the air, the simple beauty of something fleeting.

She sighs, finally pulling herself away. "Okay. I’m ready to go back in."

"Are you sure?"

She nods. "Yeah. I don’t wanna get in trouble for being outside too long. It’s my birthday, but I think Nurse Kate would still yell at me."

"Yeah, probably," you say with a chuckle.

The hospital halls are quieter than usual, the usual hum of voices and distant beeping fading into soft background noise. Maria walks beside you, still clinging to her IV pole but with a bit more confidence in her steps.

She doesn’t drag her feet anymore. That’s new.

Her body is stronger than it was weeks ago—no more trembling hands, no more laboured breathing after short walks. It’s a victory, even if it’s small.

Maria suddenly gasps, gripping your arm and her feet skid against the floor. You barely have time to react before she jerks to a halt, her entire body going rigid, eyes locked on something ahead.

Her mouth falls open.

"The Falcon?!"

Your stomach drops.

"Maria—"

"The Falcon is here?!"

Before you can stop her, she takes off, darting toward the digital display outside one of the hospital rooms. The screen flickers with patient information, vitals, and medication logs—

Torres, Joaquín

Maria’s hands slap over her mouth. "Oh my God."

"Maria," you warn, but she’s already clambering onto one of the chairs lined against the wall, pressing her face to the glass window beside the door.

"Oh my God! It's him! It's really him!" She whirls around, panic-stricken. "Is he dead?"

You lurch forward. "What? No." Your hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her before she tips over. "He’s just sleeping."

"Can I go say hi?"

"No."

"It’s my birthday."

"Maria—"

"Please!"

You close your eyes, inhaling slowly.

This was not in your job description.

You glance at the window, frowning. You weren't supposed to let anyone into a patient’s room unless they were authorized. Especially not another patient. There were rules. Strict ones. The last thing you needed was for someone to get sick, for someone to get hurt, for someone to wake Joaquín up before he was ready—

But then you look at Maria.

She’s practically vibrating with excitement, hands clasped tightly like she’s holding back from bouncing on her toes—the youngest patient in the entire building. Wide-eyed and full of wonder, she’s looking at Joaquín because he’s a real-life superhero, someone she’s only ever seen in headlines and shaky phone recordings.

And Joaquín… Joaquín loves kids.

He always has.

You’ve seen it firsthand—the way he kneels when he talks to them, the way his face lights up whenever he makes one laugh, the way he always offers high-fives like it’s second nature. Even now, even unconscious, the thought of him being the reason behind Maria’s uncontainable joy tugs at something deep in your chest.

It feels like something he would want.

And maybe… maybe this is okay. Maybe this is good—a reminder that people out there care about him, even the ones who have never met him.

Still, you hesitate.

You’re comfortable taking care of him now.

Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

No more denial. No more excuses. No more pretending that seeing him like this—unmoving, caught somewhere between here and wherever his mind has drifted—doesn’t scare the hell out of you. You’ve accepted that you miss him, that you still... care for him, even after everything. But stepping into that room again—with Maria, of all people—feels like a step toward something you’re not sure you’re ready to face.

Because Joaquín is here. So close. Close enough to reach out and touch, to whisper his name and wait for that slow, teasing smile to appear—the one he always gave you when you were being too serious. Close enough that you should feel relieved.

But he’s also impossibly far.

No teasing smiles. No dumb jokes. No knowing looks from across the room. Not even anger of having you near. Just silence. Just the faint rise and fall of his chest, the machines working to keep him stable.

For days, you’ve watched him. Sat beside him. Checked his vitals. Changed his bandages. Waited.

But then Maria looks up at you, eyes round and pleading.

"Okay," you exhale, already regretting it. "But you have to be really quiet so he doesn’t wake up, okay?"

She nods, lowering her voice, "Okay."

Maria is practically bouncing with excitement as you swipe your keycard and push open the door. Sunlight spills in through the half-drawn blinds, cutting warm streaks across the floor, across Joaquín’s blankets, across his still form. The midday hum of the hospital filters in from the hallway, muffled but present. The steady beeping of the monitors tracks his heart rate, a slow, even rhythm, while the IV beside him feeds a clear solution into his veins.

Maria tiptoes inside like she’s afraid of disturbing something sacred.

You don’t blame her.

Because up close, he looks even more unreachable. The bruises along his temple have faded from deep purple to a softer yellow-red, but the cuts on his face are healing. His lips are chapped. His hair is messy against the pillow, a sharp contrast to how put-together you remember him.

You move—more out of instinct than anything—because lingering in the doorway makes it worse. The small cart beside his bed is stocked with fresh bandages, antiseptic, gauze—everything you’ve used to help keep his wounds clean these past few weeks. Without thinking, you pick up his chart because you've forgotten your tablet, scanning the latest notes, his most recent vitals. Stable. No new concerns. No change.

Maria whispers something, but you don’t catch it.

You blink, glancing at her. "What?"

She’s staring at Joaquín, her small hands gripping the edge of his blanket like she’s afraid to touch him, but wants to.

“He’s even prettier up close,” she breathes.

Despite yourself, you smile. "Yeah? You think so?"

She nods seriously.

There’s something achingly familiar about the way she looks at him—like she’s trying to memorize him, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she blinks.

You know that feeling.

Because you’ve caught yourself staring at him the exact same way.

Like if you look long enough, you might commit him to memory all over again. Like you can make up for the lost time, for the time that has slipped through your fingers. You study him—not just the broad strokes of him, not just the familiarity of his face, but every little thing you’d forgotten during your time apart, the things that had slipped from your mind.

There is a faint stubble that’s started to grow along his jaw. And now you notice little moles dotting his skin, scattered in ways you don’t recognize from your memories or dreams of him—they were always focused on the bigger picture, the way he smiled, the way he laughed, the way he loved you.

Now, it’s the details that root you to the present.

The soft rise and fall of his chest beneath the hospital blanket. The steady hum of the monitors. The warmth of his skin when you reach out, pressing two fingers to his wrist, feeling the familiar, comforting rhythm of his pulse beneath your touch.

You check his vitals—his heart rate is stable, his oxygen levels are good, and his IV fluids are running properly.

Maria exhales softly, still watching him, her voice quiet as a breath.

"I think he’s gonna be okay."

You let out a slow, measured breath, your thumb grazing over the back of Joaquín’s hand—just for a second, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Me too."

It’s enough. For now.

Your fingers slip away from his, the warmth vanishing almost instantly, and you start to usher Maria back toward the door. But as you move, something shifts—so small, so quick, you almost think you imagined it.

Joaquín’s fingers twitch at his side, just as yours leave his.

Your heart stutters.

A rush of warmth blooms in your chest, something fragile and desperate, something that wants to hope, to believe that it means something. That he felt it.

Swallowing, you make a quick note on his chart, recording the small movement even though it could be nothing.

Even though it could be everything.

You exhale, trying to ground yourself, trying to shake off the way your heart is pounding now, loud and heavy in your ears. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Maria tugs at your sleeve, glancing up at you, her own expression somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

You force yourself to move. To turn away. To guide her toward the door, because whatever flicker of hope just sparked inside you is too fragile to hold.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Faint. Hoarse from weeks of silence.

Your name.

Spoken.

Maria gasps softly.

And you—you freeze.

The breath leaves your lungs in a sharp, startled exhale, and your fingers go rigid against the door handle. A slow, involuntary shiver runs down your spine, your pulse hammering against your ribs.

Did you imagine it?

You must have.

But then you feel it—Maria’s small fingers wrapping tightly around your hand, clutching at you with quiet urgency.

Because she heard it too.

Your name. A whisper, raw and barely there, but there.

And it came from him.

Joaquín.

The hospital room feels smaller now, charged with something delicate and terrifying all at once. The air thickens, pressing against your chest as you slowly—slowly—turn around, terrified that if you look, it’ll be gone.

That it was just a trick of your desperate mind.

But it’s not.

Because Joaquín’s fingers twitch again.

His brow furrows, lips parting slightly, throat working as he struggles to form a sound, his voice raw and unfamiliar after so many days of silence.

Maria gasps, gripping your sleeve, her excitement barely contained, but you don’t register it.

Because Joaquín’s eyes are fluttering open.

For a moment, he stares blankly at the ceiling, his chest rising in a shallow, uneven breath. His body remains rigid, like his muscles haven’t caught up with the fact that he’s conscious. There’s no immediate recognition in his gaze—just a hazy sort of confusion, as if he’s somewhere else entirely.

Then, he moves.

His fingers twitch against the sheets, then curl. His breath hitches. The faint beeping of the heart monitor quickens. His body tenses, his shoulders pulling in as if bracing for impact.

His gaze shifts—and lands on you.

The second your face comes into focus, his entire body jerks.

A sharp, ragged inhale drags through his chest. His pupils constrict. His hand flinches at his side, like he wants to reach for something—like he’s searching for something solid.

His breathing changes. It’s not just uneven anymore—it’s too fast, too shallow. The rise and fall of his chest is quick, erratic, his ribs barely expanding with each breath.

Then, a whisper, barely a breath—words spilling from his lips before he even realizes he’s speaking.

"Me morí."

The words repeat, over and over, almost like a prayer.

"Me morí. Me morí. Me morí."

His voice trembles. His fingers fist the blanket. Tears well in his eyes and slip down his temples, silent, unchecked.

Your heart lurches.

You move instinctively, stepping closer, hands steady even as your pulse pounds in your ears.

"Hey, hey," you soothe, voice low and careful, placing a gentle hand on his good shoulder. "It’s okay. You’re safe."

Joaquín flinches at the touch, his muscles twitching beneath your fingers. His head turns slightly, his gaze darting, frantic, searching—taking in the room, the medical equipment, the IV in his arm. You can tell his body wants to move, to fight, to run, military instincts kicking in. But he’s still weak, his limbs heavy, uncooperative.

His pulse pounds beneath your fingertips. Too fast. His whole body is reacting before his mind can catch up.

"Joaquín." You keep your voice steady, careful, like speaking too loudly might shatter him completely. "Can you hear me?"

His gaze snaps back to you.

Something flickers in his expression. Recognition.

His chest is still rising and falling too quickly, his hands still tremble against the sheets, but his shoulders drop just barely. Some of the tension bleeds away.

His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. His throat works through the effort.

Then, at last, a hoarse, broken whisper.

"Hi."

Your breath catches.

Your fingers twitch against his shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding you as much as you hope you’re grounding him. You press your palm there just a little longer, just to reassure yourself he’s real, that he’s awake.

"Hi," you whisper back.

His lashes flutter as he blinks at you, slow and deliberate, his eyes still wet with tears. Still searching. His gaze drifts over your face like he’s trying to map every detail back into his memory.

