#my foot keeps going numb

[fibrospoons]

Spoonies & new symptoms

Is it a new symptom of an illness I already have, or a different new illness?

Is a side effect of a new treatment? If so, which one?

*vaguely searches Internet*

Internet: "Call 911 now! Go to A&E!!!"

Me: I will choose to ignore it until it becomes a problem.

[akascow]

i hope yall never have to experience toothache due to sinus inflation and cabin pressure changes during a flight bc holy shit that was fucking agonizing

[annievrse]

fresh out the slammer

sukuna x reader —ᡣ𐭩 fic c/w: singular mention of sa w/c: 1.1k a/n: all characters mentioned are 22, shoko is your best friend.

"you're not meant to be here."

the man who stands at your doorstep scoffs. your 6 foot 3, pink-haired ex takes up the entirety of the doorway, and you have to force down the urge to jump him.

you tilt your head when he doesn't answer. "ryomen, you need to leave. right now."

a single eyebrows arches. "i know damn well you ain't talkin’ to me like that."

rolling your eyes, you know he won’t do anything you say. so, opening your front door wider, sukuna steps inside, his left hand scratching the back of his neck.

“see, being nice isn’t that hard,” he teases, glancing at you over his shoulder. sighing, you close the door, eyeing him wearily as he lingers in the hallway.

“new key hook?” sukuna smiles, pointing at the wall.

you shake your head in disbelief. “why’re you here?”

sukuna raises his eyebrows, spinning to face you. but you realise your mistake too late.

with the door at your back and nowhere to go, you’re cornered by your ex-boyfriend. yet, he seems to know exactly what he’s doing, with his tongue poking his cheek as he approaches.

“where were you on sunday?”

your breath hitches in your throat when he runs a finger along your collarbone, but you won’t let him get you that easy.

“nowhere,” you insist, staring him down. he always said you were brave for doing that — you were the only one to ever do so.

“funny,” the corner of his mouth turns upward. “i heard something different.”

you give him no reaction. besides, what’s it to him?

“ok, and?”

“ooo,” he laughs deeply, his head tilting. “so it’s true.”

“ryomen—“

“come on baby, you know that’s not my name to you.”

“ryomen,” you press, putting your hand on his chest to keep him at a distance. “you need to leave.”

the faux pout he gives you makes you want to slap him, but you can’t bring yourself to do something so heinous to him.

“fine,” you concede. “yeah, i went on a hinge date, so what?”

“so what?” sukuna mutters bitterly. “it’s not ‘so what’ when he tries to force himself on you, baby.”

your face heats at the mention of it. “sukuna—“

“and you didn’t think to tell me?” he presses his hand on the door behind you, his body dangerously close to yours.

“i was scared,” you whisper, gaze on his chest to avoid his eyes. you notice his body visibly relax, his head hanging closer to yours to hear. “i knew you would do something about it, and i didn’t want you to get in trouble.”

“you don’t need to worry about me,” sukuna asserts, his finger under your chin to lift your face towards his. “it’s already been taken care of, and i’m still here.”

your eyes widen slightly, head moving to look at his right hand on the door. spread on the brown wood is his hand, larger as always, the pale skin on his knuckles red and purple and bloody and you’re shocked you didn’t see it before.

reaching up, you grab sukuna’s hand to cradle it in your own. “you’re joking.”

“you’re not a joke to me, sweetheart.”

sighing, you side step him, holding his injured hand in your own. he follows mindlessly behind you, checking out his left hand that is just as bloody as the other.

entering the bathroom, you don’t need to tell him where to sit before you dig the first aid kit out of the cupboard beneath the sink. you hadn’t had to use it in a while.

“kuna,” you murmur, observing his hands. he doesn’t reply. instead, he watches you, like he always does.

faces level, you set everything onto the counter. standing between his thighs makes your body feel numb. and when one of his hands covers your hip, you focus on the other.

sukuna doesn’t flinch when you clean his knuckles with alcohol, and doesn’t object when you smooth frozen band-aids over the particularly bad cuts.

“thanks, baby,” sukuna says, not checking to see if you cleaned them correctly—you always do.

“don’t mention it,” you dismiss flippantly, putting the red soaked cloth in the sink and the aid pack back in the cupboard.

the silence is comfortable but charged with something you don’t want to acknowledge. the muted chatter from the tv in the living room penetrates the bathroom wall, and you come back to your senses.

“does shoko know?”

“she told me.”

you sigh, if she couldn’t get her hands on your hinge date, she’d tell someone who could—and he did.

“he had a bruise where you punched him,” sukuna quips. “but i may have made it worse.”

you twist your lips sheepishly. “yeah, well, i wasn’t letting him get away that easy.”

“that’s my girl.”

the comment makes your stomach flutter pathetically.

“you wanna stay over?” you blurt, face warm.

sukuna knows better than to tease you right now, so he nods, and stands from the closed toilet seat.

you swiftly leave the bathroom, pacing down the hallway to curl up on the couch. sukuna walks in idly, taking in the space he’s spent so much time in. one thing catches his eye, and then he’s poking fun at you.

“nice picture.”

your eyes dart to where he’s looking on the bookshelf, and god forbid, it’s a photo of the two of you at tokyo tower. but, you’re not embarrassed.

“yeah, i look hot.”

sukuna chuckles, sitting next to you and propping his feet up on the coffee table. “you look hot all the time, shut up.”

drawing in a breath, you can’t contain yourself anymore. you circle your arm around his neck, fingers threading through his pink locks. sukuna turns his head toward you, lips inches apart.

“feet off the table.”

“don’t tell me what to do.”

you snicker, brushing his hair off his forehead.

“fresh out the slammer,” you joke. “and you come here.”

“of course,” sukuna looks confused. “where else would i go?”

you bite the inside of your cheek to stop your emotions from showing.

“i don’t know,” you glance down at when his fingers play with the drawstring of your sweatpants. “a new girl?”

“please,” sukuna scoffs. “like anyone else would put up with my shit.”

you give him a deadpan look.

sukuna rolls his eyes. “you’re my pretty baby, i’ll always come home to you or whatever,” he says lazily.

you run your thumb over his cheekbone. "kuna.”

he raises his eyebrows in question, but he knows what you’re asking.

“i need something from you," you mumble, tracing his lips with your eyes.

"oh yeah?" he smirks, voice low. "and what's that?"

you shrug, licking your lips. “nothing.”

sukuna rolls his eyes and lifts your hips up and over him, your knees bracketing his thighs. you squeal softly, forgetting just how strong he is.

sukuna shifts his hips underneath you. “you’re so—”

“kiss me.”

you don’t have to tell him twice.

[superhoeva]

if there’s one thing about jack abbot, it’s that he’s going to mock you during sex… though never done out of cruelty or with any malicious intent. if fact, the two of you don’t even think of it as such—mocking.

his words are more of a… provocative ribbing that he knows will flood your mind with a haze. a haze you’re comfortable with floating in, that fills you full, right into a world-bending breaking point.

you’re both on your sides, facing and pressing against each other. substituting oxygen with your panting huffs, jack inhales your moans with sloppy, spit-slick kisses. he feels you shiver in his arms when he slips himself back inside, resettling your leg over his hip to push as far into your pussy as you’ll let him.

jack smirks to himself, his palm moving to splay against the cheek of your ass and yank you closer. he grunts through a sudden exhale at the new angle, commencing a roll of his waist that causes a gasp to burn your lungs.

“fuck, jack,” your mewl, voice weak and wobbly. “ah—ah, ‘s so deep…”

“is it? s’it nice and deep, baby?” he mumbles at your lips, copying your desperate nod and small yeahs with an expression of pity you can tell is fake. “wonder ‘f i can get any deeper...”

you aren’t given a chance to wonder the same before jack is gripping your ass with a stronger squeeze. his tender thrusts adjust into a sharp, sturdy pounding that jerks his balls back and forth against your pussy.

leaking around his thickness, you hand reaches behind to clench the sheet beneath you. it’s the only thing you can manage, the rest of your mind a sweet mush.

“t-too much.” you can barley talk, air escaping your body faster than you can replace it. “it’s too much, feels too good.”

jack doesn’t let up, cock throbbing and pumping hard into your heat. his bottom lip pokes out, just barely, matching your blissed out expression.

“oh, ‘too much, it’s too much’,” he recites, drawing out the words in a teasing tone you wouldn’t tolerate from anyone else. “i don’t think so, baby. shit, you’re doing so good. takin’ my cock all nice and pretty.”

you crumble against jack but he holds you steady. lips smushed into his neck, you smear it messy with the spit drooling from slurred, open-mouthed mumbles. 

“you’re so big,” you stammer, vision going blurry at the wet squelch that sounds whenever he rears out of you, and subsequent groan that jumps from jack when he slicks back inside your creaming hole. 

“ooh, i‘m so big?” jack keeps his pace steady through the witty responses, and you can’t yourself from meeting his thrusts with your own grind. you don’t have to see him to feel the grin quirking the corners of his mouth. “hm? maybe i should pull out, give you a break—”

“no. no,” you whine over the rocking of the bed, clutching his as if he’s truly considering slipping his cock out and leaving you empty and cold. “no, don’t stop. gonna come again…”

the words flip a switch in jacks brain and he fucks you the hardest he has all night. foot planting into the bed, he sounds with deep coos at your uncontrollable cries he forces out of you.

it’s disgusting, the way you’ve coated his member in a velvety mixture of your juices. dripping down, it even collects against his sack, glossing him and making his eyes roll.

“gimme that cum, baby. just like last time, squirt it all out for me.”

you body goes numb yet feels like it’s imploding all at once. jack watches the way you shiver in his grasp, clenching around his swollen cock as you gush messily. he fucks you through it, the liquid spurting to wet his stomach and balls.

“that’s it,” he chokes out, inching dangerously close to his own finish. it only takes a few more pulses of your peak to finally clutch his own, plunging feverishly until he’s balls deep inside you. “f-fuck, yeah, right there.”

jack breaks. groaning into the side of your face and latching onto you while comes, the inescapable bliss makes his entire body twitch with harsh trembles.

“holy fuck, i’m still goin,” jack almost growls, air caught in his throat at the continuous ropes of cum he spills into you. the both of you are still heaving and coming as he leaks out of you. your lips puffy and swollen, and a sticky mess. it goes on for so long that jack ends up laughing through his moans, stomach sore from all the clenching.

it takes a few more minutes for your bodies to finally melt into tangled piles of limbs, the warm residue of your climax swimming nicely in your belly.

“you still with me, gorgeous?”

the only response you can muster is a sleepy mm-mm, and he gives you an equally-exhausted laugh. you only find the strength to peel open your eyes when a soft hand cradles your chin to tilt your head.

eyelids fluttering, you stare at him in a lost, fuzzy daze. thumb stroking your cheek, jack blinks sleepily at you before planting a soft kiss on the corner of your lips.

“i’m right here,” he promises, words certain but still far away when they reach your ears. “right here, baby. need you to come back for me, okay?”

a whine seeps from your lips. it’s not a defiance but you’re not obliging him either. you’re just… still in orbit, where you are the sun and jack’s the earth just before a dawn; as usual, he’ll push past the incoming fatigue, and wait for the otherworldly, ingrained tug that will eventually pull you back to him.

“right here…”

© 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐨𝐞𝐯𝐚

[bucky-bucky-bucky-bucky]

Mercy Kill | Bucky Barnes x Reader

Hello! This was the fic that got the most votes in the poll I ran recently, so here it is. I'm glad yall picked this one, cause I was really excited to write it!

Also, there is something wrong and I cannot tag people properly right now for some reason. So, if you are on my tallest and happen upon this fic, I'm sorry! I don't know what the fuck is going on 😭

Word count: 10.6k

Warnings: PTSD, Hydra, blood, violence, minor reader injury, Bucky injury, angsty shit

“But if I could talk to him, if I could just see him-” you pled, “just for a minute! Please, he needs me and-”

But Bucky’s doctor remained steadfast. He crossed his arms over his chest and refused to move out of your way. Behind him sat the door to Bucky’s room, the door you hadn’t been allowed to enter for hours now. Bucky was only feet away, but you couldn’t get to him. Couldn’t check on him. Couldn’t hold his hand. 

Anxiety rendered your hands completely numb. The urgent need to see him, to take care of him, to reassure him vibrated inside your chest. Every second that passed, every second that Bucky sat alone in his room in the medbay filled you with dread. Bucky needed you. You always swore you’d be there for him no matter what. But no amount of begging could get you through that door. 

The mental image of him lying in his hospital bed all by himself threatened to make your throat close. Bucky didn’t like the medbay; his PTSD reared its ugly head each time he stepped foot in the white, sterile environment. He just couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom, of pain and suffering and agony. And he didn’t like doctors, didn’t trust them. Not after he suffered so severely at the hands of Hydra’s “medical” team. 

Every time he required treatment after a mission, he refused. He fought and clawed against the gloved hands that tried to guide him onto a gurney. And only when you calmly and kindly begged him to allow the doctors to take a look at him did he relent. But he held you tight as a vice grip the entire time. The sensation of your hand in his was the only thing that kept him grounded, kept him from spiraling. With you there by his side, he found a sliver of safety amongst the white coats that poked and prodded him. 

Today, however, was different. 

Things didn’t go as smoothly as you or Bucky had hoped. And your many calls for backup went unanswered. It looked like this would be the last mission for you and Bucky. Like you’d return home in matching body bags.

But just as he was overwhelmed by Hydra operatives, completely swarmed and swallowed by their agents- the backup team arrived. Hope bloomed anew as you heard their leader’s voice in your comm, announcing that they’d breach the door in the next few seconds. And they did. They helped you take down every last Hydra agent, freeing Bucky from their clutches. 

But before you could rush to his bloodied side, a few members of the backup team whisked him away. They loaded Bucky onto their jet and set off toward the compound, leaving you and the rest of their team behind. No one listened to your pleas, your desperate insistence. They assured you that Bucky would be fine, that they’d get him the medical care he needed. But he needed you, too. He needed you to sit with him, to hold his hand. 

No such luck. 

As you boarded the jet that brought you and Bucky to the mission site, you kicked yourself for not demanding that you accompany him. It felt like you failed him, like you couldn’t keep your word. He deserved better from you. He deserved to have his anchor there by his side when the flashbacks gripped him by the throat. But you swore to yourself that you’d visit him in the medbay as soon as you landed. That you’d sit by his bedside and hold his hand.

But you didn’t- you couldn’t.

“Our new policy says no visitors,” Bucky’s doctor said. 

“I’ll do whatever I have to do,” you insisted. “I’ll sign forms, I’ll wear a visitor’s badge, I’ll-”

“No exceptions.”

Even if Bucky’s hearing hadn’t gotten a boost from the serum, you were certain he ‘d be able to hear you fighting with his doctor.  

“This is ridiculous- since when?”  Passersby gave you judgmental sideways looks, but you paid them no mind. “Every doctor and nurse here knows that he needs me. That he isn’t comfortable around doctors- he has PTSD. Please, I always sit with him-”

“Not anymore.” The doctor nodded at a security guard who took you gruffly by the arm and escorted you out. 

It didn’t make any sense. Every hospital allowed visitors. And even though the medbay wasn’t exactly your standard general hospital, they operated by most of the same rules. The always allowed visitors- sometimes two at a time. Their patients needed to see family and friends- needed a support system. And you were Bucky’s. But they stole you from his side for something as insignificant as a policy change.

With your hopes of being there for Bucky dashed, you pulled out your phone; the screen blurred as tears welled in your eyes. Bucky’s number sat the very top of your ‘favorites’ list, just as it had since you became friends. With a shaking hand, you pressed ‘call’ and held the phone to your ear. It rang. And rang and rang and rang. Until finally, Bucky’s voicemail answered. 

“You’ve reached James Barnes. Leave a message.”

“Hey, Buck,” you sniffled. “I guess you might be sleeping. Um, I had it out with your doctor in the hall, but he wouldn’t let me see you. Something about a-” you rolled your eyes, “a policy change or something. So, just… just let them take care of you, okay? I know how you feel about doctors, I know you’re probably scared- but you need to let them treat you. You’re safe. I promise you, you’re safe here. And you can call or text me any time- we can facetime. Whatever you need. I’ll see you when you get out, okay? Call me.”

But he didn’t. 

Without Bucky around, your world didn’t fall into place the way it was supposed to. Everything around you felt off kilter. Disjointed. Like you’d been dropped into a universe in which you didn’t belong. Part of you was used to this feeling by now. Every time Bucky went off on a mission that didn’t include you, you found yourself in this same, fragmented reality.

But this version was far worse. Because Bucky wasn’t away, he was here; he was only a few floors away from you. But you couldn’t see him. And you knew, without a shadow of a doubt, just how uncomfortable he was. How scared and alone and miserable. He was hurt- he needed rest. But you were certain he wouldn’t get a wink of sleep in the medbay. Not with his near-pathological fear of medical treatment. 

Two days passed without you taking notice. Meetings came and went without your attendance. You missed training sessions and team dinners. None of it mattered, not without Bucky. He was all you thought about. All you cared about. Every absent thought, every passing notion revolved around him. He was in good hands in the medbay, you knew he was. But you couldn’t stop yourself from worrying about him. From spiraling.

Was he getting enough sleep? Was he allowing the doctors and nurses to care for him? Was he eating? Was he having panic attacks? You found yourself afflicted by the not knowing. By the unanswered questions. On any normal day, you knew about everything going on in Bucky’s life, every thought populating his mind. But now, you were adrift in a dark see of uncertainty. 

It didn’t help that your every attempt at contact with Bucky came up empty. Hundreds of texts went unanswered. A myriad of voicemails garnered no response. He was radio silent; it made you nauseous. He should’ve been able to text back, right? To, at the very least, give your messages a thumbs up or a heart? It was out of character- completelyunheard of- for him to not answer you. 

What if he was worse off than you thought? Was he physically incapable of even using his phone? Was he comatose? Was he dying? The possibilities were endless. Nauseating. Horrifying. Each scenario you imagined was far worse than the last. Far scarier. Far deadlier. And calls to the medbay offered no insight. You urged them to give you an update on his condition, to provide you with proof of life. But they refused.

You supposed that went against their new policy, too.

The anxiety, the worry, kept you wide awake. But even if you could sleep, you wouldn’t dare. Closing your eyes brought with it the possibility that you could miss correspondence from Bucky. Or his doctor. And you weren’t going to risk it. Hell, you even brought your phone with you into the shower. Just in case. It had been two days since you last saw Bucky. Since you last heard his voice. You wouldn’t dream of missing a call from him. 

Twice a day, you cleaned and redressed the stitches holding your side closed and appraised the butterfly stitches above your brow. Everything inside of you ached to trade places with Bucky. To swap your minor injuries for his.

He’d gotten the large brunt of the onslaught when the ambush descended on the two of you. He’d drowned in a sea of Hydra operatives as they stole his weapons and beat him within an inch of his life. He was strong, yes, but he was still only one man. And taking on throngs of Hydra’s mercenaries without a single weapon was difficult- even for him. You did your best to provide support from the sidelines, to take out as many of his attackers as you could. But it wasn’t enough. Not until the backup team arrived did the horde of Hydra agents fall.

 And now, Bucky was lying in a hospital bed. Without you. 

He didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve to hurt anymore. To bleed. He didn’t deserve to be in this line of work. Every other week, his assignments involved Hydra. And every other week, he was forced to retraumatize himself. Forced to see things he never wanted to see again. Forced to come face to face with people who hurt him, tortured him, treated him like an object.

For him, you wished nothing but ease. Warmth. A soft, slow life filled with love and gentle hands and safety. He never should’ve been forced to continue this kind of work. To put himself in harm’s way. To sacrifice his mental health over and over again. Hadn’t he given enough? Hadn’t he suffered enough? He did everything he could to build back his body and mind. To recover from the horrors he endured. And yet, here he was, being forced to risk his progress and peace of mind, all for a world that hated him.

On the third day of Bucky’s absence, your body begged for sleep. For a respite from the worry. For a meal that didn’t consist of Doritos and Gatorade. But you didn’t have the energy or the attention required to assemble a decent lunch. When Bucky got out of the medbay, you told yourself, the two of you would have a nice dinner together. You’d share his bed with him as you often did. And you’d both find solace in the arms of the other.

“I’m guessing we’re not going to spin class?” 

Nat’s voice yanked you out of your spiral, scaring you half to death. She leaned against the wall nearest your bed, her arms crossed over her chest. How long had she been standing there?

Nat took in the scene before her. You laid sprawled out on your bed, resembling roadkill. Your head rested where your feet should’ve been, and your feet leaned against the headboard. Your arms were stretched wide against the bedspread like a dead starfish. And your gaze rested firmly on your phone, as though you were waiting for a call.

“What?” You eyed her for a moment before dropping your head back to your mattress. “I forgot about that. Sorry.”

“You need to get out of this room,” Nat gave your shoulder a gentle shake. “And you need to stop moping. Your life can’t come to a screeching halt because Bucky’s hurt.”

“I know…” But Bucky was your life- or at least, a very, very big part of it. 

She was right, though. You knew she was right. 

But it wasn’t just that he was hurt. It wasn’t just that he was alone. Of course, those were both massive, contributing factors. But it was the missing him. It was the not seeing him, the not talking to him. The not knowing if he was scared and panicked and lonely. The two of you were inseparable; being without him felt like losing a part of yourself. Like half of your heart was missing. 

An unsettling cold seemed to worm its way under your skin without Bucky around. The world was a darker, utterly freezing place. No number of sweatshirts or blankets could keep the chill from biting at your skin. No heating pad could stop the frequent shivers. Somehow, your insides fell to subzero, Siberian temperatures. But after a while, you didn’t care anymore. You stopped trying to rid your body of the piercing, bitter cold. Only Bucky could do that. And he wasn’t coming back to you any time soon.

“It just sucks,” you groaned. A small shiver rocketed up your spine.

“I know. But it’s not like he’s dead.”

“I’m talking about the whole policy change thing in the medbay. It’s bullshit. Bucky needs me,” you let out a frustrated huff. “I mean, when did they put that in place? And why? It doesn’t even make sense.”

Nat furrowed her brow, “policy change?”

“Yeah, the new rule that doesn’t allow any visitors,” 

“Oh. Right. That.” Nat threw her gaze to the window. Cleared her throat. “Well, I don’t know why they’d do that. But yeah, it sucks. Anyway,” she took a seat on your bed, “if you get changed, we can still make it to cycle. Maybe it’ll make you feel better?”

You shook your head against the mattress. “You should go without me. I haven’t slept at all the last few nights- I barely have the energy to breathe. I can’t even fathom taking a spin class right now.” 

It was the truth. You didn’t have it in you to spend an hour burning calories you desperately needed. To waste your limited energy on something so trivial. But if you were completely honest with Nat, you’d tell her that the class would force you to focus on something other than your phone. And if you missed a call or text from Bucky because of something as stupid as a workout class, you’d lose your mind.

“Okay, that’s fine,” Nat sighed. “We can-”

“Hey!” Hill leaned against your doorframe, dressed in her workout clothes. “Are you guys ready for class?”

Nat stood and took a few steps in maria’s direction. “Well, I am. But she’s not coming with us.”

A frown pulled Maria’s features downward, “What? Why not?”

“She wants to stay here and wallow about Barnes,” Nat told her. 

“They’re not letting me visit him in the medbay,” you groaned in Maria’s direction. “And I haven’t heard from him at all. So, I’m just-”

Confusion pulled Maria’s brows together. “But he got out of the medbay,” she said. “Yesterday.”

The energy you claimed not to have sprung forth all at once. In a matter of seconds, you were standing upright and crossing the room toward Maria; the quick nature of it all made you a little dizzy. 

“What do you mean he got out?”

She was shocked by your intensity, “Um, I mean, he was released-”

“Released to where?” you demanded. “Like, they transferred him to another hospital? Or-”

“No, released as in discharged,” she said. “They let him leave around six-thirty last night.”

Last night? If Bucky was released last night, why hadn’t he called? Why hadn’t he sent you a text or dropped by your room? Was he that depleted? That worse for wear? The suffocating worry rushed back in full force. But you didn’t care about the crushing weight on your chest or the restriction of your windpipe. Bucky was back. He was healed enough to be released. And he was right down the hall.

Before Nat and Maria could stop you, you took off like a bat out of hell. Clumsy steps carried you down the hall and sent you careening into passersby every few feet. They mumbled curses under their breath and told you watch where you were going, but you didn’t have it in you to care. Stopping wasn’t an option, not when Bucky was finally within reach once again.

As you screeched to a halt outside his door, you raised your fist to knock frantically against the wood. But before your knuckles could strike the door’s surface, you recoiled. There was a very substantial possibility that he was sleeping. He was hurt, after all. And he needed his rest. Instead of a boisterous, borderline-obnoxious knock, you opted to lightly tap the wood with your knuckles. If Bucky was awake, he’d hear it. 

But no answer came. After a few moments, you gave the door another gentle knock. Again, nothing. If he was asleep, there was no telling when you’d see him. He could be asleep for half the day, and you’d have to wait as long to reunite with him. Would it be too pushy to just let yourself in? Bucky was used to it by now- you both were. If one of you was already asleep, the other would often let themselves in and crawl into bed. It was just what you did; it was commonplace within your friendship. 

And though you didn’t want to disturb him, your selfish side won out. Your hand found the doorknob and gave it a slow turn- but it didn’t fully give way. It stopped after twisting only a few millimeters. Locked. 

“He needs to rest,” Nat called from down the hall. “I don’t think you should bother him- just let him sleep it off.”

Again, she was right.  

And so, with slumped shoulders and shattered hopes, you dragged yourself back to your room. Once you’d collapsed onto your bed, you snagged your phone from its resting place and fired off a few quick messages to Bucky.

“Hey, Hill said they released you from the medbay!”

“I just dropped by your room but got no answer. Call me when you wake up :)”

“I don’t wanna disturb you or anything, but I miss you, Buck.”

The hours inched by with no response from Bucky. You did your best to avoid staring at your phone, reminding yourself that a watched pot never boils. But you couldn’t help yourself. Every few seconds, you had to sneak a peek at the screen in search of Bucky’s name. And every time, you found yourself disappointed. Broken-hearted, really. 

Of course, this wasn’t the longest you’d ever gone without seeing Bucky. Many past missions stole him from your side for weeks at a time- sometimes even months. But the complete and utter lack of communication was new. No matter how dangerous a mission got, not matter how risky it was- you both still found a way to contact the other. Whether it was a short “I’m okay” text or a seconds-long phone call, a quick correspondence from the battlefield provided a reassurance that was desperately, desperately needed.

Sitting at home while your best friend faced life-threatening danger was never easy. When Bucky was away, you tore off every fingernail, biting them down until they bled. And anytime it was you on the frontlines while Bucky rode the bench, he started climbing the walls; he didn’t sleep, didn’t eat, until you got home. 

The two of you simply weren’t meant to be apart.