Like he’s afraid you might disappear.

"Hi," he says again, quieter this time.

Your chest tightens, a lump forming in your throat.

"Hi, Joaquín."

A slow, trembling exhale leaves his lips. His body sags into the pillow, exhaustion catching up to him all at once. His fingers unclench from the blanket, the tension in his muscles fading—but not entirely.

Because when you start to let go, when your fingers begin to lift from his shoulder, he twitches beneath your touch.

The hesitation is so subtle that you almost miss it—almost.

A flicker of something crosses his face, something unspoken, something aching. You worry he's hurting.

It reminds you of another time, a different moment in a different place. Years ago, Joaquín slouched in the passenger seat of your car, showing you his newly earned stitches after getting beat up by a Flag-Smasher, laughing through the pain while you frowned.

"You gotta stop scaring me like this."

"I’m trying, I swear."

You remember the way his eyes had softened in the dim streetlight, the way he had looked at you then. The way he kissed you to take your mind off of his pain—how neither of you had wanted to let go.

And now—now, as your fingers hover over his shoulder, as he doesn’t look away—it feels exactly the same.

Only this time he can't kiss you.

Only this time you can't wipe his tears away.

You force yourself to pull back, to let your fingers drift away, even as your hand aches to stay.

Joaquín swallows hard, blinking sluggishly as his gaze flickers to the IV in his arm, the monitors beside him, then back to you. His lips press together briefly as if he’s gathering himself before a rough, scratchy mutter escapes him.

"Ah, shit. I screwed up so bad."

The sound of his voice—dry, raspy, but carrying the faintest hint of that familiar humour—makes something in your chest crack wide open.

A breathy, wet laugh slips from your lips before you can stop it, and you quickly swipe at your eyes, shaking your head.

"I'm... I'm gonna go call a doctor, alright?"

Joaquín doesn’t say anything. He just watches you.

There’s something in his gaze—something unreadable, something too much. It makes your pulse stutter, makes your breath feel too shallow in your lungs.

You don’t give yourself time to process it.

Instead, you turn, pressing the call button for the doctor. "Come, Maria," you say, voice quieter than before.

Maria, who's gone strangely silent since Joaquín woke up, rushes to your side without hesitation. But she does nearly break her neck to keep looking back at him until you pull the door shut, sealing that moment away.

You exhale, resting your back against the wall for half a second longer than necessary before forcing yourself to move.

The doctor arrives quickly. You straighten up, rattling off Joaquín’s vitals, every detail you can remember—his initial reaction, his moment of panic, his response to stimuli, everything. The words come automatically, like muscle memory, like routine. You focus on that, on the familiar rhythm of procedure, handing off the responsibility to the doctor so she can begin running tests, checking his neurological responses, assessing how much damage—if any—his body has endured after so many days in forced stillness.

The weight of your exhaustion presses heavier against your shoulders as you upload his files to the system, sending them over before turning your attention back to Maria.

"You did good, Maria," you tell her softly as you lead her back to her room.

She just nods, but there’s something distant in her expression now.

You get it.

She’s just witnessed the moment. The one where everything changes.

It’s the moment where the panic stops being panic and turns into something else—something messier, something heavier.

It’s the moment where the question “what if he never wakes up?” turns into something just as terrifying:

“He’s awake. Now what?”

Her parents are waiting when you bring her back, and you don’t stay. You let them have that moment for her birthday, closing the door gently behind you before turning back into the hallway.

And then you’re alone.

For the first time in hours, in days, you’re alone with nothing to distract you.

Your hands are shaking. You hadn’t even noticed at first, but now you can’t not notice—the tremor in your fingers, the way your pulse hammers too fast against your ribs, the way your body suddenly doesn’t know what to do with itself now that you’re not running on pure adrenaline.

You sink into one of the chairs outside Joaquín’s room, bracing your elbows on your knees. The motion feels stiff, foreign—like your body isn’t quite yours anymore.

Your eyes sting.

Joaquín is awake. He’s awake.

He spoke. He looked at you. He recognized you. He remembered you.

You should feel relief. You should feel something good.

And yet.

It’s like coming up for air after being stuck underwater too long—except just as you’re about to take a full breath, it’s ripped away again.

Because now that he’s awake… he can speak to you.

He can react to what you say, to what you do.

Maybe he’ll ask for a different nurse. Maybe he’ll ask to be transferred to another hospital back in Miami or something. Maybe, when his voice isn’t so raw and broken, he’ll tell you exactly what he thinks about the fact that you were the one sitting by his bedside all this time.

And God, you don’t know if you can handle that.

You drag your hands down your face, pushing out a breath. You don’t have time for this.

The sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway reminds you that Sam—or Joaquín’s mother—is bound to show up any minute now. The news will spread fast, and soon, his room will be filled with people who have been waiting for this moment, praying for this moment.

Shit.

You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before forcing yourself up. You should be in the room right now with the doctor, checking over Joaquín’s vitals, taking actual notes instead of spiraling in the hallway. Get your shit together and do your job.

Your movements feel sluggish as you reach for your tablet, swiping your ID card at the door. The scanner beeps, and for a split second, you hesitate—your fingers still lingering on the door handle, your chest tight.

Then you force yourself to step inside.

The room is brighter now, bathed in soft afternoon light filtering through the window. Dust motes drift lazily in the warm glow, a stark contrast to the sterile white walls and the quiet hum of machines. The steady rhythm of the heart monitor is too steady, too real.

The doctor is already mid-assessment, having raised Joaquín’s bed into a slightly upright position as she runs through a neurological check-up.

Joaquín is watching you.

His dark eyes flicker to you the second you enter, and you feel it in your chest, hot and unrelenting.

You swallow hard, gripping your tablet like it’s a lifeline, and take your place near the doctor, prepared to focus on numbers and stats and anything else except the weight of that stare.

You wonder if you’ll get kicked out for distracting him.

"Oh, great, you’re back," the doctor says, breaking through the static in your brain. "Do you mind grabbing some water for Captain Torres? I’m just about done here. Everything looks good and healthy. He’s recovering well."

You nod, already moving before your thoughts can catch up. Autopilot. It’s the only thing keeping you grounded at this point.

Still, you feel it.

The way Joaquín’s gaze follows every single one of your movements, tracking you like you might disappear if he looks away.

You crouch, retrieving a bottle from the mini fridge, fingers twisting at the cap before stepping back toward the bed. That’s when it hits you—he can’t take it. His muscles are still sluggish, his coordination not quite there yet.

You pour some into a paper cup instead, stepping closer when the doctor gives a nod of approval. Joaquín doesn’t say anything.

The tremor in your hands is almost imperceptible, but you feel it when you lift the cup to his lips. The moment your fingers brush his skin, a muscle in his jaw tenses.

His heart monitor beside the bed jumps.

Your eyes snap to the screen, but the doctor catches it first.

"Interesting," she hums, her tone just teasing enough to send heat creeping up your neck. But she lets it go.

"So, Joaquín," she continues, "We’re gonna have to do some blood work tomorrow, just to make sure everything is alright internally. We’ll up your dose of painkillers now that you’re awake."

"Awesome," he mutters, voice scratchy but laced with dry sarcasm.

She smiles. "They’ll make you a little drowsy, which is normal, but we’ll need you to try and stay awake until sunset. Just to make sure you’re not slipping in and out of consciousness. But I doubt it."

Then she turns to you.

"I’ll let Amanda know he’s awake. But you did a good job—woke up sooner than we expected."

You blink, caught off guard by the compliment.

"Thanks."

"I’ll come back later for a check-up."

And then she leaves.

The door clicks shut, and there is a silence that follows.

You stand there, hands gripping the tablet against your chest, unsure of what to do. Well, you know what to do—your duty is clear. You should be checking his vitals, updating his chart, making sure he’s comfortable.

But that’s not what’s stopping you.

It’s him.

Awake. Looking at you.

Joaquín Torres, alive and conscious and blinking at you like he’s still trying to convince himself this isn’t just another fever dream.

His voice comes quiet, hoarse, a low grumble you barely hear over the rhythmic beeping of his heart monitor.

"You took care of me?"

Your breath catches.

It’s a simple question, but it knocks something loose in your chest. Because it’s him asking. Because he’s here to ask it.

You swallow, shifting on your feet. Your gaze flickers over him—not just the wounds, but all of him. The way the sunlight filters in through the window, warming the stark white of the sheets, reflecting in the deep brown of his eyes. He looks more alive now, and maybe it’s the light or the steady rise and fall of his chest, but for the first time in weeks, you allow yourself to believe it.

He’s here.

Breathing. Talking. Alive.

And yet—his dead face still haunts you.

The memory lingers in the corners of your mind, just out of reach but never truly gone. His stillness, the unnatural slack of his features, the too-loud silence of a body that had once been so full of energy, of life. The image is burned into your brain, playing over and over again like a cruel loop. The moment you thought you lost him.

The tears in his mother’s face.

The look of dread on Sam.

The guilt.

"Uh, yeah. I did."

Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Joaquín exhales, long and slow, as if processing your words. Then, he tries to smile.

It’s small, faint and unsteady like he isn’t quite sure how to do it yet. The corners of his lips curve, but there’s a hesitation in the movement, like his face isn’t used to the motion after so long.

Still, he tries.

And when his eyes meet yours again, your stomach twists, sinking deep like an anchor dropping into dark water.

"I… I know it’s just your job, but—" His voice falters, but his gaze doesn’t. "Thank you."

Right. Your job.

The words settle into your chest like a weight—familiar, suffocating.

Because you remember the last time he said that to you.

Your last fight.

Well—it wasn’t really a fight, was it?

Not the kind with screaming and shattered glass, not the kind where anger built up and spilled over, reckless and sharp. It was quieter than that. Heavier. Because in the end, it wasn’t about anger.

It was about exhaustion. About wanting so badly to hold on to each other but realizing, little by little, that neither of you had hands free to do it.

You had barely been sleeping.

Between overnight shifts at the hospital, classes, training, and trying to be the best nurse you could be, your time wasn’t your own. It belonged to the people who needed you—the patients, the emergencies, the long nights where your body ached and your mind ran on fumes.

And Joaquín?

He had thrown himself into working with Sam, into proving himself, into becoming something bigger. His missions got longer. The risks got greater. He was gone more often than he was home, and when he was home, he was bruised, exhausted, a shadow of himself trying to piece together the scraps of a normal life between deployments.

You tried to make it work. God, you tried.

You spent so much time missing each other—passing like ships in the night, phone calls that never lasted long enough, conversations cut short by a code blue or a mission call.

At first, you thought it was temporary. That one day, things would slow down. That eventually, you’d find a rhythm that let you breathe with each other again.

But that day never came.

Instead, the gaps between you grew wider.

The distance stretched, and stretched, and stretched—until one night, you were sitting across from each other, and you both knew.

"I can't do this anymore, Joaquín."

You had whispered it.

Not because you didn’t mean it, but because saying it any louder might have broken you.

He had looked at you, like he was waiting for you to take it back.

Like if he just held on long enough, you’d change your mind.

"I know... You know, I love you," he had said, low, firm, desperate.

And that had been the worst part.

Because love wasn’t the problem.

It had never been the problem.

It was everything else.

Your job. His job.

The nights spent apart, the exhaustion, the never-ending fear of opening your front door to a folded American Flag. You couldn’t stand watching him bleed.

And he couldn’t stand knowing that one day, you might not be there to stitch him back up. That was the last time he said it. "But it’s my job."

Like that was supposed to make it better.

But now, you’re standing in his hospital room, staring at proof that it never got better. Because you had left to protect yourself from seeing him hurt. And now you had seen him dead.

"Of course," you manage to say, wincing when you hear your voice break.

Joaquín hums softly, but his eyes don’t leave you. He’s looking for something in your face—like he’s searching through memories neither of you have spoken aloud in years.

But then, his gaze flickers away. Over to the table. To the mess of flowers stacked in unsteady vases, their petals bright in the afternoon sunlight. The kind of display that only happens when someone is lucky enough to wake up.

His brow creases. "How bad was it?"

You swallow, feeling something sharp lodge itself in your throat. "You were shot out of the sky by a missile."

His lips part. "Right."

"It was pretty fucking bad."

A beat.

"Right."

You don’t know what you were expecting. Some kind of reaction, some flicker of acknowledgment for the hell he’s put you through. But instead, he just takes it—like it’s another report, another piece of intel.

You hesitate, something bubbling up inside you. You can’t tell if it’s anger or sorrow. "You died."

The words hit the air, heavier than you expected.

Joaquín blinks, his breath hitching almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitch against the blanket.

"I died?"

You nod, biting your cheek so hard you taste iron.

"Yeah," you force out. Your throat tightens. Don’t cry. Not in front of him. Not again. "Two minutes."

He’s staring at you now. Eyes wide. Disbelief creeps into the edges of his expression, but not enough—not enough for someone who actually understands what that means.

What it means to you.

"Oh."

You scoff. "Yeah. Oh."

Your laugh is brittle. Sharp around the edges. Because what else is there to say? Joaquín dies for two minutes, and you’ve spent days living inside them.

He exhales, dragging a hand down his face.

"God," he mutters. "Sam’s gonna be so mad at me."

You don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Because this wasn’t how you imagined seeing him again.

In your head, there were a million other ways this could have gone—maybe you’d run into each other in the future when you were older. When things had settled. When you’d moved on.

Maybe you’d both be married to other people.

The thought makes you sick. But this? This is so much worse.

"Do you, um, do you need anything else? Are you hungry?"

"No."

You nod, but you don’t believe him. Patients are usually peckish when they wake up—a sign of life returning to their bodies, a reassurance that things are moving forward. And while he’s not allowed solid foods for another twenty-four hours, you could bring him a smoothie, something light.

But if he really wants something, he can call you.

You tell yourself that as you turn toward the door.

"Can you stay?"

You linger because you didn’t expect it.

Because you kind of hoped he would ask.

Because he didn’t ask you to stay last time.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, gripping your tablet a little tighter, as if the tension in your body could be contained in that single movement.

"Yeah," you say softly. "I can stay."

You turn back to him, and Joaquín is already looking at you.

His eyes are pleading.

It takes everything in you not to break right there. To not spill over.

You force yourself to move, careful, measured steps toward the chair beside his bed. It feels like you’re wading through something thick, something unseen, like grief or memory or all the what-ifs you’ve tried to bury.

You sink into the chair slowly.

A strand of hair falls into Joaquín’s face as he leans back against the pillows, the bruising on his cheekbone catching the light just enough for you to hate it.

Your fingers twitch again. The urge to brush it back is unbearable. But you don't.

He exhales.

"When was the last time you slept?" he asks suddenly.

You blink, caught off guard.

"Last night." you answer, almost automatically.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Not really."

A beat.

"Nightmares?"

"Something like that."

"Something on your mind?"

"Lots on my mind."

The words slip out easily, like an old habit. No walls. No defences. It’s like no time has passed at all, like the space between you hasn’t been filled with anger, regret, and time apart. Just raw, open honesty in the quiet of the room.

The weight that’s been crushing you for days feels a little lighter in the space between his questions and your answers. You exhale, and only then do you realize you’re holding back tears.

You wipe at your face absently, surprised to find wetness there. You hadn’t even known you were crying.

Joaquín shifts in the bed, his gaze sharpening. There’s concern in his eyes, guilt, and maybe something else—something deeper. He looks away, clearing his throat, as if trying to fight it.

"I hope it's not me you're worried about,"

"I'm always worried about you."

You glance away from him, pretending it’s nothing, but the words hang between you both, too heavy to ignore.

His breath catches, something in him faltering, and then you catch the slight, almost imperceptible way his fingers curl into the sheets. His ears are pink, the flush spreading down his neck. He’s always been terrible at hiding how he feels, and you’re helpless against it. You always have been.

You can’t look at him. You don’t want to admit how much you’ve missed him. How much you’ve been carrying around since the breakup. How much he’s haunted every quiet moment since you walked away.

"Joaquín," you start, tugging at the ring finger on your left hand, the absence of his name there like a wound you forgot was still open. "When they brought you in here—"

"I miss you."

Your chest tightens. "Joaquín—"

"It's true, I do." His voice is quiet, almost vulnerable. "I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you again, and I just…" His gaze drifts from yours, like he’s struggling to put it all together. "I couldn't get it out."

You swallow hard, feeling that familiar ache well up in you. “I miss you too. It’s been... it’s been really hard.”

"Yeah." He nods slowly, his voice softer now. "It has. But, you know, I’m the Falcon now. Can you believe that?" He chuckles, but it’s almost nervous, as if he’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to make you smile. "I work with Captain America. I’ve got big shoes to fill. I’ve got to show up, but this... this is all I’ve ever wanted, since I was a kid. I’ve got it now. But... there’s something missing."

You look at him, really look at him, seeing the difference in his eyes now—less brash, more tired but still so much the same. "Yeah. Yeah, I feel it too. It’s like a nagging feeling, right? No matter what we do, it’s there."

"Make me feel guilty." His lips curve into a faint smile, but it’s tired.

"Like I wanna vomit," you reply dryly, the familiar banter slipping back into place before you can stop it.

Joaquín’s eyes soften as he lets out a breath, and there’s an edge of regret in the way he says, “I’m sorry I left.”

Your heart aches at the words, and you feel the old wounds crack open. "I’m sorry I made you leave." You’re not sure whether you’re trying to make him feel better or punish him with your own guilt. Either way, it burns.

“No,” he says quickly, “It doesn’t work that way.”

"But it does," you insist, your voice soft but firm.

He presses his lips together, brow furrowed, as if trying to work through what you’ve just said. "I should’ve fought harder," he murmurs, voice cracking just slightly.

"Joaquín... c’mon. Let’s talk about this later, okay? You just woke up from a coma. I can’t be putting this much stress on your mind."

"But I wanna talk about it," he presses, desperate.

“I know, I do too,” you admit,

“Then let’s talk about it,” he says, leaning forward just a little.

"Rest first." You place a hand on his shoulder gently, urging him to lay back. “You’ve been through a lot. I can’t let you burn yourself out again.”

“I’ve been resting. Had the best nurse in the world take care of me,” he teases, trying to distract you with a smile.

You feel the tug in your chest at his words. "And I will still take care of you. But you need rest. We can talk about it tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes, tomorrow," you confirm, trying to smile, to soothe the tension you’ve both built up.

"Will you still be here?"

You glance down at him, a familiar warmth flooding your chest at the sight of him so vulnerable, so human. "I’m not going anywhere. Will you still be here?"

His smile softens, a quiet promise in his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”

[goatgoesmbe]

Okay listen-

Taskforce 141 is actually a top-secret thing right, so the thing is- I think if any of the boys have a partner, they wouldn't tell them about it- let alone introduce you to the team.

all you'd know is that they work in the military. that's it

They would, however, tell them that they have a lil birdie back home. but that's it. no name, no nothing. just like how Laswell told them about her wife.

and they respect privacy. would leave it at that.

i also headcanon Ghost to never wear his mask when he was home. It would be tucked away in his drawer. Might even keep that mask a secret from you, like any other things about his job. would definitely ghost you if anything bad happened, not wanting you to be involved. this man doesn't do communication lol

as for marriage.. i could see them being more open to you about their job yes- but for someone like Price, idk, I feel like he wouldn't tell you.. at all. this man would want to keep you safe, get you away from the danger that is him. would definitely divorce you if he deemed it necessary, when enemies got too nosey and started sniffing his personal life. he is content loving you from afar, swallowing the lump in his throat as he watched you be with another man.

Gaz would play it safe and only indulge himself in casual relationships. whether its during leave, or taking some pretty birds away when he was out drinking with the lads. and even when he got into a relationship.. he wouldn't tell you until it is very necessary. It would feel like he's distant tho, keeping a big secret like that.. ooh conflict

This would kill Soap. i see him as the kind of man who dreams of having a big family. to settle at a nice house in the highland. to come home to a bunch of bairns. But he ain't dumb, he knows its an impossible dream to achieve. He doesn't want to imagine you to be heartbroken when he didn't make it back one day, to claim you with a ring and uncertainty of the future.. so even if it a torture for him too, he'd settle for whatever this is.. to have you in his arms, to kiss you, to indulge in passionate nights together, with nothing to name it

[almostempty]

run (marcus acacius x f!reader)

wc: 2k | other fics | rating: 18+ | ao3

summary: general acacius hunts you in the woods for ‘training’ then fucks you, duh [inspired by  this post]  tags/warnings: explicit, pwp, primal play, size kink, raw creampie, idk what historical accuracy means, darker marcus, no mention of lucilla

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ “It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real.”

You tell yourself through hoarse breaths. Your lungs burn. Every muscle screams at you to stop. You push forward.

All you can do is run.

If it were real, you would hide. You’re smart—confident you’d outthink him.

But he’s going to catch you.

The pounding of blood in your ears nearly drowns out the steady rhythm of his footsteps, closing in. The tiny hairs on your neck raise a moment before it happens.

A hand wrenches you back.

You collide with him, shoulders slamming into his broad chest.