Without those reassuring texts, you felt yourself losing your mind. You did your best to hook your nails in, to fight and claw to retain your grip on your sanity. But you didn’t have it in you. And so, your nails fell by the wayside. In only a matter of minutes, your fingers were reduced to a bloody horror scene. Every cuticle was in tatters, every quick exposed. Your hands throbbed and stung, but you didn’t care. It didn’t matter. 

Four more days passed without word from Bucky. You texted. You knocked on his door. You called. You even slipped a note or two under his door. And still, nothing.

The worry slowly devoured you, one piece at a time. With your sanity long gone and your optimism dashed, nothing remained but pure, undiluted panic. And though you already decimated your nails, you gnawed at them anyway, digging your teeth into any free piece of flesh you could find. You wondered if this was how things were going to be forever. Would Bucky ever return to you? Or would you always feel this empty, aching void? 

On the seventh night without Bucky, you didn’t have it in you to even lay on your bed. You knew it would take what little life you had left to heave yourself up onto the mattress. And the effort simply wasn’t worth it. Had there ever before been anyone this pathetic? This broken and utterly hopeless? 

“What are you doing?” Nat loomed over you, taking in the scene. She found you lying face down on your bedroom floor, utterly despondent. “You didn’t want to lay in your bed? It’s almost midnight, you should-”

“I still haven’t heard from him,” you muttered into the carpet. “Why haven’t I heard from him?’

Nat knelt down next to you and gave your shoulder a tug, rolling you onto your back. 

“Hi,” she gave you a wave.

“Hi.” You didn’t wave back- you didn’t have the energy.

Nat gave you a long look. She noted your messy hair, your limp body, the dark circles under your eyes. “I’m not trying to be a dick here, but you don’t look so good.” 

“I don’t feel so good, either,” you shrugged. “I think I might be dying.”

Nat eyed you with pity. She knew how deeply you cared about Bucky. How much he meant to you. And she knew just how hard you were taking his injury and subsequent absence. For the past week, she hadn’t seen you eat anything other than a few chips here and there. She knew for certain you hadn’t gotten even a wink of sleep. And the bloody splotches where your nails used to be sent up a litany of red flags. 

“I’m so… I’m so worried about him, Nat,” tears trailed down your face. “This is so unlike him- we never go this long without speaking.”

Nat stoked your arm a bit, “I know.”

“What if he’s not okay? He could be dying, and we wouldn’t have any idea.”

She gave your hand a squeeze, “Come on, don’t think like that. I’m sure he’s alright-”

You shook your head, “I keep calling down to the medbay. I keep telling them that there’s something wrong- that they need to check on Bucky. But his doctor is…” you gave a frustrated huff. “He’s being weird. It’s like he’s being evasive, or something. I don’t know why he isn’t more worried- I don’t have any idea what’s going on.”

Nat let out a long, heavy sigh. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose for a long moment. This was the moment she’d hoped to avoid, the moment she dreaded all week. 

“Alright, um, I wasn’t supposed to say anything- I wasn’t supposed to tell you this. But…” She gave you another long, sympathetic look. “You’re very obviously not okay. And I think that, if I don’t tell you the truth, you might actually die-”

Suddenly, you bolted upright. “Tell me what?”

“Bucky’s fine.”

Your shoulder’s slumped forward and you ran a hand down your face. Nat had no proof to back up her claim. No evidence. “But how do you know-”

“Because I’ve gone to see him,” Nat said, just above a whisper. “Multiple times.”

The world came to a screeching halt. Nat was allowed to see him? But you weren’t? Of course, Nat and Bucky were friends. But they weren’t nearly as close and you and Bucky- hell, you didn’t think anyone had ever been as close as you and Bucky.  

Nat continued. “He’s a little banged up, but he’s alright. He’s just been hanging out in his room. Reading. Watching tv. That kind of stuff.”

The confirmation that Bucky was, in fact, okay helped you breathe a little easier. The pounding headache pulsating behind your eyes relented a bit, the knots in your stomach loosened ever so slightly. But you didn’t find ease. Not yet. 

“But why didn’t he-”

Nat didn’t want to say it. She didn’t wanna tear you apart and burn your world. She didn’t want to be your personal messenger of destruction. But one look at you and your pitiful, heartbroken form gave her the resolve to be honest. You deserved honesty. 

“Because he’s mad at you.”

It was the most preposterous thing Nat could’ve said. Not once over the course of your entire friendship had Bucky ever been mad at you. Sure, he pretended to be mad when you snuck a bite of his dessert or beat him at cards. But he never got mad at you for real. 

But, you told yourself, there’s a first time for everything. 

You knew you were capable of fucking up. Of committing transgressions against others. But for the life of you, you couldn’t think of a single thing that would make Bucky angry enough to completely ignore you like this. You racked your brain, shaking loose its contents in search of anything that might warrant the coldest shoulder you’d ever experienced. But you found nothing. 

It didn’t matter, though. If Bucky felt slighted, if he felt like you hurt him in some way- who were you to say that you hadn’t? Who were you to claim innocence?

“What? Why?” You looked to Nat for help. “What did I do?”

“Something about a broken promise,” Nat shrugged. “But that’s all I’ll say. This isn’t any of my business. And I-”

A long silence filled the room as you thought about this new revelation. Nat’s words allowed you to look back on the past week with a new perspective. You saw things in a new light, a new context.

“So, there wasn’t a policy change-”

Nat gave a somber shake of her head. “He just… he didn’t want to see you.”

And just like that, Nat gutted you. You could’ve sworn she ripped out your still-beating heart with her bare hands and splattered the carpet with your blood. 

He didn’t want to see you.

He didn’t want to see you.

The words reverberated inside your inside your skull. Their razor-sharp edges sliced into you time and time again, leaving you breathless and aching. Over the course of the last week, you thought you’d reached the deepest pit of despair, the darkest possible recesses of agony. But you were wrong. There were deeper and darker, more excruciating places- and you found yourself in the depths of the most miserable, agonizing one of all.

“I was able to visit him in the medbay. So was Sam,” she told you. “He wasn’t all alone like you thought. He had us there with him to make sure he was doing okay. I mean he still struggled- you’re definitely better at giving him peace of mind than I am- but…” 

Nat gave a shake of her head, clearing from her mind the image of Bucky having a massive panic attack in the medbay. His raspy inhales, his shaking hands, his wide, vacant eyes. Flashbacks plagued him each and every day down in the medbay. Medication didn’t touch his violent, soul-crushing episodes of PTSD. And Sam and Nat found themselves at a loss. 

They did their best to be there for him, to help him find ease and comfort. But there was something missing. And that something was you. Nat even suggested to Sam that they sneak you into Bucky’s room. She proposed that, just maybe, Bucky’s need for your reassurances would outweigh his anger. And maybe upon seeing you, he’d drop his grievances and allow you to help him wade through the dark, choppy waters. 

But super soldier senses be damned, Bucky overheard her idea; he vetoed it immediately.

“And his doctor seemed so unconcerned on the phone because he knows that Bucky’s fine- he checks on Bucky every day.” Nat let out a sigh of relief, as though she’d been holding her breath for days. “So, at the very least, you know Bucky’s okay. And now, you kind of know what’s going on. Do you want me to-”

Nat didn’t get to finish her sentence. Or maybe she did. You weren’t sure. Because before she could get the rest of the words out, you were gone. The panic coursing through your veins reinvigorated your depleted body, carrying you frantically in the direction of Bucky’s room. 

Your knuckles struck his door before your feet came to a stop. 

“Buck. Buck, it’s me-” you pounded on his door. “Can we please talk? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Silence. 

Your knuckles stung against the wood, but you paid them no mind. “Please! I just want to- please, let me apologize.” 

No answer. 

“Buck, I’m…” Tears flowed freely down your cheeks. Your lungs burned from lack of oxygen. A crushing ache settled into every fiber of your being. And your strong knocks deflated into weak, pitiful pats. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so…”

He wasn’t going to answer. You knew he wasn’t. But some part of you didn’t want to accept it. Didn’t want to acknowledge that you’d lost Bucky- possibly forever. A tidal wave of weakness launched itself at you, robbing your body of the faux strength granted by the adrenaline. 

Your hands found purchase against the opposite wall and guided you clumsily to the floor. With your back propped against the wall and your knees tucked into your chest, you stared at Bucky’s door. Waiting. He couldn’t stay in his room forever. Eventually, he’d have to return to work or visit the kitchen. And when he did, you’d be ready.

Because no matter how grim it all seemed-no matter how soul-crushingly hopeless your situation- you had to try. Bucky was worth it. Your friendship was worth it. Of course, if he told you to fuck off and never speak to him again, it would hurt. It would destroy you. But at least you’d never have to wonder. If you didn’t try, the not-knowing, the what-ifs wouldn’t haunt you in the middle of the night. 

You didn’t care if the odds were egregiously stacked against you. If there was any chance at reconciliation, you were going to do everything in your power to make it happen. 

It didn’t matter if you had to wait hours, days, weeks- you’d be there. You’d sleep in the hall, eat in the hall. Whatever it took. You’d wait a lifetime. 

Lucky for you, a lifetime wasn’t required. Because after only four and a half hours, Bucky’s door opened. And for the first time in a week, you caught a glimpse of your best friend.

He was unshaven, his facial hair a little longer than normal. The gash on his forehead was almost completely healed. And the bruises that used to stain his cheek and jaw were nowhere to be seen. The knuckles of his right hand, though, retained their dark purples and inky blues. And the skin under his eyes matched; you knew instantly he hadn’t been sleeping. 

But he looked so good, so beautiful. They way his hair fell in his eyes. The worn sweatshirt- the sweatshirt you gave him. Had he always been this perfect? This breathtaking? Of course, he had. It was stupid of you to even ask.

Seeing him again was like being saved from drowning. Like the first gulp of air after being swept away by a rogue riptide. Your lungs filled to capacity for the first time in a week. Your muscles released their hardened knots. And the ever-encroaching sense of biting cold vanished. In its place grew the warmest, most comforting summer. 

Somehow, he didn’t even notice you sitting across hall. You knew he must’ve thought he’d waited you out. That you were long gone by now. But he clearly underestimated your stubbornness. Your determination. Your love for him. 

The door was only open wide enough to allow him to place a tray of used dishes on the floor. And in the few seconds it took for him to do so, you launched into action.

“Hey!”

Bucky’s head snapped up. He locked eyes with you for a moment. And in that moment, you could’ve sworn he looked happy to see you. Relieved to see you. 

His momentary pause gave you just enough time to rush to his door. You placed your hand along the frame, curling your fingers inside the jamb. If Bucky wanted to slam the door and shut you out, he’d have to crush your hand in the process. And no matter how angry he was with you, he’d never hurt you. 

He let out an exasperated huff at the site of your strategically place hand. This was exactly the kind of thing he used to applaud you for. The quick wit and sharp thinking that he so admired about you. 

“Buck, can we please talk?” you pled. “Whatever I did, whatever promise I broke-”

A sigh deflated his chest, “You talked to Nat.”

“I’m sorry, Buck. I’m so sorry,” the words fell frantically, wildly out of your mouth. “I’ve never been sorrier in my life. I’d never, ever want to hurt you-”

“That’s the problem.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, as though it made perfect sense. As though it made any sense at all.

You wiped a few stray tears from your cheek, “What does that mean?”

With a huff, Bucky encircled your wrist with his fingers and pulled you inside. He didn’t like the looks the passersby shot your direction. The way they ogled and whispered as though witnessing a car wreck on the highway. 

Finally, after the longest week of your life, Bucky granted you entry to your favorite place. He did so begrudgingly, but you didn’t care. This room felt more like home than anywhere else in the world. It wasn’t the furnishings or the design that you loved so much; both were rather sparse. It was the memories. The countless nights spent watching movies in Bucky’s bed. The laughter, the tears, the deep heart to heart talks. 

When Bucky first moved in, he didn’t leave this room for quite some time- not even for meals. And that was how you first got him to trust you. Every day, you gently knocked on his door and delivered breakfast, lunch, dinner, dessert, and snacks. It was your way of welcoming him to the building, of making him feel comfortable in a new place with new people. And of course, you couldn’t let the soft-spoken man with the kind blue eyes starve to death.

It took him weeks- maybe months- to finally invite you in. And once he finally did, all bets were off. The two of you became inseparable from that moment on, spending nearly every night in this room, seeking the comforts of one another.

But this moment was nothing like those of the past. This was awkward. Cold. Quiet. The tension hanging in the air grew so thick, so heavy that you wondered if your lungs might actually collapse.  You waited for Bucky to speak first. And waited. And waited. And waited. But he didn’t say a word. He simply leaned against the wall, avoiding your eyeline. 

Finally, the uncomfortable, permeating silence pushed you to speak.

“I’m- I don’t understand what’s going on. I just know that I fucked up somehow. And I know-” you rolled your eyes at yourself. “I know I said this a million times already, but I’m sorry. Whatever I can do to fix this and make it up to you, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

Bucky considered your words for a while, letting the silence drag on as he mulled over your sentiment. He knew you were serious, knew you meant what you said. But it was too late.

“You made me a promise,” he said. “And you broke it.” 

Truth be told, you’d made him a lot of promises over the course of your friendship. Promises to give him the pickle spear that came with your sandwich at the deli. To watch all of Game of Thrones with him without spoiling anything. To listen, to be open-minded, to never judge him for his past. You promised to always be there when the nightmares tore him to shreds and to be honest with him when he needed to hear the truth. You promised to be kind to him, to protect him. To remind him of his goodness when his demons called him a monster.