His barking laughter rolls across the sky as he digs his fingers into your slick, overheated skin.

“Too easy.” His voice booms, but his heavy breathing contradicts the sentiment.

“I’m sorry,” you pant, gasping in air so deep your ribs might crack.

He doesn’t release you. Instead, he studies you for a moment—assessing. Calculating.

Then, without warning—he shoves you forward.

“Run.”

You stumble, but recover fast enough to hit your stride before he comes after you again.

The purpose of this so-called training makes no sense to you. Soldiers train with weapons, endurance drills, and formations. But you are not a soldier.

Your body is not being conditioned for war—it is being conditioned for him.

Other servants have whispered about the General and his private exercises.

He led troops through heavy weapons training, cavalry drills, long marches. But privately, he had to be sharper, faster, stronger. You’d heard that he wrestled men into the dirt until they couldn’t stand again. That he trained with foreign gladiators, learning their weapons, their fighting techniques.

And that sometimes, he hunted.

That was the part you never understood. The rumors were vague, but the pattern was clear. A servant would be chosen. A beautiful one. They would be taken away for days. Weeks.

And they never returned to their old tasks.

No one dared ask what happened to them.

Some whispered it was an honor. Some believed they were given riches, sent to estates far away. Others, more cynically, assumed they were cast aside when he was done.

But you don’t feel honored. It wasn’t a choice. You were given orders.

You traveled with General Acacius into the forest, leaving his campsite and guards behind. You had just begun to think you were far enough from camp that no one would hear you scream—

That’s when he stopped you.

That’s when he finally spoke to you. Not with an explanation.

Just:

“Run.”

And now—“I’ll give you something to run from.”

The words echo in your skull. A chill streaks down your spine—so icy you shiver despite the heat licking at your skin.

Your tongue feels dry when you force yourself to ask:

“Are you going to kill me?”

His teeth flash, white against sun-bronzed skin, before he laughs again. A sharp, wicked sound.

Then the smile fades, slowly.

“No,” he says, voice dropping low. His fingers grip your chin, tilting your face up. Giving you time to absorb the hunger in his gaze.

“But the next time I catch you will be the last.”

The forest stills. Even the birds seem to quiet.

His voice drops to something darker, heavier.

“The next time I catch you, I will have my way with you. You will be mine to use. And nothing will stop me.”

Heat blooms in your cheeks, curling hot in your gut.

You should be afraid. You should fight.

Instead—your mind betrays you.

Vivid images flood in, unbidden—his body pinning you down, his strength making you helpless.

Your gaze flickers—the sheen of sweat on his chest, the muscles shifting beneath his skin, the thick veins along his forearms. The breadth of his shoulders.

You’ve heard the rumors.

You know how these hunting sessions end.

And you’ve heard that the General’s cock is as massive as his ego.

It’s a game.

It was always a game.

The ones before you played it too.

And none of them returned.

Your voice comes out steady, but just barely.

“Understood.”

His eyes narrow.

“You think this will be a reward.”

Your skin prickles at the disdain in his tone.

Before you can react—his hand is on your throat.

Not tight, not squeezing—just enough to make you feel it. His fingers press against your pulse, slowing the flow of blood. Your body reacts before your mind can.

The reality of his overwhelming strength lights a fire deep inside you.

But the last flicker of self-preservation rises, whispering a warning.

How depraved are his desires, that he must bring you here, alone, to the foot of a mountain, to chase you into the trees as the sun creeps lower and lower?

You shudder at the thought—and he sees it.

And he is satisfied.

“Run.” 

You take off before he can launch you with his arms.

Adrenaline gives you an edge, but it’s not enough. Not against him. Every step you take feels too loud, your own breath deafening in your ears. You cut left, thinking you’ve outmaneuvered him—until a low chuckle reaches you from behind.

Too close.

He’s playing with you.

You clamber over obstacles, acting on pure instinct, guided by the fear of being hunted.

He crashes through everything you use to create distance, but he’s more than brute strength.

He doesn’t just chase—you feel him stalking. He lets you think you have a lead, lets you trip and scramble, and then—he’s there.

Always there.

A shadow at your back. Patient. Inevitable. Dragging out the moment before he takes you down.

You’d be embarrassed that a man so much older than you has better stamina, but this is his whole life. In peak physical condition, he trains, he fights, he wins.

And he’s coming for you.

Time means nothing as the woods grow darker. Dusk adds danger, reducing visibility, and before frustration can boil over—he’s on you.

He tackles you into the dirt with a grunt. You yelp.

You claw at the dirt, scrambling for freedom. But he’s never letting go of you now. One firm grip on your waist, and he flips you onto your back.

You kick and twist—a desperate, instinctual bid for freedom. Useless. He absorbs every struggle, every contortion of your body, and then he takes.

He lets you feel it—how much stronger he is, how little choice you have now.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t think. Just tears at your tunic, baring your skin to the moonlight.

He doesn’t admire. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t need to. He grips you too hard, pins you down with the sheer force of his body. A beast. A predator. And you—his willing prey.

His mouth twitches to something like a snarl.

“Nowhere to go now.”

“I submit,” you nearly squeak.

He’s vicious, unrelenting. One hand traps your wrists overhead while his teeth graze your throat, hovering where your pulse beats loudest. Your only option is surrender—tilting your jaw to offer him more.

He marks you up, sinking his teeth into your flesh. Bruises bloom on your neck, shoulder, chest. His other hand claws at you, squeezing too hard, digging into your muscles until you cry out—a sound tangled in pain and pleasure.

Everything is amplified. The weight of him atop you. The hard ground beneath you. The low noises in his throat. The breeze in the trees.

It’s not emotional, but it’s raw. Charged. Selfish.

The way he gropes your tits—he’s not a commander of men—this is primitive. Carnal. Unrestrained.

He doesn’t care for modesty or impressions. He’s caught you, and he intends to use you. Just like he warned.

And, fuck, if he doesn’t want you bad.

His ferocity delights you, even as you writhe and arch beneath him. Knowing, at his most unfiltered, when he’s driven by lust—he wants all of you.

It clouds your mind and sends an overpowering wave of heat to your core that nearly hurts.

As if he can smell the wetness between your legs, he looses a strained hum. The sound buzzes between you, vibrating through your bones, and you squirm—all discomfort and unspent energy, feverish with need.

The thrill of the chase still courses thick in your veins as he positions you roughly on your hands and knees.

He wastes no time. His cock is out, heavy, hot. You press your thighs together instinctively, but it’s no use. His hands are relentless, forcing you open, making space for himself. He drags the thick tip along your slick folds, savoring the way you stiffen.

“Still fighting?” he murmurs. “Good.”

Then he thrusts, and whatever resistance you had is only a memory.

He works in shallow strokes at first, forcing you to stretch around the girth of him—but patience isn’t his strength. He slams in deeper, faster, splitting you open with a sharp, brutal thrust that chokes a ragged moan from your throat.

His grunts grow rougher, more strained. You don’t know if it’s ecstasy or frustration bleeding into the noises—your cunt is still gripping him too tight, refusing to let him all the way in.

You have no concern for volume, wholly enraptured by the pace he sets, each thrust pressing deeper into you.

Soon, he’s shoving his fingers into your mouth, quieting you manually, reducing you to a set of drooling holes for him to fill.

Finally, he buries himself to the hilt, and you forget how to think.

His thrusts turn severe, dragging raw cries from your throat as you push back, desperate for more.

For the first time, he hesitates, peeling off of you and sitting upright behind you. One hand yanks your hips into his lap, and you don’t slow down—can’t.

Flesh ripples from the impact as you bounce against his cock, your body finding its own rhythm, lost in the mess of heat and slick between you.

His groan is guttural. His fingers bite into your hips.

“So tight. I thought you were a virgin.” His voice is wrecked. “But you fuck yourself on my cock like a desperate whore.”

You’d be embarrassed, but he doesn’t sound—or feel—very upset.

And you can’t stop chasing the pleasure anymore.

He fills you so deep that tears spill from your eyes, sinking into the dirt beneath you. The tension builds, pulling taut, but you can’t quite break.

A desperate whimper slips from your lips.

With a mercy you don’t expect, Acacius glides a hand down your stomach, pressing hard as he finds your clit. He drags his fingers through your slick, coating them in everything he’s forced from you, teasing and rubbing in slow, precise circles.

Your body shakes, trembles, collapses.

You’re only able to pant, gasp, and moan for him.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, he finds new ways to devastate you.

Fucking faster. Harder. Deeper.

Your mind was already gone. But somehow, he fucks you dumber—until there’s nothing left but wrecked, ruined need.

He keeps going until you break. 

Your knees are raw from grinding into the dirt, your arms giving out beneath you. You’re half-collapsed, unable to hold yourself up, but he doesn’t slow down.

He wants to feel it again.

“Another.” His voice is husked, nearly feral.

“Mmm.” You can’t protest, it’s the closest you get to agreeing. 

Determined, he works you up again.

Faster this time. More efficient. His fingers are ruthless, dragging another orgasm from you before you can even catch your breath.

When he finally breaks, his body locks up, muscles tensed, a snarl ripping from his throat as he spills inside you.

Hot, endless.

His weight crushes you into the earth, pinning you there as he catches his breath.

Finally, when he pulls out, his hands slide along your soft, trembling thighs. Watching.

“Poor pussy is just gaping now.” His voice is full of mockery. “So stretched out. She wastes my gift.”

You’re too far gone to respond. Fucked stupid. Boneless.

He drags his fingers between your swollen lips, stuffing his come back inside.

You move to fix your clothes—but he stops you.

“You're not done. And I'm not nearly finished.”

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯ thank you for reading <3 pls tell me if you liked or hated any of it sign up for my new tag list here! 

@lovely-vamp-princess @gothcsz @auteurdelabre @adoreyouusugar @swankyorange @itwasntimethatdidit40 @ivoryandflame  @indiegirlunited @syd-djarin  @harriedandharassed @bbyanarchist @94namkooksworld @sunshinehaze1 @lilac-boo @ohhoneypascal

[hibiscusseaart]

So about Time Travel Tobirama

He gets back in his childhood, the period when Kawarama was already dead, but Itama still alive, just cuz I like Itama alive and well, ok. (also i love the idea of Itama the weed shinobi by @oh-no-its-bird so)

And he starts to think and strategise smth like "Ok, I need to kill Black Zetsu, but idk where he is. But he should be around Uchihas, so I must come closer. But I cant just go there, we're not in peace, they'd kill me. And I don't exactly know when Black Zetsu is gonna try to manipulate Madara. So I also have to monitor Madara and make sure Izuna doesn't ever dies, to ensure that Madara won't lose his shit".

So, he's really logical and his conclusion was "So the easiest way to monitor the Uchiha clan is to marry an Uchiha." But he can't just marry a random Uchiha, it'd be shitty for politics he is the clan heir after Hashirama after all + it'd be nice way to strengthen peace via marriage. Plus he needs to keep close eye to Madara. So. Marrying Madara it is. Or Izuna. But first of all, Izuna is annoying and second he still needs very carefully look for potential signs of Black Zetsu corruption and it's better to do that when they're in close quarters. So the best case scenario is Madara's hand in marriage.

Killing Madara might be easier, but Hashirama would be sad. Plus I think the ppl who helped him to be sent in the past (coughnaruto who said that) told him smth about that Madara and Hashirama are Indra and Ashura reincarnations and be like "What if daddy Sage gets angry..."

So yeah no killing Madara. Even though he kinda wants to.

And to be clear, he had this plan in the few days he's back in his baby body. He's like 10-12 or whatever, when Hashi starts running to the river to meet Madara. Oh and Itama is safe and sound cuz Tobi said fuck Butsuma and went to safe his baby brother.

So one day Tobirama follows his brother to the river to actually meet Madara before his father decides to fuck everything.

So, Tobirama's the most fucked up honeypot mission officially begun. Tobirama is gonna be like "Ok i need to impress a 12 yo... But I cant just show him a cool jutsu, he might think about me as a rival or whatever... Kids like praise and cool things... Maybe I can tell him that he's cute and find him a cool stick? Should I ask Anija to make a cool stick?"

He meets Madara (without a stick, Hashirama might've suspect smth) and be like "Wow, Anija who would've known you've made such a cute friend" (Tobirama is hard cringing in his head, he's not the best in honeypot missions) and Madara, being about 12 year old, is standing there covered in mud, cuz Hashirama threw him into river or whatever + the little hc that he's kinda ugly when he's in his teens. Like Madara thinks of himself as strong and cool, but not particularly handsome with his wild hair and eye bags.

So Madara is smitten cuz wow pretty boy with red eyes said that He's cute!!!

Tobirama looks at Madara's dopey smile and thinks of the first phase as a success. Now Tobirama starts to spend some time with Hashirama and Madara to monitor their surroundings from their clans, while Itama distracts their father, and also try to win over Madara when he is still an impressionable kid. Plus he starts hinting that they may be Senju and Uchiha and that they should be prepared. But well they're kids who wants to escape all that war and just play with a peer so.

Long story short, Madara be like "So we're gonna make a village and then I'm gonna marry Tobirama!"

Tobi "fuck yes, a bit ahead of the schedule, but sounds good, i'm in"

Hashirama is outraged bc THATS HIS LIL BROTHER!!!

So Tobirama plays hard and makes Madara promise to marry him when they're old enough.

But then well, they're still found out and they still have a fallout cuz of their clans. But Tobirama made them promise to try hard for peace (and marriage), so now they just have to wait til Butsuma dies and Hashirama can become a clan head.

Tobirama tries not to be so efficient at killing Uchihas cuz he will be their family later so he tries to avoid it and just knock out or use some non lethal methods. Hashirama mostly fights Madara and it's almost sparrings at this point. Itama works on his weed empire and learns healing.

Well one day Butsuma dies and Hashirama and Tobirama bully their Elders and rush to try for peace. Tajima (who I think is still alive) is suspicious of all of it and stalls af.

So one day on the battlefield Tobirama says "So, marriage when? You promised asshole", making all the Uchiha and Senju stumble and "HUH?!"

So now many of the Senju and Uchiha now know that Uchiha clan heir apparently proposed to the Senju heir ??? Everyone is confused.

Madara, still crushing hard on Tobirama, catches this opportunity and bullies everyone to allow peace and let him marry Tobirama. Uchiha allow it only cuz everyone knows how crazy Uchihas about loved ones and Madara is the strongest one. They kinda afraid that if they won't allow it, he'd go crazy (he would).

So Madara gets his trophy wife Tobirama, Tobirama gets his safari zone with Uchihas in their natural habitat.

Tobirama is a surprisingly good husband to Madara, cuz with all that Zetsu thing, he's attentive as hell. "Something bothering you, dear husband? Do tell me everything."

At first they think he'd learn things and will tell that all back to Senju, but Tobirama tries to assure them "I don't really care about details. Tell me about how it makes you feel." (he looks for the signs of Zetsu corruption)

So basically Tobirama marries Madara to become his therapist. Madara is very much in love and constantly brags how much his spouse loves him and that he always listens his worries.

Izuna is mad as fuck about all of it btw. He thinks that Tobirama has ulterior motives and hides something. (He's right. ) But Tobirama dutifully plays his part as an attentive spouse and makes plans for bettering Uchiha clan just so that the village won't suffer. He'd probably would prescribe them regular therapy for everyone who awoken Sharingan.

also @fashionredalert write a snippet for this au with madara in the mud! pls check it out!

UPDATE: It's a fic! :)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59684869/chapters/152226814

[mssorceressupreme]

Working Late | F.W

———

Pairing: Fred Weasley x reader

Summary: you got a new job at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and you’ve developed a strong attraction to one of your new bosses.

Warnings: boss/employee, age gap (ish), making out, shy reader (not a warning lol but yk). Actually it's kind of a sweet fluffy-ish one, might make a pt 2. with more smut tho idk

———

It all started with butterbeer. Ginny Weasley and you had decided to meet at The Three Broomsticks for a long-overdue catch-up. The amber liquid foamed in your mugs as you laughed about school, gossiped about classmates, and vented about our worries. But your laughter faltered as you stirred my butterbeer idly.

"I just don’t know what I’m going to do after Hogwarts," You confessed, keeping your gaze fixed on the swirling foam. "Everyone seems to have their plans lined up, and I’m… stuck. No job, no prospects, nothing meaningful."

Ginny cocked her head, her eyes sparkling mischievously. "You know, my brothers could use some extra help at their shop. You’ve heard of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, right?"

Your heart skipped. Of course, you’d heard of it. And of Fred.

"I don’t know your brothers that well," You mumbled, cheeks warming. Ginny waved you off, grinning.

"Doesn’t matter. I reckon they’ll like you, and I’ll put in a good word."

Unbeknownst to her, the mention of Fred sent your heart into overdrive. He was everything you weren’t—loud, confident, and irresistibly charming, well you had your own charms but his was just effortless. Not to mention your stupid infatuation with him.

You barely spoke to the twins at school, your shyness building a wall you were too scared to scale. Besides it kept you safe, from unwanted conversations, judgement and meaningless social interactions.

Still, Ginny’s determination left you little room to argue.

“Uh sure, thanks Gin.” You forced a smile, unsure of whether seeing Fred, let alone being in the same compound as him would help with your infatuation. This forced proximity might be the end for you.

It’s time to let go of him and move on, you mentally slapped yourself. Besides, he was a couple of years older than you, no way he’d go for you right?

———

The following week, you stood outside the shop at 8 a.m., shivering slightly despite the warmth of the sun.

To your surprise you actually got the job, Ginny managed to secure you a position. And after a quick interview with George last week, you found yourself rewarded the position of becoming an official employee of the store.

Great, you had misread the opening time—Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes didn’t open until 9. Just as you debated whether to leave and return later, a deep, groggy voice startled you.

"You’re early."

You spun around to find Fred Weasley standing behind you. He was taller than you remembered, his fiery hair slightly tousled, his jaw more defined. His eyes, sharp and glinting with curiosity, locked onto yours, and your stomach flipped.

"I, uh, thought you opened at eight," You stammered, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks.

Fred smirked, his voice still husky from sleep. "Well, early bird gets the worms. Come on in, I can give you a quick tour."

He unlocked the door, holding it open for me. "Ladies first."

———

Inside, Fred gave you a whirlwind tour, his tone surprisingly serious as he explained the tasks. Stocking shelves, organising merchandise, assisting customers—it all seemed simple enough until we began working side by side.

"Here, let me show you," Fred said, reaching over your to grab a box from the top shelf. His arm brushed yours, sending a wave of excitement through your body.

The proximity was electrifying, and you found focus wavering. “These are our latest addition, love potions. We have yet to stock them on the display there,” He leaned in closer to you, pointing to the pink display near the entrance, “See that one, the pink stand there.”

“Do we get to sample one of the potions?” You teased, wanting to ease the tension.

He paused, turning to you, “Have someone on your mind for these eh?”

Your eyes grew wide, “Oh no no, no one at all, just wondering.” You forced a smile, mentally face palming yourself.

He smirked, then continued explaining to which you nodded slowly, listening attentively to everything he instructed.

“George was supposed to help bring these boxes up to my office but since he’s not here yet, ‘spose you could help bring them up.” Fred gestured to some boxes by the door, newly delivered packages.

“Yes sir.” You replied hastily, making your way to the boxes.

“Fred.” He chuckled softly, “Just Fred would do.”

One by one, you carried what seemed like never ending inventory into his office upstairs for him to stock check them, making sure the quality was up to par.

Finally, it was the last box’s turn to be brought up, as you were carefully walking up the stairs, the entrance swung open and George ran in, "Oi Fred, Ginny said Y/N would be starting today, have you showed her-"

Upon hearing your name, you whipped your head around, missing a step in the process, and tripping right outside Fred's office. The box fell on the ground, and out spewed the items, clinking and clanking on the floor. It was some mini metal boxes with assorted treats inside of them. "Oh my goodness! I'm so sorry!"

The items scattered across the floor, and you crouched down hastily, picking them up one by one. Fred was in his office, rushing to your aid as soon as he heard the noise.

"Accidents happen all the time, don’t worry about it," Fred said, kneeling to help. Upon picking the items up, your hands touched, grazing each other softly and you froze.

His eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching. The air thickened with something unspoken, something undeniable, before a loud voice interrupted you. "Oh hey guys, sorry I was late, was caught finding the keys to me' office." George apologised, he saw the two of you kneeling on the ground, giving Fred a quick glance before darting towards you.

"Y/N! We meet again, I trust Freddie has shown you around. Come on down when you're done yeah, the shop's opening soon." George instructed before heading downstairs.

As the day wore on, you noticed whispers among some customers—girls your age, glaring enviously.

"She only got the job because she’s Ginny’s friend," one of them muttered.

"Why is she the only employee? If I had known, I would've applied too...obviously for George." The other one giggled.

"Whatever, she's not even that pretty, they probably hired her out of pity."

Fred happened to overhear their conversations, and his eyes shot daggers at the girls, but forced himself to remain calm, they were after all his customers. "Actually," he interjected smoothly, "she’s here because she’s a hard worker and great at what she does."