And above all else, you promised to never, ever hurt him. You took these promises upon yourself without Bucky even asking. And as far as you knew, you’d kept them all. 

“Which promise? I don’t-”

“What’s my worst fear?” Bucky asked. His tone calm, like he was asking you trivia questions about himself.  “The thing that scares me more than anything else? The thing that keeps me up at night and makes me sick to my stomach every time I think about it?”

And without skipping a beat, you answered, “Being taken by Hydra again.”

Your eyes opened wide. It was then that the puzzle pieces fell into place. 

A guttural sound burst from your lips. It was haunted and broken, like a wounded animal’s final cry of pain before surrender. It ripped through the room and echoed off the walls; Bucky flinched as the sound barreled into him. Your nose burned, warning you of oncoming tears. Both of your hands clapped firmly over your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds of sorrow and shame. The attempt was unsuccessful.

And the deepest, darkest pit of guilt opened inside your stomach. 

The promise. That promise.

“When I told you about that fear- my greatest fear,” Bucky continued. “I asked you to make me a promise. Do you-” his voice wavered ever so slightly. He did his damnedest to fight it, to build a blockade against the oncoming emotion. But his eyes grew glassy with tears, anyway. “Do you remember what that promise was?” 

Even with his enhanced senses, Bucky struggled to hear your thin, hollow whisper.

“That I’d kill you…” you rasped. “If you were ever at risk of being taken by Hydra again, I’d kill you.”

The memory of your latest mission with Bucky barreled into you like a train. 

He was overwhelmed- buried- by the deluge of Hydra operatives. They came at him from every possible angle, swarming him before he even had a chance to react. Even with his super-human strength, he was no match for the volume, the sheer barrage of assailants. Seconds after they descended upon him, his weapons were lost, ripped from his hands and thrown far out of reach. He didn’t have enough room to breathe, let alone fight. Knives plunged into his flesh, setting loose a river of crimson. And heavy batons pummeled his face and head, leaving him dizzy. No matter how hard he tried to resist, he felt them pulling him, dragging him toward a doorway. Toward an unknown, and certainly horrific, fate. But through it all, he managed to call to you- to scream to you- one phrase. 

“Do it!” he begged. “Do it! DO IT!” 

The pain, the sheer terror in his voice, sent a flurry of goosebumps rushing over your skin. The head trauma you received only moments before left you dazed, and the knife wound in your side made breathing almost impossible. Blood oozed down the side of your face and painted your vision red. But you found the wherewithal to aim and shoot- at everyone except Bucky.

“Oh, Buck, I’m…” you stumbled back a few paces, the sheer weight of your guilt knocking you off balance. Your back crashed against the nearest wall with a thud. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry.” Hot bile rose in the back of your throat, saliva coated the inside of your mouth. You forced greedy inhales through your nose, hoping to stave off the nausea. “I don’t know what to say…”

Bucky didn’t say a word. He didn’t move. You wondered if he was even breathing. He just stood there with a broken, tormented look on his face. He didn’t allow himself to blink, didn’t allow the tears gathering along his lash line to fall. He simply curled his metal fingers into a tight fist before spreading them wide again. Over and over and over again. It was a subconscious act, an anxious tendency he often displayed when his mind grew dark and uninhabitable. And, more often than not, it was your cue to step in. To rush to his side and save him from the torment. 

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. You were the last person he wanted to see- he’d made that abundantly clear. And even if he wanted to you hold his hand as you always did, you couldn’t move. The guilt weighed you down, turning your feet into blocks of cement.

“I know- I know I said that I’d do it, but I…” A fresh wave of tears crested over your lash line and flooded your cheeks. “I couldn’t.”

“You promised,” Bucky’s voice was so anguished, so despondent. “You swore to me that you could- that you would.”

“The backup team was in my ear,” your words dripped with deperation. “I heard them in my comm- I knew they were there, I knew they were only a few feet away-”

“But I didn’t!” he erupted. “My comm fell out- I had no idea they were there! I thought-” His voice splintered; his rage shattered, setting free a tsunami of despair. “I thought I was going back!” 

And finally, his tears broke through. They saturated his skin in seconds as they rolled down his cheeks and dripped into his beard. Shivers rippled up and down his body. Goosebumps covered his skin. The hair at the nape of his neck stood on end. Just the thought of being dragged back to Hydra doused him in a cold sweat.

His shaking hand swiped at the tear tracks dripping down his cheeks. He would’ve given anything for a hug from you. For your reassuring, comforting words. But he couldn’t find it in him to ask. Couldn’t find it in him to allow you so close. And so, he forced the tightness in his chest to relent, to accept the voracious inhales he pulled into his lungs. He couldn’t surrender to the panic attack looming on the horizon- not yet.

It was confusing, his need to touch you. His craving for your comforts. You’d betrayed him, hadn’t you? You’d broken your promise to him and almost fed him to Hydra’s meat grinder. But it wasn’t that black and white- he wasn’t sure it ever was. No, this situation lived deep in a gray area, never giving Bucky a cut and dry solution. And deep down, he knew it. He knew you never would have allowed him to be taken. He knew you had your reasons for leaving him alive. But anger was easier. Betrayal was easier. 

“I’m sorry, Buck. I know- I know for sure it’s not enough”, the shame dragged your eyes down to the floor. “But I’m so sorry.” 

What could you do, what could you possibly say to fix this? Nothing could ever make it okay. Nothing could ever heal what you did- or didn’t do.

“It was… it was selfish of me,” you admitted. “I just hoped you could hang on for a few more seconds until backup came in. Cause I- I wanted you to come home with me. That’s all I could think about. Just getting you home safe. I didn’t even consider k-” You couldn’t bring yourself to say the word. “Doing that to you. But it’s- I was wrong. I made you a promise. And I broke it. And if you ended up back at Hydra,” you took a deep breath. The truth was ugly, hard to swallow. It poked at your throat like a mouthful of push pins. “If you ended up back at Hydra, it would be my fault.”

Only silence followed. 

Bucky hated the heartbreak in your voice, the tears streaming down your face. He hated seeing you in pain. The urge to wrap you in a bearhug yanked at his muscles, desperately trying to drag him in your direction. But he couldn’t, could he? He was mad at you- he was supposed to be mad at you. Once again, the strange, conflicting emotions needled at him. All week long, he forced the gray area behind a wall and chose, instead, to live in the black and white. To lean into anger. To side with the demons calling you a traitor and a liar. 

But now that you were finally here, standing in front of him, the voices quieted. It was just the two of you, together. You weren’t the villain he’d painted you to be. You weren’t heartless. You weren’t evil. Hell, this whole thing would’ve been a lot easier if you were. And jus like that, Bucky found himself smack dab in the middle of the gray area he tried so desperately to fight.

“I understand why you’re mad, Buck. It’s-”

“I’m not. I- I was mad. Now, I’m just,,,” he gave a shake of his head. “I don’t know. There’s a lot going on inside my head.”

“I get it. And if you don’t,” you cleared your throat, fighting against the words that tasted so vile. “If you don’t want to be friends anymore, I get that, too. This was a- a really major breach of your trust. We always say that we have each other’s backs, but I didn’t…” You used the collar of your sweatshirt to wipe the tears running down your neck. “I didn’t have yours. So, if you want to be done with me after this, I-”

Bucky’s heart leapt into his throat. “No, that’s not what I want. I don’t want to cut you out of my life. I’m-” He gave a frustrated huff. “I’m just- I’m confused. Cause I genuinely wanted you to shoot me in the head back there. I wanted you to mercy kill me.” 

The words tore through you.

“But now,” Bucky raked a hand through his hair, “I’m glad you didn’t. Because everything turned out okay. And I’m here. With you. But I…” He dragged a shaky breath into his lungs. “I almost wasn’t. I was almost there. With them. Again.”

All you could do was nod. What were you supposed to say to that? Nothing you had to offer could assuage his deep-seated, stomach-turning terror. You could never understand what he went through. Could never imagine the horrors. And it never even crossed your mind to put a contingency plan in place for yourself. To ask your closest friend to kill you in order to save you. You’d never understand that level of desperation. 

“I don’t care about dying,” he shrugged. “I’m not scared of death anymore. I wished for- I prayed for death when I was-” he cleared his throat. “When I was there. I would’ve welcomed it.”

The mental image nearly brought you to your knees.

“I’m just scared of being their prisoner again. I’m scared of the torture, and the blood, and the-the…” His breathing grew shallow and erratic. His voice faltered. “The way they fucked with my mind.” Anxious tremors rendered his hands unsteady. And his attempts to wipe away the tears fell short. “And the killing, and the pain, and the-”

He was losing his battle against the fear. Against the spiral. It grabbed him by the ankles and yanked him downward, plunging him the darkest, most hopeless recesses of his mind. He found himself lost, adrift in the deepest, most sinister sea. The ice-cold waves crested over him endlessly, nearly drowning him with each thin breath he took.

But the sensation of your hand in his dragged him to shore. With the warmth of your touch, he found his way back. He returned to his body. He always knew you were his saving grace, his life preserver. 

But holding Bucky’s hand didn’t feel quite right. Not after what you did. Especially because, deep down, you knew this was partly selfish. Knew that you enjoyed the feeling of his fingers braided with yours. But who were you to relish in it? Who were you to make this about you, and your needs? 

And so, when he finally found his way back to the present, when he finally breathed evenly, you freed his hand from yours and gave him his space. 

“Thanks for that…” he ran a hand down his face, still recovering from his trip to hell. Still needing you. 

“Yeah. Of course- anytime.” You already missed his touch. But you refused to reach for him again- not unless he needed it. You pulled your sleeves over your hands and balled them into fists.

“I just- I’m never going back there. I can’t,” he said after a while. “And I get it- you didn’t want to kill me. I wouldn’t want to kill you, either. But I’d choose a bullet between the eyes over being their chew toy. Every single time. Cause it’s…” he absentmindedly let his hand drift to his face, to the scar the sat atop his cheek bone. The scar left behind by the device they used to wipe his mind over and over and over. “It’s worse than death.”

The vitriol burning in your chest smoldered and scalded your soul. You’d never hated anyone- never detested anyone- as much as you hated yourself. You were supposed to protect Bucky. You were supposed to be there for him. You were supposed to be the person he could trust no matter what. But you failed him. He was completely terrified. Retraumatized. All because of you.

Bucky rubbed at a hard, tense knot in his shoulder, “But you’re my best friend, and-”

“Exactly,” you scoffed. “You should be able to trust me. But you can’t. Cause I’m selfish.”

“I do trust you,” he said, almost immediately. There was something in his voice- offense, maybe? Like he took your self-flagellation personally. “You’re smart. You- you knew back up was down the hall. You knew I’d be okay. And now that I’m home, I know you made the right call. I was-” He pulled his vibranium hand into a right fist. “I was just really scared, you know?”

He flashed back to the moment the Hydra agents descended. To the moment the encapsulated him completely. He couldn’t fight, couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Bodies swarmed his vision. Voices deafened him. And the coppery smell of blood- his blood- filled his nostrils. He felt his boots sliding across the concrete floor. And deep down, he knew they planned to drag him out. To make him theirs once again. 

He shook his head, clearing the image from his mind.

“Um, what I was going to say,” he continued, “is that you’re my best friend, and I shouldn’t have iced you out. I shouldn’t have lied to you- I shouldn’t have made Nat lie to you.” He gave a heavy, remorseful sigh, “I should’ve talked to you. You deserved better from me.”

“No- no, you deserved better from me.” You couldn’t believe his ridiculous sentiment. “You shouldn’t be apologizing- you honestly should’ve kicked my ass for this.” 

If he’d wanted to hurt you, to make you bleed, to show you even a fraction of the pain Hydra put him through, you’d let him. He deserved some revenge, some retribution, against you. And if he wanted to act on it, you wouldn’t fight back. You’d sit perfectly still and quiet, allowing him to beat you black and blue. To drag a knife through your flesh. To break your bones and steal your will to live. 

But you knew he’d never do anything like that- and he’d never want to. He wouldn’t even slam your fingers in the door.

“I never want you to be scared like that ever again, Buck. I never want you to go through something like that- I should’ve…” Saying it didn’t seem right. The words had razor sharp edges that carved into your throat as you spoke. “I should’ve done what you asked. And if this ever happens again,” You paused, banishing the oncoming flood of emotion. “I’ll do- I’ll do what you asked me to do. What I promised you I’d do.”

The words kicked the floodgates wide open. Another wounded, rasping sound escaped from your throat. And the sheer volume of tears threatened to drown you. Promising to end Bucky’s life was hard, but something about this second round was worse. More painful, somehow. A weak, wobbling sensation made your knees unsteady. And your face fell into your hands. 

But Bucky was at your side in the blink of an eye. He rested his hands on your shoulder, unsure of how much physical contact to make after a week of silence and hurt. He let his thumbs sweep over your clavicles every few seconds, waiting for the storm to pass. And when the clouds finally parted, he gently pulled your palms from your face. 

He cradled one of your hands in both of his, ensuring that you couldn’t slip away this time. “I’m not asking that of you anymore- I can’t ask that of you.” He freed one of his hands for only a moment, and only to angle your chin upward. He needed your eyes to meet his, needed you to know that he was serious. “It’s not fair for me to put you in that position.”

“No, Buck, it’s- it’s fine,” your voice wavered. “I can-”

“I’ve been thinking a lot over the last week,” he shrugged, “cause I- I haven’t been sleeping…”

Of course, he hadn’t been sleeping. Of course, the nightmares returned in full force. He’d worked so hard to correct his sleep schedule, to find a way to get the rest he needed. It just so happened that the cure-all to his sleep-related woes was you. He trusted you. Knew he was safe with you. He felt at home with you. Sleep came easy with you by his side. 