His words left you stunned. Had he been paying that much attention to you? You pretended to be busy with another task, acting as though you hadn't heard a word they said.

A few hours passed and boy, you were already tired, legs exhuasted from standing all day and arms from all the reaching, stocking, grabbing and the likes. How on earth did the twins manage to do this everyday, you wondered.

While restocking on a ladder, a mischievous kid aimed a Decoy Detonator at you, hoping to get trial some pranks with the samples provided.

The explosion erupted in your face, colourful sparkling fireworks crackling around you, causing you to loose your balance, "Merlin!" You panicked as you slipped, falling off the ladder. Before you could hit the ground, you felt a strong pair of arms wrapped around your waist.

His familiar scent filled you, it was him. Fred.

You gasped, gripping his forearms. He pulled you upright, his hold lingering for a moment too long.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice low, his breath warm against your ear.

You nodded, but your pounding heart felt like it would bust right out of you at the rate it was beating.

Once he made sure you were alright, you carried on. Though the rest of the day was a bit dull as Fred was in his office doing paperwork, whilst George stayed downstairs entertaining the customers.

You could't help but think back to the situation moments before, the way he held you, his scent, his voice, Merlin this was not helping your crush at all. And it did not help that he looked so handsome in that all black suit he was wearing, ugh your mind began to wonder, but that did not hold you back from delivering great customer service.

"Thanks Y/N, have a good day!" A kid waved at you before leaving, and you waved back grinning.

"Enjoy your new gizmo!" You smiled with awe, among the devils, there were also the sweetest most angel-like children you came across in the store.

The next few days flew by, you quickly adjusted to working at the shop, your kind demeanour welcomed guests and made them feel right at home.

You barely saw Fred as he was buried in work, constantly in his office, but you learnt to live with it. After all, you were here to gain experience, not date your boss.

One particular night, you stayed back in the stockroom as there had been a surplus of inventory, and since you had no plans, you decided to help out as much as you could, sorting out new arrivals for the next week.

"Working late?" a familiar voice asked, leaning casually against the doorframe.

You shrugged, smiling. "Just wanted to get ahead."

He frowned slightly, feeling guilty that you had been overworking yourself. "How bout a reward then, say, dinner?"

"Dinner?" Your heart soared, but his next words tempered it.

"Just a casual, y'know thank you dinner."

Still, you agreed. ___

You walked to The Three Broomsticks together, you felt a bit upset that he kept a good distance from you, though he thought it was respectful, a part of you wished he stood closer.

At the restaurant, he pulled out your chair, playfully grinning, "M'lady." He teased.

"And what would the lovely couple like to have for dinner tonight?" The waiter asked and, as you were about to deny that you were a couple, Fred played it off and went with it.

"I'll have the steak and chips, and she'll have the fish and chips."

"Amazing, it'll take 10-15 minutes, have a lovely evening guys. What a beautiful couple you two make." The waiter complimented, before taking our menu's off us.

"You did not." You chuckled with disbelief.

"Did what?" Fred defended himself, raising his hands.

"Why didn't you say we weren't a couple." You laughed, shaking your head.

"And embarrass the poor lad? Not a chance, besides, what's wrong with that." He shrugged nonchalantly at the last bit, and you bit back a smile.

After dinner, Fred insisted he walk you home for safety reasons, "Can't have my best employee not getting home safely." He insisted.

"I'm your only employee." You retort, laughing softly.

"And the best one at that." He added.

The moment you reached home, he paused outside your door. For a moment, his gaze dipped to your lips, and you held your breath. Could this be it, the moment you waited for.

But he stepped back, murmuring, "Goodnight." Flashing a small smile before he headed home once you were inside.

---

The next day, you wore a skirt to work, wanting to feel more free, plus it was way too hot to be wearing jeans or pants. But of course, there was the underlying reason of wanting to catch a certain someone's attention.

As you arrive, George greeted you, his playful cheerful self did not go unnoticed. Fred however was quieter, sterner, and noticeably distracted. He brushed past you more often, his touches lingering but you shrugged it off, thinking you were imagining things.

"Hey Y/N, Fred's asking for you, he's up in his office." George informed you, while you were rearranging one of the messy shelves, you nodded and made your way to Fred.

You found him alone in his office, staring out the window.

"Fred?" You knocked softly.

He turned, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Shut the door."

You obeyed, suddenly nervous.

"Why are you wearing a skirt?"

"I thought it would be appropriate, given how incredibly scorching today's weather is." You replied, truthfully.

"Merlin, you don't know what you've been doing to me as of late." Fred sat on one of the leather couches in his office, rubbing his temples as he did so.

"I'm sorry, I can go change if you want-"

"No. It looks good on you, come here." He ordered, and you slowly made your way towards the couch where he sat, standing in front of him. "Bloody hell, you don't know do ya?" He eyed you up and down, his gaze exploring your figure.

"I’ve been trying to ignore this," he continued, "But I can’t..."

"Ignore what?" You whispered, your pulse racing.

"You."

His confession hung in the air, heavy and intoxicating.

"Fred, you have no idea how long I've been waiting for you." You finally confessed. "Ever since Hogwarts...I just...figured I wasn't your type."

"You think I haven't noticed you before? Everytime you came to the Burrow, seeing you in the halls, always hanging with my sister. The wrong Weasley, dare I say. You have no idea how much I wanted to come in and sweep you off your feet. But you know, you, always into your books, always in your own world, I just-...and now seeing you again, Merlin, it's like you've got me wrapped around your finger again."

You responded by closing the distance, sitting on his lap, straddling him which earned a groan from him. Immediately, his lips captured yours in a kiss that was fiery, desperate, and everything you'd dreamed of.

You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as his hands gripped your waist. His arousal was growing beneath you and you could feel yourself getting soaked just from this, all that pent up tension was getting released.

"I’ve wanted this for so long," You admitted breathlessly.

He smiled, his forehead resting against yours. "Me too love."

For the first time, the tension between you broke, replaced by something infinitely sweeter. ___ A/N: Might do a part 2, with more smut? Or how it's like at WWW now that they've established they like each other? Not sure yet hehe

(Update: check out Pt 2 here!! 🥰 )

[ghoulishhx]

hii how ya doin! idk if anyone's asked for this yet but I'd LOVE to see nr 8 from the smut prompt list with frank!!

much much love from vienna, big fan of your work!! 🖤

8.) oops, we were just hiding in this closet, but then the close proximity get us too turned on not to fuck

heyy bestiee, im so glad you like my work mwah im obsessed with you. i really hope you like this one too!!

edit: my dumbass had this tagged as number 4 this whole time when it is actually number 8, I'm sorry for the potential confusion LMAO

18+ MDNI !!

My Masterlist!

──── ୨୧ ────

Pairing: Frank Castle x FemVigilante!Reader

Content Warning: SMUTTT, enemies to lovers type beat, fingering, squirting, oral (m!recieving), doggyy, kinda rough frank, dirty talk, praise, spanking, a little slappin' and whatnot, swearing, mutual pining

Wordcount: 3.5k

──── ୨୧ ────

✦ be quiet

“For fuck sake, what are you doing here, Castle?” you groan, noticing the dark figure in the corner of the barely lit room as soon as you enter through the fire escape. You hear him let out a deep sigh, acknowledging your presence as he turns on his heel to meet your eyes. The annoyance oozing out of his stark, chiseled features. Nostrils flaring, lips turning white from strain. As if this night couldn’t get any worse, you think to yourself.

“What am I doing here?” he lets out a laugh, as if your question was insulting. “You should be askin’ yourself that sweetheart, not me. This is my case, I don’ need to be babysitting your ass all night. Hurry on home doll, I got it from here.” you scoff at the patronising tone his words carried, anger boiling your blood as you stand staring at him dumbfounded. 

“I’m not your fucking sweetheart, Frank,” you spit at him, chest heaving with annoyance. God, did Frank Castle know how to push your buttons. “You know damn well I work this territory, scurry back off to Hell’s Kitchen before I drag you there myself.” you puff your chest out subconsciously like a fucking bird, making yourself appear big and scary when in fact the man you were trying to intimidate stood over a foot taller than you.

“Nice try darlin’,” he mumbles, shaking his head as he darkly chuckles at your feeble attempt to get him to back off. “You don’t scare me in the slightest.” He leans down, whispering in your ear. The feeling of his breath hot on your neck, causing goosebumps to erupt across the back of your neck. You take a deep breath, inhaling his scent. A mix of gunpowder and whiskey sits present in your nose and you let out a shaky breath. 

Why the fuck, how the fuck is he eliciting this reaction from you? You resent this man, the way he’d always show up in your fights, finishing your jobs with that cocky smirk across his face that drove you insane. Of course it was always bound to happen, New York is a huge city with an even huger crime rate, two vigilantes bumping into each other and sticking their noses in the other’s work is expected. But it was almost every time you were on patrol, it would always end with you and Frank at each other’s throats. You started to think he was doing it on purpose, intentionally trying to rile you up, feeding off of your uncontrollable rage. 

“Cat got ya tongue, doll?” he teases you, noticing the way your face instantly grew red at the sudden close proximity between you both.

“Shut up.” you state between gritted teeth, moving your head from his, avoiding his eyes. He chuckles, and from the corner of your eye you watch him look you up and down, the action so quick you believed you imagined it. 

“Y’know, the more we bump into each other like this.. I’m startin’ to think you’re obsessed with me or somethin’ angel.” he inches closer to you, his face so close to yours, making your heart beat so hard out of your chest you’re worried you might have a heart attack. 

“You wish Castle, dream on.” you scoff, finally turning your eyes back to his, matching his intense gaze. His pupils are blown with an unrecognisable emotion, the sight making a wave of arousal crash through you.

“Maybe I do.. Listen I-”

He’s cut off by the sound of boots outside the door of the apartment you had both snuck into. You pull away from each other as you glance towards the fire escape, thinking to yourself you could make it to the window in time before the footsteps come through the door. Before you have a chance to bolt for the exit, you feel yourself being dragged from behind, Frank’s large rough hand covering your mouth, stifling the noises as he drags you both into the closet behind you both. 

“What the fuck Frank?” you hiss, grabbing his hand from your mouth and pushing it back into him, keeping your volume low knowing you two were no longer alone.

“Shh.. won’t ya shut ya fuckin’ mouth for once. They’re coming in.” he whispers back as you hear the door to the apartment swing open. You hear at least 3 men come into the room, slurring their words and laughing amongst themselves heartily. They were obviously intoxicated. Your source told you tonight would be the best chance to hit the place as there was absolutely no way anyone would be in. ‘Thanks a lot Lieberman, last time I took your word’, you think to yourself. 

Only now do you realise how close you are to Frank, barely inches apart from one another, your chests pushed together, his hands either side of your head resting on the closet behind you, trapping you in. You feel his chest heave against yours, your breathing deep and synced with each other. He absentmindedly takes one of his hands from the side of your cheek, and brushes your hair out of your face. You two have never been as close to one another as you are now, and you take the time to analyse all of the features on his face. His furrowed brows and dark eyes staring deep into your own, his freshly shaven face enhancing his jaw line, his nose. You can’t help but let your eyes travel all over his features, taking them all in, memorising every single bump and crevice. He does the exact same, staring you down with no shame. You two were always arguing and he never allowed himself to realise how gorgeous you were, those soft plump lips, the fullness of your cheeks. His eyes rest on your lips, imagining what they taste like, how they would feel against his own. 

Without thinking, he closes the gap between you both, giving in to his desire to have you. You reciprocate, instantly becoming addicted to his taste and touch. He moves his hands down to your hips, gripping them so intensely you’re sure they will be bruised by morning. He pushes himself into you even closer and you feel his hard bulge through his jeans rubbing into you. Moving his lips from your mouth to your neck, sucking and nibbling on the sensitive skin, you can’t help but let out a small moan. Looking up at you, he takes one hand from your waist and wraps it around your mouth.

“Ya gotta be quiet baby, you think you can do that f’me?” he lowly whispers, his words deepened with arousal. You desperately nod your head. “Good girl.”

He carries on the assault of your neck with his rough hand clamped around your mouth, subduing any noises that attempted to escape. His free hand roams all over your body, feeling your curves through your latex purple and black suit, hungrily grabbing at you. You reach down to palm his bulge, the need for him possessing you. You hear his breath deepen as he pants into your neck at the sensation. 

“God, you don’t know what you do to me when I see you in this.” he grips at the material of your latex suit as his hand travels to your breast. “Been dyin’ to know what you feel like.. Taste like..” he trails off as he resumes kissing your neck. You moan into his hand, grinding yourself into his crotch. If you told yourself 10 minutes ago you would both be in this situation, you would’ve laughed. He was your least favourite person on earth, the mere thought of him being in your proximity other than right now made your skin crawl. That's probably why this felt so good, all that pent up emotion for one and other coming undone through each of your touches. 

All patience leaves your body in a flash, and you’re reaching down to unbuckle his belt, your movements fast but quiet, the knowledge of the three men outside the closet door mere meters away is prevalent in your mind, but you know if you can’t have Frank now you might explode from horniness. He welcomes your gesture as he begins slipping off your body suit in return, slowly peeling the fabric from your body to expose your chest and the tiny lacy bra covering your pebbled nipples. A low groan emerges from his throat at the sight, as he takes you in.

“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous doll, shame ya never gave me the chance to tell ya earlier, always too busy runnin’ that bratty mouth off at me.” he whispers, flashing you his signature cocky grin in the dark. You roll your eyes and begin to offer him a remark back but you’re interrupted with the feel of his tongue swirling around your nipple, taking the bud in between his teeth and biting softly, making you jerk in a delicious mixture of pain and pleasure. You have to hold your hand over your mouth to stop yourself from screaming out his name. You buck your hips into his, chasing any sense of friction. He notices your pleas of desperation, moving one of his hands down to your panties. “Fuckin’ hell doll, you’re fuckin’ soaked.. All f’me?” he softly utters in your ear, rubbing his fingers through your folds and drenched underwear.

“Only you Frank, fuck please fucking touch me.” you hush, surprised at the words coming out of your mouth. You can’t lie to yourself anymore, you’ve wanted him this entire time. As much as you hated him, you wanted him just as bad. Frank pushes the soaked garment to the side, coming into contact with your bare pussy. His calloused fingers run over your engorged clit and you almost cum instantly. The air in the closet was thick and electrified, the energy emitting from both of your bodies was intense, the movement of your bodies so close together was addicting. He begins flicking at the bundle of nerves, as your knees begin to buckle beneath you. It takes every bit of power you can muster to stay quiet, his skilled fingers bringing you closer and closer to the edge with every swipe. He replaces his fingers with his thumb, slipping the now free digits to your entrance, rimming the opening with his middle and index. 

“Shh doll, really gonna need ya to shut up now ok? Even though all I want is to hear ya scream my name, that can wait till later.” he gives you a quick wink as he enters you with his fingers, capturing your gasps and whines with his mouth, shoving his tongue deep into your face as the two muscles dance among one another, collecting each others’ tastes. He pumps in and out of you in a bruising pace, pushing so perfectly against your songy spot. You feel your release around the corner, about to take over you until you hear a voice outside the closet.

“You guys hear that? Someone in here?”

You and Frank freeze, his fingers still inside you as he fulls his mouth from your tit, putting his hand back over your mouth, staring you down with his lust blown pupils. You stay like this for a few minutes while you hear the men shuffling around outside the closet. He begins slowly pumping his fingers inside of you again, slyly smirking as he watches you go insane. You glare at him, shooting daggers into him as he torments you, knowing the effect he has over you. 

“Nah man I think you’re goin’ insane, ain’t no one here but us.”

Your shoulders drop, visibly relieved you weren’t caught but that was too damn close. Frank begins the pace, harder and more intense this time and its mere seconds before you cum around him, your walls clamping around his fingers like a vice.

“That's it doll, let it all out. Good fuckin’ girl, stayin’ so quiet f’me.” your eyes roll to the back of your head and knees threaten to give out beneath you, but his strong arm wraps around your waist, holding you up before you crash into the wood beneath you. Despite cumming as hard as you ever have before moments ago, your arousal crashes through you, watching him remove his fingers from your pussy and take them into his mouth, sucking your release from his digits, revelling in the taste. You start reaching down to give him attention too. He can’t help but throw his head back as you move to your knees as carefully as possible to not make noise or rock the closet too much. Your face is met with his cock, impossibly thick and long, leaking pre-cum from the tip. You almost drool at the sight, and wonder how on earth it will fit inside you. You place your tongue on his tip, collecting the juices leaving his member, the salt making you salivate more. You begin bobbing your head slowly, taking as much of him in as you can. You can’t get enough as your eyes well with tears not even being halfway down. He takes his hands and laces his fingers through your hair, gripping harshly as he makes a fist with your hair. Frank begins guiding your head up and down his length, jaw slack and mouth agape at the feeling of your hot mouth around him.

“Just like that sweetheart, fuck just like that..” he darkly whispers, as if he was trying to stifle the noises erupting in his throat. He starts fucking into your mouth, pushing himself so unbelievably deep inside of you, 

“Needed to punish that fuckin bratty mouth of yours.. Fuck, the way you’ve been speakin’ t’me these weeks and you expected me not to fill it? Dirty fuckin’ girl needed a big cock to finally get her to shut up.” you moan around his cock at his lewd words, as he lands a soft slap to the side of you face. 

“If you can’t be quiet doll, imma have to stop, ya don’ want that d’ya? My little slut can’t get enough of my cock.” you shake your head, meeting his eyes with a pleading gaze because the thought of him stopping right now was not even an option for you. “That's what I thought. Attagirl” he rubs over your cheek where he struck you, contrasting from the previous sharpness with his comforting touch.

“Alright, we got what we need. Let’s go boys, boss wants us to meet him at the bar.”

The footsteps outside of the closet move through the room, towards the door as you hear the door unlocking and them pass through.

They’re gone, and you and Frank are now alone, his cock still twitching in your mouth.

You look up to him and smile around his girth as he smiles back.

“Fuckin’ finally,” he exhales, relieved, grabbing your elbows from your side and pulling you up to match his height. “I don’t know if I could’ve handled fuckin’ ruining ya in here, unable to hear you scream my name.”

He steps out the closet, taking his gun in his hand to make sure there was no one outside. You couldn’t help but giggle at the sight, his messed up hair, flushed cheeks, clothes rustled as he steps out with his hard cock first and jeans undone. 

“It's all clear doll, come out.”

You leave to join him, as you peel the rest of your suit off of you while stepping towards him. He takes you in a firm embrace and pushes his lips on yours as he sheds the rest of his clothes. Running your hands all over his toned chest, feeling every indentation of his abs as he does the same, cupping your breasts and kneading them like dough while fucking your mouth with his tongue.

“Bend over the couch f’me doll, be a good girl yeah?” you nod, turning away from him as you push yourself down the arm of the couch, wiggling your hips at him. He lets out a primal groan, the sight sending him over the edge. You feel a harsh slap ring across your ass. You yelp in pain laced with pleasure as he slaps you again once more, followed by a couple more. Your breaths are hiccuped, as you whine and push your ass into his crotch, dying for any sense of friction.

“God dunno how much I’ve been wantin’ to do that, spank this perfect ass for all the times you’ve misbehaved. What’s up doll, cat got ya tongue?” he says, reaching down to cup your jaw and angle your face towards him.

“‘M sorry sir, I’ll be good from now on, I swear.. Please Frank I need you so bad.”

“Need me to do what, sweet thing? Use ya big girl words f’me yeah? Know ya can.”

“Fuck Frank, please. Please just fuck me. Need to feel your big dick inside me- oh!” your words are cut off as he pushes himself fully into you, the stretch of your walls burning so good as he gets situated inside of you.

“Fuck darlin’ you’re so fucking tight. I’m gonna fuckin’ ruin ya.” he begins thrusting into you with a harsh and passionate pace, his heavy balls smacking off your clit. Pleasure coarses through your veins, the feeling unlike nothing you have experienced before, with either yourself or anyone else. His tip repeatedly kisses your cervix with every thrust. The noises erupting from you are sinful, you shamelessly cry out as he grips onto your hips, keeping you firm in place.

“Fuckfuckfuck Frank right there don’t stop don’t you fucking stop. ‘M so close.. Fuck please ohmygod.” you say through strangled sobs, your moans are borderline pornographic. 

“Let it all out babydoll, milk my fuckin’ cock. It’s all yours darlin’” he reaches down to your engorged bud, flicking it hurriedly. It’s not long until your release, forcing his cock out with the sheer power of your pussy clamping and the long stream of squirt leaving your sex. 

“There she goes! Atta-fuckin-girl doll, mess up that pretty pussy.” he replaces his fingers with his tip as he rubs it across your throbbing clit, prolonging your orgasm for as long as humanly possible, feeling the gush of your sweet release on his cock. “Fuck doll, you look so perfect cummin’ for me.”

He pushes his cock back inside of you, grabbing your hair into a fist, pulling you back as you arch further into him. “My fuckin’ girl, who does this pussy belong to sweet girl?”

“You sir, all you. I’m all yours.” you say through strangled sobs, putting your hands beneath you to balance yourself.