But his recent assault by Hydra’s forces left him almost irreparably shaken. And his misguided anger pushed you from his side. Together, it was a recipe for sleepless, tormented nights full of flashbacks and panic attacks.

“I realized that I never should’ve put that on you- I never should’ve asked you to make me that stupid promise.” Bucky wanted to go back in time and throttle his past self. “And I shouldn’t have been mad at you. But I- I had a lot going on, you know?” He squeezed your hand tighter, as though searching for an anchor. “All of my old wounds were ripped open again and I was so fucking miserable and scared and…” He wasn’t proud of how he’d treated you. Wasn’t proud of the way he handled things. And though he was working hard in his therapy sessions, his coping mechanisms were still scant. “I needed to feel something other than fear. So, I chose anger. And I directed it at you.”  

“And that’s perfectly fine.” You tried to take a step in the opposite direction, to put some space between the two of you. You didn’t deserve to have him so close, to hold his hand. But he held firm. He wasn’t going to release your hand- not now, maybe not ever. “You asked me to make a promise- a big, important promise- and I broke it. You’re allowed to be upset with me-”

“But it wasn’t fair to you- none of this was fair to you.” He kicked himself for ever asking you for something so heavy. So burdensome. “I can’t imagine what it was like for you to make that promise. The way it must’ve hung over your head. If you asked that of me, I’d…” He squeezed your hand a little tighter, “It would eat me alive.”

And he was right- it had. 

Promising to kill him, in turn, killed you. It devoured you from the inside out, feasting on every moment of joy, every restful Sunday, every waking moment. Your promise to him came with sharp, jagged teeth that dug into your soul day in and day out. And while Bucky found peace in knowing that you may end his life one day, it brought you nothing but pain. Torture. Endless heartache. The darkest, heaviest storm clouds sat just above your head, shielding you from all sunlight, all warmth. 

While Bucky slept soundly next to you each night, you laid awake, wondering when it would happen. If it would happen. How it would happen. Your appetite vanished. Your stomach tied itself into knots. And on more than one occasion, your doctor had to increase the dosage of your anxiety medication. Because no matter how many pills you popped, the weight of your promise sat on your chest like lead.

Each time you and Bucky boarded the jet for a mission, you wondered if it would be the last time you ever saw him alive. If you’d be forced to kill him in only a few hours. 

And you knew, deep down, that if it was your bullet that sent Bucky to his grave, you’d never be able to live with yourself. That your very next bullet would find a home in your chest. 

This dark, heartbreaking promise directly contradicted the first- and most important promise- you’d ever made him. Late one night, back when the two of you first started spending time together, Bucky found himself at the bottom of a pit. His PTSD snatched the reigns and nearly drove him off a cliff.

Flashback after violent flashback rocked his mind and stripped his body of all strength. He was weak, hollow, completely spent. And just as you tried to smooth the hair out of his red-rimmed eyes, he flinched. He yanked himself backward, hoping to avoid whatever blow he thought you might strike against him. He forced his shoulders into a corner and tucked his face to the side, hiding from the pain he so often anticipated. And it broke you. It was then that you promised- that you swore to him- you’d never hurt him under any circumstance. 

And killing him seemed to you like a violation of that promise.

“It makes sense, though,” you said, pushing back against his all too generous rationalizations. “It makes sense that you’d ask me to- to do that. And I don’t want you going back there, either. So, I guess if I…” A sharp pain twisted through your stomach. “If I knew that we were alone. And there was no back up. And you only had two options: Hydra’s prisoner or death- I guess I’d…” Hot tears streaked down your cheeks, “If it meant saving you from them, I’d choose death for you.”

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that, okay?” He wiped a stray tear from your chin. “I’m not holding you to that anymore. And I’m talking to Rhodes tomorrow. I’m gonna see if we can do away doing these two-person missions,” he said. “Cause they’re pretty impractical and risky, if you ask me. It’s safer when there’s a group of us, you know?”

You gave him a small nod, still too overcome by the anguish coursing through your veins.

Finally- mercifully- Bucky wrapped his arms around you and pulled you tight against his body. In an instant, your arms snaked their way around his back and pulled him ever closer. You’d missed him so intensely- so severely- it was like experiencing withdrawal. You could practically feel your body breaking down without him by your side. And he felt that same emptiness, that same aching void. He was convinced that he was never supposed to exist without you next to him. That he didn’t really live until he met you. The two of you were a package deal, two halves of a whole. 

After witnessing Bucky’s attempted abduction by Hydra, spending a week without him was a living hell. You needed to see him, speak to him, touch him. You needed to know that he was there. That he was okay. That he was home. You needed the confirmation that he made it out alive. But he’d disappeared from your life. And part of you wondered if he really was safe and sound in his room down the hall. Or if your mind made it all up just to save you the pain of losing him.

Time seemed to stand still as the two of you held each other. This was what Bucky needed all week. You were what he needed. The residual fear and torment brought on by his latest Hydra encounter seemed to fizzle out as you buried your face in his chest. It didn’t vanish completely- he feared it never would- but you put it on mute. You helped him breathe easy again. 

After was felt like half an hour, you unwillingly unwound yourself from Bucky’s battered body. 

“It’s late. I should get out of your hair,” you couldn’t mask your disappointment. “I know you said you haven’t been sleeping. But you’re still healing. So, you should probably try and get some rest-”

He nodded, but didn’t even attempt to hide just how much he hated the idea of your absence. 

And though you knew you should leave, you couldn’t find the will to move toward the door. Nor did Bucky try to show you out. The two of you just stood there, staring at each other. Leaving soft touches against the other’s skin. Relishing in the reunion.

“Um, you could stay,” Bucky finally said. “If you want.”

You hadn’t even considered it. He was going to need time to deal with everything. To sit with what happened to him. And you felt that your presence would only make it more difficult. Sure, he wasn’t mad at you. But did he really want you sleeping in his bed like you used to?

“Oh, okay. Yeah. Would it-” you pulled at the hem of your sweatshirt as uncertainty got the better of you. “Would that be okay?”

Bucky gave a fervent nod. “I want you to. So, if it’s okay with you, it’s okay with me.” He cupped your cheek in his massive hand, examining the dark circles under your tired eyes. “Plus, Nat said you haven’t slept all week. So, I thought we could both get some rest. Together.”

He took your hand and led you to his bed, the bed you’d shared with him so many times before. The bed you’d curled up in almost every night. The bed in which you’d watched countless black and white movies. The bed you’d tossed and turned in every night after promising to end Bucky’s life. But with the offending promise lifted from your tired shoulders, you crawled under the familiar covers and breathed a sigh of relief. Bucky took you in his arms, molding his body around yours as he so often did. And with him lying safely next to you, you thanked your lucky stars that you didn’t keep your promise.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Movie Week

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Male Yandere x Fem Reader, 5k words

After your accident, you wake from your coma in fragments and pieces.

There's the blackness first. A nothingness somehow deeper than sleep. Then the voices, snippets of conversation that you're too hurt and drugged to understand. And finally, in those few hours before you fully wake up, there are the dreams.

You're always running in your dreams. Bare foot, the rain pounding down. Running from something you can't see.

When you wake up, you don't remember. The feeling lingers though - that hair raising knowledge that you're being hunted.

You notice the heart rate monitor first. The constant beeping spiking straight into your head.

You groan. Open your eyes.

An IV drip, bland beige walls, a cheap watercolour painting. Voices out in the hall. Painfully bright florescent lights.

You stay perfectly still for a few seconds, feeling strange and out of place.

What happened? How long has it been? Where exactly am I?

You try sitting up. A bad idea. Your whole body is an unresponsive mess, numb and weak all at once.

"Hey, take it easy."

A palm settles on your shoulder and gently pushes you down.

"You've been through an awful lot. The last thing you need is to push yourself."

You try and focus on the stranger, your vision still murky around the edges. He's wearing a surgical mask and a baseball cap, his eyes squinted at the corners like he's smiling at you.

"Where am I?"

"Riverfate Private Medical Centre."

"Isn't that way out in the mountains?"

"Yes ma'am."

Your head hurts. So does your left leg. And your shoulder. And a dozen other places, now that you think about it. It's hard to focus.

"But I live in the city."

He raises a brow. "You don't remember?"

You shake your head. A bad idea. Pain and light lance through your skull.

You hiss and touch your temple. You're met with a thick wrapping of gauze and bandage.

"Do you remember what happened to you?"

"I...um, I think I was supposed to go out to lunch with my boss. I don't know what happened after that."

"Do you know what year it is?"

You tell him.

"Do you know who I am?"

He pulls down his mask and leans a little closer to you, his eyes searching your face. You don't recognise him at all.

He's handsome, in a clean cut sort of way. He's wearing a sweater and jeans, a pair of glasses hooked in his pocket.

"I don't think so. I don't remember you."

"Not even a little?"

You don't like the way he's looking at you. Like he's watching for the smallest twitch or stutter. Like he doesn't quite believe you.

"I'm sorry. I really don't know you."

He leans back and pulls his mask back up, but not before you see his smile.

"That's okay. I'm not offended. You've had a pretty hard knock on the head."

You figured that part out from the throbbing headache and persistent, low grade nausea. But you suppose it's nice of him to tell you.

He raises his hand and you realise he's holding the nurse call button.

"Let's get you properly checked out, yeah?"

It buzzes when he presses it and it doesn't take long for a nurse to pop his head into the room, quickly followed by a doctor.

"How long has she been awake?"

"Not long," your visitor answers, even though you assume it's been a good few minutes.

Your doctor runs you through some basic questions, her lips getting thinner with each answer.

"Post-tramuatic amnesia," she announces, "Not surprising given the nature of your injuries. Some of it will come back to you, some of it won't. For now, I want to keep an eye out for any signs of cerebral edema. Beyond that, it's just a matter of rehabilitation."

"How long until I can take her home?" the stranger asks.

She glances at him. "And you are?"

He doesn't hesitate. "Her fiancé."

You stare at him, not sure you heard him right.

"I'm engaged?"

He shoots you a look and reaches out to briefly rest his hand on yours.

"For a few months now. I'll tell you all about it later, promise."

The doctor raises her brows but doesn't comment.

"She can be discharged in a week or so, bar any complications," the nurse answers.

"Good. I want to get her home as soon as possible. Better to be in a familiar place, right baby?"

You're too overwhelmed and confused to answer him. Engaged? Really? You haven't had any long term relationships, much less had a guy get serious enough to consider marriage.

The doctor shrugs and checks her watch. "I think there are a few police officers who want to speak to the both of you. But it's better if the patient rests for a few hours. You need to take things slow, especially so soon after waking up."

She orders the nurse to give you something with a complicated sounding name, and less than fifteen minutes later you're knocked out. Drifting back into the dark of your dreams.

Your fiancé watches you until you fall asleep, his expression hidden by his mask.

The police officers are tired. You can tell, even though you're still a little out of it yourself.

"You don't know what happened? Nothing at all?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"She's injured," your fiancé snaps, "Of course she doesn't remember. Take it easy."

"What about you? Where were you when your wife was being admitted?"

"Rushing here, obviously."

"The hospital staff said they didn't contact you."

"You must have spoken to the wrong shift. I was here at three, right after they released her from surgery."

The cops sigh, shift in place. You reckon they want to be done with you as soon as possible.

"Seems pretty straight forward," one says, "It was raining heavy last night. Driver didn't see you crossing the road. A bad accident that could have gone a lot worse."

What were you doing walking in the rain at two in the morning? You don't get a chance to ask before they're already standing to leave.

One of the cops pauses at the door and points at your fiancé's mask. They briefly asked him to remove it but now it's right back in place.

"What's up with the mask?"

"I hate hospitals," he says simply. "Can't stand the smell. Or the germs."

The cop shrugs, tries to smile. "You'd hate my line of work, I can tell ya that much."

When they're gone, your fiancé comes to sit on the edge of your bed, wary of your leg in its plaster cast.

"Look what I found. I thought you lost it in the accident, but the nurses kept it aside."

He carefully takes hold of your hand and slips an engagement ring onto your finger. The metal pleasantly cool against the feverish heat of your skin.

You stare at it for a long time. Gold, with a huge rock front and centre.

You don't remember picking it out, don't remember saying yes. But it very much feels like something you'd choose. It looks perfectly at home on your finger.

"Do you like it?" he asks softly.

"Yes." You look up at him and smile, your heart fluttering and the heart rate monitor going crazy. "I love it."

"But it isn't jogging any memories?"

You shake your head.

"Well, guess we'll just have to make new ones." He doesn't sound upset at all.

You look down at his hands. He's wearing gloves, even though the AC is pleasantly warm.

"Can I see yours?"

He chuckles and tugs off his glove. He let's you take hold of his wrist without complaint, watching as you tilt his hand this way and that.

His ring is clearly a twin to yours. A simple gold band scratched a little from daily wear.

You carefully pull it off his finger. He doesn't stop you, though he does lean forward a little. It's a bit too loose on him. Needs to be sized down just a tad. Did he lose weight recently?

There's an engraving on the inside.

"Forever and a day?"

"Mm-hmm. It's what you promised me. From the moment we met."

It's cute, you have to admit.

"You gonna give it back? Afraid our engagement has a very serious no take-backsies clause."

You giggle as you pull him closer.

"We've got to do this properly, you know," you tell him. "So. Will you marry me, handsome stranger?"

He doesn't hesitate even a second.