“Damn fuckin’ right it is princess. You belong to me.” he growls as his pace quickens, chasing his own release. It’s not long before his thrusts begin to falter, as you feel his dick twitch inside of you.

“Fill me up sir, please I wanna feel it. I wanna feel you.”

“Don’ have to tell me twice, every drop of my seed belongs in your sweet cunt. Ya gonna be feelin’ me for days baby girl.” Frank groans, dropping his hand full of your hair to your hips, as he grips you in his large hands drilling into you. You wish you could’ve somehow recorded the noises he made when he emptied himself inside of you. You could’ve sworn you heard him whimper along with saying your name and chanting curses like a prayer. The feeling of his member throb and twitch inside of you is something you never want to forget. 

Reluctantly after a few minutes, he removes himself from you. He stands back as he watches your mixed juices flow from your hole, evidence of the previous events dropping onto the hardwood floor beneath you. He can’t help but push his finger back inside of you, forcing his cum back. Your overstimulated pussy weeps with the action, making you whimper once more.

“You look so pretty, stuffed full’a me.”

He pulls away and places a kiss to your shoulder as you turn onto your back, sprawled out naked for him, your lips flushed and swollen from his kisses, hickeys beginning to form on your neck and your dripping hole instantly make him hard as a rock once more, after fully unloading himself in you minutes prior. You notice, and offer him a playful grin, moving your hands back down to your sex, swirling the juice with your fingers. He lets out a groan at what his eyes are seeing.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl, just got stuffed to the brim but still needy? I’ll take care of ya doll, let Frankie take care of ya..”

You fucked three more times that night, all over the apartment. Luckily the drunkards who forced you into this predicament were long gone, probably passed out in an alleyway somewhere. But you couldn’t give less of a fuck, there was only one man on your mind for the rest of the night.

Frank fucking Castle.

──── ୨୧ ────

a/n: i hope you enjoyed ml, im honestly quite proud of this one, so obsessed with frank dirty talkingg it makes me feral

my inbox is open!

[moonstruckme]

vampire!james is such a fun concept!

what about if reader was a newly turned vampire too and James lets her feed on him

like the scene with elena feeding on damon in TVD?

because blood sharing is intimate :P

Hi lovely! I don’t really remember what this was like in TVD because I last watched that show probably 10 years ago and I don’t think I finished it but hopefully this is along the lines of what you were thinking, thank you for requesting <3

cw: blood, feels mature at times but no smut (vampires are just hot idk)

vampire!James x fledgling!reader ♡ 1k words

James hates seeing you like this. He remembers what it feels like—being aware for the first time of every nerve ending in your body, your mind whirring at a thousand miles a minute, everything worse and louder and so much more than it had felt when you were human. 

He’d warned you the transition would be like this, but you’d wanted it anyway. You keep trying to act like you’re alright even now, trembling from head to toe in the corner of the bed, eyes darting towards every sound and movement like your body thinks you’re under attack. The three bags of blood you’d gotten from the butcher lie empty on the floor. Normally James only needs one every few days, but this is one thing he’d forgotten about the transition, he supposes. The hunger is intense. He won’t be able to get you more for at least a few hours.

“Sweetheart,” James says softly. You still flinch as though he’s shouted. “You should try to go to sleep. It’ll help with the cravings.”

“I don’t think I can.” Your lisp is sort of cute. You haven’t been able to retract your fangs yet, have pricked your own lip more than once. “I can hear so many hearts. They’re loud.” 

James nods. He’s learned to tune them out, like the hum of electricity or the rush of wind outside, but he knows what you mean. If he focuses, he can listen to the beating heart of the bird nesting in the tree by your window, the neighbor’s cat, the woman who lives at the end of your street. Sometimes they seem synchronized together, the unceasing, steady beat of life in the world. It gets louder when he’s starving. 

“The butcher won’t be open until morning,” he tells you, though you know already. You nod, wrapping your arms around your legs. “But I can try to help, if you want. You could try feeding from me.” 

It’s an idea James has been toying with since you said you wanted to turn. He doesn’t think you could survive off each other forever—he’s not sure if he still makes new blood, if his body works that way anymore—but he doesn’t have need for his blood the way a human does. Maybe he could sate you for a bit. 

You give him a look of wary surprise, but James knows how you feel well enough to recognize the hope behind it. Any chance of feeding will sound good to you right now. 

“Can we do that?” you ask. 

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “But I don’t think it’ll hurt to try. Might taste a bit stale, though.” 

It’s a lame joke, and you don’t laugh. Your trembling worsens, your restraint barely holding out against your cravings. Your voice is small. “I don’t know if I can be gentle. I feel…weird.” 

James offers you a smile. “I know, honey. It’s okay. Can I touch you?” 

You nod. James is careful about it, not wanting to overstimulate your sensitive nerves. He takes your hands in his, slowly guiding you onto his lap. 

“You’re alright,” he promises. “Let me help.” 

Your brows crease, and your lip starts bleeding again when you prick it with your fang. James gently thumbs the droplet away. “I don’t want to hurt you,” you whisper, scared. 

“I’ll be fine.” He looks you in the eyes, swiping his thumbs over your cheeks calmingly. “You did it for me, right? That wasn’t so bad. Just…” James palms the back of your head, bringing it to the crook of his neck like an embrace. “Take what you need.” 

James doesn’t have a heartbeat for you to hear, but that doesn’t matter; once you’re close you can’t restrain yourself anymore. You bite into his neck eagerly. 

It feels like you described. Part of James worried that you were stretching the truth, trying to make him feel better, but the places where your mouth connects to his skin are suddenly the center of James’ universe. He can feel his blood rushing to meet you, to sate you, fill you up and be everything you need. Your low moan vibrates against his skin, and James laughs, dizzy and drunk on you. 

One of your hands fists in his hair, pulling his head further to the side. He bears his neck to you readily. He hopes you glut yourself on him, stay here with him, keep your mouth suctioned to his skin until you both die whatever deaths immortals can. 

He feels a bead of wet roll down his chest. You make a soft, thoughtless sound in the back of your throat, leaving his neck to chase it. Your tongue licks a stripe up James’ left pectoral. 

He blinks slowly as you wipe your mouth, breathing hard. It feels like waking up from a dream. You have blood smeared around your mouth and nearly dripping from your chin. You look embarrassed as you catch it with your fingers and lick them clean. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“It’s okay.” James smiles at you. He still feels slightly doped up, but it’s also sweet to see you like this, pupils still blown from the taste of him and shy about it at the same time. “You were right, that was nice.” 

One side of your mouth tilts up tentatively. “I didn’t hurt you? You were so controlled when you fed from me.” 

“That’s not your fault, honey, you can’t be controlled this early on.” James kisses you, pleased to find your fangs are starting to retract. “It’s not possible. But no, it didn’t hurt.” 

Your smile blooms with relief. “You didn’t taste stale,” you reassure him. “You sort of tasted like yourself, if that makes sense.” 

He nods. You’d tasted like yourself, too, all sticky sweet and addicting. 

You let your breath out in a whoosh, sagging in his hold. “I’m…god, how do you manage to walk home after this? I’m so tired.” 

“It gets easier with time,” James reassures you. He pets the back of your head, turning you both around so his back rests against the headboard of your bed. “You can sleep, though. We’ll clean you up tomorrow.” 

There are no arguments from you. You’re fading fast, head falling naturally back into the curve of his neck. 

“Sorry,” you mumble, “I wasn’t as nice about it as you were with me.” 

“Sure you were, sweetheart. You’re always nice, I don’t think you can help it.” 

“Yeah, well.” You turn your head slightly to mush a kiss over the puncture marks you’ve left him. “Thanks.” 

[soulcaketuesday]

Eight of Pentacles 🌤️

Eight of Pentacles symbolises diligence, self improvement and learning new skills. Miki sits peacefully in an overgrown sunlit garden, having spent all day painting birdhouses. Instead of chasing his nostalgia, he's honouring it by creating something practical and new. Sometimes you need to let go of perfectionism and just enjoy the act of creating - it might not be a masterpiece that perfectly captures the magic of childhood, but putting a lot of effort and sincerity into a project will always be worth your time.

this is one of my pieces for a zine that was unfortunately cancelled. the other piece is here, go look at this kid winning the cycle of violence. drafts and notes below

will you guys make fun of me if i over-explain this to death 🥺👉👈 so um the inspiration for this is the start and end of ep26: starting with kozue trying to save a birds nest as a tree is being cut down, and ending with miki putting up a bird house to replace the tree. the bird house doesn't repair their relationship - they don't speak in the moment except to insult each other - but when we see them next in the finale they're a lot more comfortable with each other! is miki's birdhouse an empty gesture or is it the first shaky step to finding an understanding? idk 😊 i think its neat

i thought itd be nice if he was approaching art and creativity in a more relaxed way, just enjoying learning a new skill. repeating the same song over and over will only get you so far <3 i think this boy needs a new hobby <3

some things:

the designs of the birdhouses are based off the twins' bedroom. they start off a bit more messy and simple but get more detailed towards the bottom. he's getting better thru practice! and the last pentacle is still a work in progress

the fireflies were originally going to be flowers, and i think i spent like 20 minutes googling native japanese wildflowers that would grow in a setting like this and also had the right flower symbolism i needed 🫠 but anyway in one of the early check-ins someone said they liked the fireflies and i thought sure!!!! sounds good lmao :D imo they imply a late summers evening and a long day of outdoor work which probably works better than me struggling with flower symbolism lol

the shoes looks good as hell before i remembered i had to cover them up with grass and the frame. now they just blend in to the piano a bit. sad!

for some reason i did all the line art for this and then painted it anyway. why did i do that.

i'm still kinda fond of the first one with miki studiously leaning over a miniature rose garden while the actual garden grows wild around him... one of the interpretations of eight of pentacles (reversed) is being so focused on details that you overlook the bigger picture, which i think really fits miki as the student councils Bloke Who Does Fuck All. he has the appearance of someone who's very analytical and sensible, but he's so locked in his own tiny perception of the world that he mostly just comes up with whatever conclusions suit him best, regardless of any harm he might be ignoring or outright causing. HOWEVER that's kind of an ungenerous interpretation for a relatively chill card 😌 also i had no ideas for a background and the composition didn't work with the border so rip to that idea

i liked the stopwatches as pentacles so tried to reuse it in the third design but was out of ideas by then. the seconds thumbnail with the birdhouses and the piano kind of came naturally so that's what i went with :) and it more or less stayed the same in the final result. i was thinking of adding some kozue presence, like empty milkshake cups or a birds nest or graffiti on the side of the old piano, but imo that would have made it too cluttered. i literally did forget to add paint pots tho OOPS