"Yes. Right now, if I can nab a priest from the hospital chapel."

"I don't think those come with priests."

"What, not included in the comprehensive package?"

You laugh a little and slip his ring back on. It looks good on him. You wish he wouldn't keep covering it up with his gloves.

"It's the germs," he tells you when you bring it up. "And I know you're going to say hospitals are like the cleanest, most sanitised places on earth. But I swear I get sick every time I visit one."

You raise your free hand and press it against his neck, the only bit of open skin on his body. He stills. Hell, you think he stops breathing for a second or two.

"Warm. But not feverish. I think you'll be okay, big guy."

It takes him a moment to reply, his eyes fixed on your face.

"Thanks. Feels good when you say it."

You smile at him, your cheeks tingling.

"You flirt."

He catches your wrist when you start to pull away. You can't be sure, but you think he's smiling.

"Only with you, baby. Only ever with you."

Recovery is a long process, and one that continues even after you get discharged. Your doctor is diligent in monitoring you, and tyrannical in making sure you play all the memory and card games recommended for rehabilitation.

They annoy you at first. Kids games, almost. Remember where the apple is and match it to the other apple. Shuffle the cards and remember where each one goes.

But it's not long before you realise exactly how important it is that you get better at them.

Your brain is awfully slow, never focusing on one thing for more than a few minutes. Your recall isn't nearly as good as it was. You get headaches whenever you think too hard on the blank spaces where your memories ought to be.

Your fiancé watches you from the edge of your bed as you lay out your cards and then lay them out again. He doesn't help you, not even when you get so frustrated you want to hit something.

He just lays a hand on your thigh or your calf and tells you to take your time, that you'll get it right eventually.

You get used to having him around. Find yourself looking forward to seeing him every morning.

The day that you're scheduled to be discharged, he shows up with a huge bouquet of your favourite flowers and a basket packed tight with your favourite chocolate.

"How did you know?" you squeal, your nose buried in the petals.

He laughs and runs a hand through your hair, careful of your stitches.

"You're my wife to be, baby. I know everything there is to know about you."

When he helps you into your wheelchair he presses a kiss against your temple.

"Are you ready to go home?"

You ought to be hesitant. Ought to wonder a bit more about the man with your ring on his finger. But in the confusion of waking and the rush of being around him, it doesn't occur to you at all.

"Absolutely. Rescue me from these awful beige walls, my handsome knight."

He laughs and kisses your cheek.

"As you wish, my lady love."

The discharge papers are a thick stack, and by the time you're done signing, your fingers ache. His name isn't anywhere to be seen, except for as the emergency contact.

"We still haven't updated our health insurance," he explains. You shrug and hand the papers back to reception, glad to finally be going home.

It's only when you're in his Jeep and driving further into the mountains that you think to ask where home actually is.

He tells you the address and laughs when you stare at him.

"Did I not mention it? We moved a few months ago, after you quit your job."

"But I love work. I find it hard to believe I left."

He hums quietly. "I think you'll understand when we get home."

Home. When he says it, you can't help but think of your apartment in the city.

It's coming back to you in bits and pieces. The security guard at the door, the long week spent picking out and assembling furniture when you first moved in, the scramble to get ready for a night out in your cramped bathroom.

You don't remember your fiancé though. No matter how hard you try.

The drive up to his house (yours too, try and remember that) is much longer than you expect. You doze off at some point, and when he wakes you the last bit of sunlight is fading into dusk.

The house is huge. The windows already blazing light, the front door standing open for you. It's all wood and stone, with pretty French doors.

You don't recognise any of it. 

"Is it only us out here?"

"Yep. Pretty big place for just the two of us, but you like the quiet. Here, put your arms around me. The gravel will just get in the way of your wheelchair."

"You're going to carry me in?"

He grins at you, half his face in shadow.

"Just like I did on our first night."

He pulls you out of the car and you curl your arms just a little tighter around his neck. No need. He's much stronger than he looks, walking all the way to the door without once loosening his grip on you.

He pauses on the threshold.

"Welcome home, baby."

He carries you into the house, the picture perfect husband to be. It makes your stomach flutter and your cheeks burn. How the hell did you manage to snag a man like him?

"We'll save the tour for tomorrow, yeah? I think it's best we get you to bed."

You nod against his chest. Tired in the bone weary way that comes from medication wearing off and pain setting in.

He takes you to the master bedroom - a sprawling, wood panelled room with a huge fireplace and a balcony that looks out on the trees.

"You should see the view in winter," he murmurs as he sets you down. "White and sky as far as the eye can see."

You're hurting, true. But there's a heat coiling through you wherever his touch lingers. A husband to be... doesn't that mean a wedding night too?

"I can think of better things to do in here than look at the trees," you say softly.

He tilts his head. "And what would those be?"

You still have your arms hooked around his neck. You pull him closer to you, until his hands come to rest on the bed.

"Is this where we celebrated our first night as an engaged couple?"

He freezes up and then nods.

"And did we enjoy it?"

"Yes," he answers, breathless.

"Not fair that only one of us remembers it, is it?"

Your brush your lips against his. Not exactly a kiss, but very close.

He stops breathing.

You let go of his neck and rest your palms on his cheeks. It's a little strange seeing him without the mask, and a little strange to be touching him so intimately. But he's spent almost every waking hour taking care of you. Has been nothing but sweet and gentle. Doesn't that deserve a proper thank you?

"Love?"

He pulls in a sharp breath and pushes you down onto the bed. Crawls on top of you, his knees on either side of your waist.

You laugh, breathless.

"Oooh, didn't think you were so pent up," you tease.

He doesn't answer you. Just drops his head to your neck and buries his nose in your hair.

You heart is going a mile a minute. Your whole body feels electric. Doc said to take it easy but what else is a girl supposed to do when her man is so handsome and so unbearably close?

You run your hands through his hair. He makes a small, choked sort of noise and brings his palms up to cup your face.

"I love you."

A mix of desperation and want. He straightens up, fisting the duvet on either side of your head.

"I love you," he says again.

You smile, reach up to brush your knuckles against his cheek.

"I think I'm falling in love with you, too."

He moves forward and the moonlight catches in his eyes.

You freeze.

That look. That hungry, scorching look...

Adrenaline rips through you and your jerk up, pushing yourself backwards.

He almost falls off the bed, catching the frame at the last second.

"Baby? What's wrong?"

He follows you and you almost scream.

"Baby?"

He stills, one hand reaching for you.

"I don't... I don't know. Just... just give me a minute."

What the hell was that?

It's like your body remembered something your mind couldn't. Threw you right back into a moment where you were terrified, where your heart was racing and a scream was being stifled in your throat.

He reaches for you again and you jerk away without thinking.

You don't want to be touched. Not by him, not by anyone. Not while that awful half memory is still running through your synapses.

"I'm sorry. Can we take a rain check, please? I'm not ready."

He doesn't answer immediately. He drags his eyes down your body, the same searching way he did when you first woke up. Trying to find something in your eyes, in your posture.

"Fine," he manages. "Rain check."

He pushes himself off the bed, his entire body stiff.

"I'm going to take a shower."

He doesn't wait for you to answer.

You pull your knees to your chest and try to tell yourself that it's nothing to worry about. Your brain was rattled loose, of course there's going to be sparks firing in the wrong cylinders for awhile. These strange reactions don't mean anything.

You have no reason to freak out like this. Your fiancé has been nothing short of perfect.

You tell yourself that, but you still flinch when he climbs into bed with you.

You pretend to be asleep when he slings an arm around your waist and pulls you against him. He buries his nose in your hair, sighs like a man coming home at long last.

"It's going to be okay, baby. You and I will be just fine. I'll make sure of it."

He's long gone when you wake up. The sun is slanting across your pillow and you give up on going back to sleep.

He left your wheelchair next to you, and after a few false starts, you manage to haul yourself in. You're still wary of putting too much pressure on your injured leg, and you flinch when an accidental knock sends a sharp pain lancing through your ankle.

Ouch. Not so easy when your man isn't around to hold you. If you needed yet another reminder, the dull throb in your ankle serves just fine.

Whatever happened last night, you still need him.

You take your time exploring the bedroom, opening all the drawers you can reach. Your clothes are neatly packed away, your heels lined up on the floor of the cupboard. Your books are sitting on the shelves, complete with all the knick knacks you've collected over the years.

There's a picture of you and your fiancé on the nightstand. He's got his arm around your waist and you've got your head tilted back to look at him. It's cute. And something about the way he holds you makes you feel warm and safe.

The room door is the only thing that gives you trouble. It's heavy, and difficult to swing open from your wheelchair.

You fiddle with the handle for a few minutes before finally giving up and calling for your fiancé.

You worry that he might not hear you through the wood, but a few minutes later your hear his footsteps.

He swings the door open and smiles at you.

"There she is. How did you sleep, gorgeous?"

"Okay. Was the door locked?"

He shrugs and fiddles with the latch.

"I don't think so. But it does tend to stick sometimes."

He leans down to kiss your cheek. "Don't worry about it, baby. I'm here to save you."

He makes you breakfast, and in the bright light of day its easy to forget the way he looked at you last night.

Easy to relax and laugh at his jokes and admire the way his forearms flex when he works.

You forget about your worries until lunch time rolls around.

He's chopping vegetables for a salad, the light bouncing off the knife. You aren't sure why it catches your attention - maybe you're just attracted to shiny things - but it has no trouble holding it.

There's something in the way he holds his knife that makes the back of your neck prickle. Makes some long dead gut instinct stir.

"Love?"

"Hmm?"

You aren't sure what you're going to ask until the words are already spilling out.

"I hate to be a bother, but do you think you'll be able to run to town later? I want to make my mum's chocolate mousse and I need a few ingredients. I'm really craving it."

He raises a brow. "Y'know, I've never tried it. You kept promising to make it, but work always got in the way."

"You promised to marry me without trying my chocolate mousse? Terrible oversight. The sort of thing that leads to divorce."

He winks at you. "I had some other sort of dessert in mind when I proposed."

He locks the front door before he leaves, and waves at you before he drives off.

You give it five minutes before you start searching. Enough time to make sure he isn't turning back.

You aren't sure what you're looking for - you just want something to jog your memory. A smell, the angle of the sun on the tiles, a picture or two. Whatever it takes to explain why your body is afraid of a man who's given you no cause to fear.

Most of the rooms are locked. That bothers you. Why would you need locked doors in your own house?

It's his study that seems the most promising. But his laptop is encrypted and you give up after five failed attempts at cracking his password. His desk drawers don't yield much beyond discarded receipts and half empty pens.

Well, until the last one.

It's locked, but after a few minutes of searching, you're rewarded with a key. Taped to the underside of the desk, totally out of sight and reach unless you're in a wheelchair.

Score.

The drawer is stuffed to bursting and it takes you a while to work it open. When you finally succeed, you're met with a stack of meaningless papers. Names and places you don't recognise.

You try to bite back your relief. Don't get too happy too soon. There might still be - if not skeletons - bones in the closets.

You shuffle through the pages without finding anything suspicious. You're about to put them back when you notice the phone.

It's tossed at the very back of the drawer with a few other odds and ends. You dig them out, not sure what you're looking at.

A man's ID. Neither the name nor the picture bear any resemblance to your fiancé. You don't recognise the owner.

Odd, but not insanely so. Maybe he's just holding onto it for someone.

A leather bracelet, with a metal band attached. You flip it over to read the engraving.

Forever and a day.

Still not suspicious, you tell yourself. You don't wear every piece of jewellery you own. It's crazy to expect your man to.

It's only when you power the phone on that you run out of excuses.

The wallpaper is a copy of the framed picture in your bedroom upstairs.

Except it isn't your fiancé that's holding you.

You breath catches in your throat. The man from the ID, his dimples showing as he smiles at you.

The phone isn't locked but you're not sure where to start. There isn't any signal, and when you scroll through the call log you don't recognise any of the names or numbers.

Pictures then. Those ought to clear things up.

They don't. The gallery is messy, but it isn't hard to find the pictures of you. There are hundreds.

Casual pictures of the two of you hanging out - kissing this stranger on the cheek and doing mud masks together. Corporate shots from work conferences - the two almost always next to each other.

You scroll and scroll, a widow into a life you don't remember.

The man is wearing a ring in some of the most recent pics. The same simple gold band your fiancé has.

He's wearing the bracelet too. That promise - forever and a day - pressed against his pulse.

You can't hear your own thoughts over the pounding of your heart. If this stranger is your fiancé, then who the hell was in bed with you last night?

"Baby. What are you doing?"

You whirl to face the door, your wheelchair shrieking against the tile.

Your fiancé (is he really?) is standing in the doorway, his eyes on the phone still clutched to your chest.

"How did you find that?"

You don't answer him. When he takes a step into the room, you back away.

He stops, watches you with his hands raised, palms up like he's calming at animal.

"Who the hell are you?"

Your voice isn't strong, but it's strident. Rough with the edges of panic.

He flinches. "It's not what you think."

"What else could it possibly be? You lied to me. Why?"

A thousand little things are clicking into place. Small mysteries that don't seem quite so harmless with the full picture laid out in front of you.

You have to dig your voice out of your throat before you manage to speak.

"You're not really scared of germs, are you?"

He looks at you for a long time. The sweet, kind, caring man who isn't at all who he claims to be. 

"No," he says at last, "I didn't wear the gloves or the mask because of the germs."

You try again, somehow more caustic.

"Tell me who you really are. Don't I deserve that much?"

"I'm the man you're meant to marry. What else matters?"

You grab the sides of your wheelchair, fulling intending to push yourself past him. Let him explain his story to the detectives and the district attorney. You want no part of it.

He jerks forward on instinct.

You blink and he closes the gap between the two of you. Slaps a hand over your mouth before you can scream.

God, how does he move so fast? You remember the hard muscles you felt when he hugged you to his chest last night. He might look harmless on the surface, but you're quickly realising the depths of his strength.

You twist your free hand in his shirt to shove him off but it's useless - you don't have any leverage at all. Your wheelchair rolls backwards until it's pinned against his desk.

He sighs and pulls the phone out of your hand.

You watch helplessly as he scrolls through the gallery, deleting one picture after the other.

"This is just a bit of silliness, baby. A little lapse in judgement. Your mind isn't what it used to be, you can't trust everything you see."

Whatever you try to say is muffled by his hand.

He sighs again and looks up at you, smiles in that prince charming way.

"Don't freak out, okay? This is exactly how things are meant to go. You and I were always endgame, baby. You just... forgot."

Your head is starting to ache. That same sharp, splitting pain you felt when you first woke up. His cologne is different today. Something woody and deep that makes your stomach churn. It's familiar, though you can't remember ever smelling it before.

He shuts the phone off and shoves it in his back pocket, his attention back on you.

His eyes have that awful glint to them again.

You think back to you hospital discharge - his name isn't anywhere on your papers. He's unrecognisable on camera with his mask and his hat. He's a ghost, as far as the investigation goes.

If there's an investigation at all.

As far as the authorities are concerned, you're safe at home with your fiancé. Your friends from the city (do you even have any? It's been so long since the last clear memory) probably assume you're on some incredible honeymoon with no cell service. No one knows where you are. 

He tilts his head and runs his free hand down the column of your throat.

"We just need to jog your memory, that's all. You'll calm down once you realise exactly what happened."

His hand falls from your throat to your jeans, his thumb stroking half circles against your inner thigh.

"You were always meant to be mine, baby. That's what you told me, the night you asked me to kill your fiancé. You promised me it would be just the two of us, for forever and a day."

Day 1 - Fear (1996)

Day 2 - Secret Obsession (2019)

Day 3 - Hush (2016)

Day 4 - The Perfect Guy (2015)

Day 5 - The Boy Next Door (2015)

Day 6 - The Invisible Man (2020)

Day 7 - Til Death Do Us Part (2017)

Taglist: @jsprien213 @trolleri-trollera @mel-vaz

[acecase0]

The most unrealistic part about humans in space is that the average human knows why their body reacts the way it does.

Dont get me wrong, i love how they explain things that shock an alien, but most humans, atleast americans, do not know what happens to make their foot fall asleep.

They know that if you keep it in one place too long it will, but not that if you sit on it too long the nerves get compressed and cuts off from your brain for a couple minutes.

Of course if you went through a program that required you to know things about humans that could be potentially dangerous to other life forms then you may know things, but after a couple years or so when there isn’t a requirement to do that because of trade with other species, i like to think that something like this happens.

Human: *sitting in a chair with one leg over the other, listening to their xorgog friend talk*

Xorgog: -and so I never got to eat my special tsu’le cake. Oh look at the time, I better head to my pod.

Human: Oh dang, lemme walk you out then bud! *goes to stand up only to fall back in the chair* Agh! Dammit!

Xorgog: *worried* What! What happened?

Human: *waving him off* it’s fine, my foot just fell asleep. Just give me a second and i can get up.

Xorgog: *confused af* what do you mean ‘fell asleep’? I thought you were one organism, not multiple?

Human: Oh, well when humans have their limbs in one place too long, when you go to move it gets numb.

Xorgog: *horrified* How?!

Human: *shrugs as he shakes his leg* I dunno man! It’s fine though, i just gotta shake it to wake up and it’ll have a tingly feeling, which hurts like a bitch, then it’ll be back to normal. No biggie.

Xorgog: ….humans are weirdly terrifying.

Human: *shrug* whatever you say man.

[miss-tarja]

Hojōjutsu

Art by mag_bya on X ❤️

Ninja! Miguel O’Hara x Ninja! Reader.

Another for the Miguelverse ✨

WARNINGS: MINORS DON'T INTERACT. Dom/Sub dynamic, Smut, fingering, Oral (F! Receiving) Unprotected p in v, use of bdsm equipment, mentions of Kinbaku poses (Or bondage), mentions of Japanese terms, bratting, ninja activities, espionage, spanking. Rimming (F! Receiving).

A/N: Was going through my photography essays and found a lovely photo shoot I did back then 🤭, then had that fanart sitting on my gallery for too long, untouched. And I might be ovulating so... yeah. Merely indulging myself here jsksk. Hope you like! Feedback and reblogs are always welcome c:

Word count: 7505.

PD: The Hojojutsu is a Japanese martial art used ever since Edo period, used to immobilize prisoners. Due the lack of iron to create tools such as handcuffs, the police back then had to make use of ropes. Still is a practice used in modern days as part of the Japanese police training ~ ✨ It was the main inspiration for the Kinbaku (Erotic tying) that came later in the same period ❤️.

Frantic steps ran through the overcrowded grass field, dodging and zig zagging left and right, until a foot turned on its heels to the right once more in a stupid attempt to lose him and keep himself alive a little longer.

The young man knew what the task of being a messenger ensued, the dangers he'd face ahead on the treacherous path he'd chosen. But never in his short life he'd think he'd encounter danger this early on his very first mission. 

The young man's panting increased, like the fear devouring all coherent thoughts inside his panicking brain, begging to keep on running, to keep himself away from the silent steps behind him, preying, approaching him with a deathly and stealthy pace and a single goal in mind. 

The scroll.

Not only it contained compromising information about some powerful lords in the underworld, but names of those that weave their webs behind Underground New York's imperious daily activities. 

The powerful, the self proclaimed gods among mortals, that looked down upon those beneath them. Lords or modern daimyos (Feudal lords), as they called themselves, strategically distributed in seven sectors through the living contradiction the city was. 

A blur of red made the courier's eyes nearly pop out of their socket as it hovered over him. The young and naive man knew running was as futile as sending a signal of help in an open field. He also knew running would just delay the eventual end awaiting with open arms his way. When the courier turned, all that his horrorized eyes could do was widen as open as they could, his mouth gaped, like a fish out of water but no scream for pity or sound came out of it; while the moving blur stopped right in front of him, in the shape of a man.

Someone he was often warned by his mentors, the survivors of his prowess, stood tall and  proud before his very eyes. None other but The Spider-man was his chaser and executor. Red, blue and a flash of white by the elongated fangs dashing, was all the courier saw before a powerful sting erupted from the side of his neck, spreading a burning numbness through his limbs, like a disease. Stilling and subduing each movement of his muscles effortlessly.

The flesh skeleton he had for a body twitched painfully, the soft coppery smell tickled his nose along the faint scent of gunpowder flooding each breath.The gloved hands held him still as the bite deepened. It all had happened so quickly, yet the beating of his heart slowed down, menacing to stop at any second. The burning within was too overwhelming for his brain to register. 

A bite. It all took a bite from the colorful blur to end it all. Not that the courier’s chase had been exhausting, if anything it all meant a mere game he had lost even before starting. The scroll fell off its secure grip on the ground, like him and his soon to be lifeless body. Unable to tear his gaze from the… creature standing before him. A glint of beady red eyes watched him, with a satisfied smirk on his face before disappearing within the blink of an eye into the night. 

Despite the city's futuristic layout, many lived simple and rustic lives, after all, the social barrier was ever present among the denizens of the upper terrains.

Old and new walked hand in hand, carrying the hefty weight of a constantly evolving dystopia. Even though technology oozed in the upper echelons of the city, the most basic and borderline rudimentary ways of life thrived in the subworld. Another reality, some said. 

While the top was beautifully constructed with skyscrapers that scratched the sky and beyond, the sublevels of the city still used technology deemed ancient. Manual labour, handwritten letters, artisanal constructions among others that could be found only in history records. Many used it as a getaway from the overwhelming and speedy pace the upper city kept, others, too stubborn to embrace the change to be part of it, but for a certain powerful group, it was the perfect ambience for criminal activities off the radar. 

It was no secret that Underground Nueva York was controlled by six individuals that always made their word an ominous promise and the underworld they remained hidden, their playground. Old ways of intel gathering were brought to the table, and old arts of espionage once again resurfaced, leaving the good and the bad to clash in a never ending fight for justice and interests alike.

You often wondered what was the real cause they fought for. Money? Maybe. Power? Definitely. Men loved to show off their power, even in the most subtlest of things. Especially one, your boss. The one and only and true mastermind behind the other daimyos agendas, Tyler Stone. 

The man had requested your presence right after you had finished another mission. Infiltration and a little else were your speciality, eventually they both helped you to get the right amount of recognition to put your name out there, earning yourself a good spot as Tyler’s best spy. 

“You called?” Your voice echoed behind him, as Tyler read the many scrolls full with intel from his uptown allies. Scrolls were untraceable, unlike an email. 

“Your new mission just arrived, Shadow.” His favorite nickname for you, despite your initial mockery for it. “You see, one of Osborn’s agents was supposed to deliver us some information. He never showed up. My scroll is missing and as you might know, if there’s something that grinds my gears is to have my intel in pieces” He sighed, opening the next scroll in line. “You know I’m a complete picture sort of man. So bring it to me. Will you, dear?.”

“Anything else?” 

“For you to be careful.” 

A tinge of wariness raised in the back of your mind. It was rare when Tyler, out of everyone, warned you, and the times he did it meant only one thing. A formidable enemy awaited. 

“Careful?” You repeated, almost incredulous. 

“Yes, my dear Shadow. Careful. Whoever is dispatching our agents, is quick, efficient and dangerous.”

So am I

“Is there any pattern?” 

“That’s the thing. Whatever this…creature is, leaves a single thing in the bodies. A signature of sorts.” 

Tyler handed you a couple of pictures, all of them showed something in common. The lurid silhouette of a man’s bite, nesting too comfortably in the right side of the victims’ necks. Two deep and parallel punctures stood out the most for you, located right in the jugular as an ambar liquid oozed from them.  

Creature. It suited the description beyond perfection. The bite reminded you of those fantasy beings you used to read about in your spare time, but with science and progress living above your head, the idea of whoever or rather whatever doing this wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. You had seen your fair share of strange things and mutants. One that loved to bite wouldn’t spook you out. 

Without anything more deemed substantial to know, you disappeared. Ready to search and retrieve. 

The first two districts had been empty of what you needed. Their people either knew how to hide a good secret, or they were too oblivious as to what had happened with the missing courier. Some thermal water attendees commented briefly on it, but nothing good enough to make it a lead. 

Then you infiltrated into an inn, as a masseuse, after tracking one of Osborn’s soldiers. The man turned out to be nothing else but his right hand, and if there was something all the lackeys from the daimyos’ shared, it was their loose mouth. 

“-Next thing I know is that he’s gone. Poor kid. It was his first day and he got the bite.” The soldier huffed as you moved your oiled up hands among the layers of skin and bumps, earning a gurgling and approving moan from him. 

“See? This is what I call VIP service.” He mumbled, too lost into the relaxation invading him, like the other soldier accompanying him. Another girl worked his neck and back. 

“So, that kid, Ricky’s dead then?” The other soldier asked, contemplating. 

“Seems so. That… Spider creature is scaring my men shitless. But when I catch him? I swear… he'll pay. I liked Ricky. Was young and stupid, but was a good soldier.”

A him? Spider creature?

Your ears perked ever subtly as you listened and massaged the man's shoulder diligently, while your brain connected two and two. You were on the right track. 

“Osborn wants him dead.”

“Like everyone.” His companion chuckled, “He's been messing us up for too long. Even Tyler is looking up for that Spider guy.”

Osborn’s right hand gave a low whistle.

“Yeah. That means we stay out of his way and let him handle it all. If he fails, hope not, we'll be screwed. None wants to be a messenger now, because of that arachnid son of a bitch.” 

“Ah, c’mon, it can't be that hard to get him! Just round up some other shinobis and we'll settle a trap for him.”

“That's the thing, dumbass… It's not only him.”

After long days of discreet and low profile searches, you finally managed to not only make a solid lead, revealing more of this phantom-like character to you and those brave or stupid enough to dig past the surface about him. 

You found out that what killed the young man was a severe allergic reaction to a toxin located in some spiders you had heard were used in the upper city labs of Alchemax. The arachnid creature was more a fact than a hypothesis now. 

And although you had to pay a visit to the upper dystopia to get more information, it all eventually led you back underground. More specifically to the Takuya district. Or colloquially known as “The Spider” sector. Rumors about a secret army being trained under the command of a man were often encountered in your research. And no matter how much Tyler’s minions tortured the captured enemy’s spies, none sang. 

Some rather die, others bite their tongue off. None dared to say a word, nor a peep. Until one did, giving you a name in hopes for you to stop the pain consuming him. 

Miguel O’Hara. 

The very same ghost that owned the residency before you. The very same creature that from time to time, meaning almost on rare occasions, allowed himself to be a regular man and spent the night with some high end courtesan. 

Thanks to your connections, you managed to swap with the assigned woman for the task. The madam couldn't make enough emphasis to not be bold or rude or else you'd never work for them again, as he had complained about the last woman they sent. 

“Don't look him in the eye if he doesn't allow you to.” “Don't speak unless you’re asked to.” “Don't-”

Will I get to breathe though? 

The sudden thought was too tempting to be kept in your red tainted mouth, but common sense prevailed and you remained shut. 

One thing you always found curious was the clothing people wore in this side of the underground city. Yukatas, kimonos, obis, so many traditional clothing you had seen back in the museum records. Even the security guards wore the signature red and blue uniforms you had seen since entering some parts of the district. All wearing a spider symbol in their chest or backs. 

Once ready, you were allowed in, and soon were guided to the assigned room. The house, or rather manor, was as impressive inside as it was from the outside. Your eyes were already taking mental notes, how many hallways, how many doors, people and soldiers, and of course, how many weapons each carried. Security was alarming, meaning the scroll was somewhere within.

The heavy steps from outside, snapped you out of your thoughts, and when the door slid open, your breath stuck in your throat. 

Not only was he the tallest man you had ever seen, but the most serious. Sharp features adorned his strong jaw, the red irises were too strange and pretty to ignore, especially when they raked you up and down, causing a chill to tickle your skin alive while you bowed. Somehow you could understand a bit more on why people feared him. 

“You're early.” He noted, closing the door behind you both. The people behind the thin walls left, conceding privacy to you both.

By his damp hair you could tell he was fresh out of a bath. Wearing a burgundy and blue colored yukata contrasting with his luscious cinnamon skin. Dark chestnut and shiny locks perfectly slicked back, almost too elegant. But his eyes were the ones that did the trick for you. Bright red and dangerous. Staring right into your soul.

“Madam Odai refuses to get another complaint from our best client, so she sent me earlier to give you extra time as a compensation, sir.”

His head tilted slightly as his eyes refused to leave you, an appreciative hum left him. 

“On your feet. Face the wall.” He instructed right on.

Your brow quivered at his sudden order, but obeyed. Once again your breath caught when the sudden sensation of warmth irradiating from his body pressed against your back. Big hands palmed up and down your sides, squeezing briefly any portion of space his hands reached. 

Straight to business, huh?

His hot breath tickled your neck as his hands took a good and proper feel of you, your breast, waist, hips. He hummed pleased, when he found the obi around your waist, and with an impromptu twist, you faced him as the belt fell at your feet. Like the first layer of your robes. 

“Haven’t seen you before.” He huffed, his eyes too focused on whatever piece of your exposed skin, as if looking for something.

Your cheeks couldn't help but flush lightly at the sudden pace his hands worked. But a gasp came out of your mouth when his body pushed you against the wall, and with a swift motion of his hands, he peeled off layers and layers, until nothing but a fine linen robe separating your nakedness from his scrutiny remained. 

“I-Is there something wrong, sir?” 

Although your voice came out laced with innocence and curiosity, confusion crossed Miguel’s eyes for a moment. There were no weapons on you, which earned him a low growl. He was sure he'd find something, anything, tiny as it was. But there was nothing. 

Yet. 

His eyes smothered you, like blazing and gorgeous fire stones ready to scorch you alive, following every breath you did. He didn’t trust anyone, not even his own shadow.

“Hands above your head.” 

You obeyed, with a subtle and playful bat of your lashes. The sleeves of your linen dropped back, exposing your now naked arms. His eyes followed every trace of your bare skin, stopping at your partially open lips for a second longer.

“Are you looking for something, sir?”

“Quiet.” He held with a single hand both of your wrists, pinning you down on the spot. Earning you a ticklish giggle when his brows furrowed deeper. “I would’ve been informed if a new girl showed up.”

“I work in another district. Madam Odai requested my help, her girls were busy for the night. She didn’t want to let you down.”

His hands pulled you closer to him, only to flip you and press your face against the wall with your hands behind your back, his grip tightened, you noted. A tingle ran down your spine, pooling down in the very pit of your abdomen. Your hips arched in his direction, bumping ever softly against his. 

Ironic as it was, playing in the handsome face of danger was your best card, but deep in the back of your mind, Tyler’s warning rang loud and clear. To be careful. He was no ordinary man after all.

“...Sir?” 

Miguel huffed, almost too amused your charade was still up. For how long though? So far you seemed confused at best by his behavior, you weren’t panicking nor complaining. A big red flag on your end. Other women struggled, over-explained themselves or cried initially, and he always made sure to reward their endurance to the frighten, and here you were, calm and collected as if expecting his next move.

“You never told me the district you came from.” His breath tickled your cheek.

“Well, you never asked.”

“Ha, funny aren’t you?” He pressed tighter, pulling a tiny whimper from your lips. “Where?”

“D-District four.” you gasped. And the hairs of your nape stood. “Your grip is hurting me, sir.”

“Four?” He chuckled and your alarms flared. “And you say Odai sent you?” 

“Is this a routine of yours I wasn't told of?” 

“You see… If there’s something Odai hates is sloppy jobs” He turned you once again, his hot breath fanning your face as he hovered over you, his hand easily maneuvered your arms above your head, pinning you once again. “And district four. Now, let’s try again before my patience runs out. Who. Sent. You?” 

“I told you already! Madam Odai did!.” 

He squeezed your wrist tighter as a warning, yet no bigger reaction than a glower crossed your features. His other hand pulled your chin up, making your eyes meet his, the scowl on his handsome face revealed just enough for you to see the tip of his elongated fangs peeking out. 

He was the creature. The Spider. The ghost stalking your agents, and everyone deemed a threat towards his interests. 

“Are you sure you wanna play that way, pequeña? Cause let me tell you, If we'll play, it'll be on my terms.” His voice turned an octave lower, hissing on your ear, slamming you hard enough against the wall to get his point across. “And I don't play gently.” 

“I’m sure Madam Odai won’t like hearing you’ve been terrorizing her employees-”

The slam was enough for you to growl. The confused courtesan mask slowly cracked before him.

“How convenient for her to send a new employee when I precisely requested her to not send any other girls here.” A smirk stretched in his plump lips, “But I do appreciate her collaboration in handing me over stupid people like you that think they have a chance.”

Your eyes widened for a moment, earning a satisfied huff from him. 

That old hag…

Odai had delivered you right into his palm, like a butterfly purposely placed in the sticky webs of a hungry spider. A sacrifice for her own and her business protection. A normalized practice within the underworld.

“Are you gonna kill me?” Your eyes followed him with the same intensity he scrutinized you.

“Depends. What are you here for?”

“To please someone. But, guess I'm not his type. A shame really.” 

His eyes narrowed. “Your time runs out, corazón. Like my patience, so you better speak.” 

“I don't feel like it, actually. Not a good talker when I'm cornered.” The little smirk in your lips was enough for his eyelid to twitch.

“Enough!” He growled, squeezing your wrist tighter, earning a wriggle from you. “Give me names, now. I don't have time for this.” 

“Neither do I.” You hissed back and sunk your knee in his side with a powerful kick, pushing all air out of his lungs and weakening his grip on your wrists as he staggered back. All pretense gone, leaving your true colors before him. 

“You'll pay for that.” He hissed 

“You'll hit a woman? How shameful of you.”

With a sweep of his feet on your ankles, your balance was compromised by losing your footing as you stepped into the discarded silky robes. His hand grabbed a handful of your front robe and pulled you towards him, his angry and gorgeous face inches away from yours. 

“It's self defense when you attack me first, bonita.” He growled, dodging and pushing you against the wall with the sole intention of disorienting you, specially with a sudden body slam he did. But you were persistent.

A flurry of kicks and punches moved his way, but he easily dodged, learning your fighting pattern, analyzing your every move. Proficient, effective, lethal and graceful, like a proper kunoichi (female ninja) trained from a young age. Until he seized the chance and grabbed your ankle, pulling upwards, lifting you effortlessly with enough strength to make you yelp, surprised at the sheer display of power, but also making your robe to rile up even further. 

“Put me down, asshole!” Your hands tried to reach for the railing hems of your robe and his face, to no avail. 

“Como desees, corazón.” (As you wish, sweetheart)

Not only did he put you down by letting your body fall with a loud thud on the ground. But pounced on you before you could scramble on your feet and dash towards the door. 

You threw a blind punch with your elbow, earning an amused chuckle from him as he caught it mid air.

“My, my. For being a little thing you sure do put up a fight, I’ll give you that.” He mumbled cockily while restraining both of your arms behind your back and held them on the spot by pressing his knee on them. All while he retrieved a white long rope from a nearby compartment on the floor. “Now be a good girl and stay still.”

Your eyes frowned when his fingers placed the rope around your neck. And just when you thought his fingers couldn’t work faster, there he was, twisting the rope behind your underarms to create a lubber’s knot and restrain your arms behind your back. Leaving zero chances for them to move. And if it wasn’t enough for him, he finished the tie with the ropes caging your breast above your chest and underneath them, perfectly secured in a box tie.

With a pull, he easily lifted you from the ground, the rope around your neck tightened enough to cut off your air intake briefly, earning him a gasp. Your feet clumsily stood, with Bambi-like steps, but a squeal, easily mistaken for a moan, left you as his face found the right side of your neck and sank his fangs in the tender skin, right above your pulsating spot and pulled you closer to his chest while at it. 

The sting was something you hadn’t felt before. Unlike the courier, a soft buzz spread through your limbs, heightening every receptor in your pores and skin. Increasing your body temperature with a pleasant scorch that slowly traveled through your chest, hardening your nipples, to finally fall deep in the pit of your fluttering stomach.

Your eyes nearly rolled back when he pulled his fangs out, licking the amber droplets of his poison, off your now trembling skin in the way.

“We’ve already played your games.” He pushed you to walk out of the room. “I think it’s time to play mine.” 

The cold splashes of water doused your heated skin, awakening from your sudden slumber. When did you fall unconscious? You didn’t know. All you remembered was him biting you, your body burning and him leading you somewhere. 

“Rise and shine, sunshine.” He mumbled while splashing another bucket of ice cold water on your face. 

Your groggy eyes fought for a moment to focus, the water droplets blurred your sight, yet you could still see the blue and red blur pacing back and forth before you. Your head hung, too heavy to keep it up, yet the alarms rang once more as you didn’t feel the floor under your feet. A little late you realized you were dangling in the air.  

The blur came closer and yet another splash of water doused you once more, making you cough, shiver and gasp. His hands wiped your eyes from the stubborn water pooling in the corner of them, clearing your sight for you to watch him properly. The flimsy and soaked robe now stuck on your body like a second skin.

“There we go. You gotta look a bit more alive for me, darling.” His fingers patted your cheeks softly, squeezing your chin to face him. 

“W-Where…” You coughed again, gasping for air.

He just watched you, impassive, as you tried to pull your arms back with a tug, yet they didn’t budge. Your feet twitched. The only part of your body that remained unrestrained. If you fell, the pain wouldn’t be too much. You were hovering a few feet above him after all. 

Slowly the numbness holding your brain hostage left, earning you back some mobility, but enough to stop and look down at yourself, or at least attempt to. A spreader bar kept your arms separated behind your back. Your upper body leaned towards him as the rest dangled. 

The cold water dribbled in little rivulets down your shivering thighs, you didn’t have time to protest as the ice cold liquid drenched you again. 

“F-Fuck, stop!” you gurgled, kicking in the air. But he made sure each part of you was soaked. “I’m awake already you-”

He splashed your face with a smirk, silencing your yapping, earning himself a glare. You were awake. And aware, just like he needed you to be. 

“Good. Good. Now… mind telling me who you’re running errands for?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Don’t know them. I think you'll have to illustrate me.” 

You thrashed and kicked his way. Pulling a mocking yet brief laugh as he caught your first leg. His eyes raked your exposed and shimmery wet skin. His thumb rubbed just above your tabi socks, slowly increasing in a powerful squeeze. 

“There’s only three people that are in touch with Odai’s services.” He mumbled, pulling you by the hostage ankle, the suspension device you were tied to, moved in his direction, obeying without reply, unlike you. And by the looks of the room, you supposed it was a torture space. 

Bars, ropes and other weapons rested too comfortable on the tables. But what truly snatched your whole attention for a moment was seeing the different objects and other tools you often got to see not so well hidden in the massaging rooms. The inns and massage houses were often a decoy for cruising. 

“Eyes on me, sweetheart.” He pulled your chin  and spoke again. “Like I said only three people, daimyos especially, have the connection with Odai. Kingpin.” Your face turned in disgust at the name and he hummed.

“Osborn.” Your eyes went wide for a moment. “Yeah, it’s as surprising for me as everyone that finds out. And last but not least. The boss himself, Tyler Stone.”

Your lips flattened in a tight line at the name, yet Miguel’s eyes shone. 

“Tyler is it?” He nodded with pursed lips, then a nonchalant huff escaped his lips. “I see. Guess the upper city life wasn’t doing that old man any good.” 

“Old man? Oh god, Save it, will you?I’m not here to talk about your daddy issues, Spiderman.” 

You teased, but that earned you a firm spank that had your jaw clenching in a hiss and your toes curl, drowning a cuss. 

“Too bad he still fails as one for not teaching his pets to behave.” A dark glint crossed his eyes, “But don’t worry. We’ve got time.” 

With a growl you tensed up your muscles, strengthening your core enough to gain some balance and kick his way, but the attack was ridiculous and you only managed to annoy him. 

“So damn impolite.” He slapped with precision your cold pussy. Pulling a yelp as you stilled. “That’s better.” 

His hands took the rope and wasted no time bending your knee back against your thigh. Although you gave him another kick, it barely budged him. He restrained the first and caught the other one just in time before it connected to the side of his head.

“Dios mio, you’re such a brat.” He restrained the other leg, almost with a lick of humor, leaving you in nothing but a frog-tie position. 

Not only now you hovered over him, completely soaked, angry and hogtied. But your cunt was also exposed to him. A shade of flush traveled through your cheeks as he pulled the lever to lower the suspension device just enough for his eyes to meet your folds. And as much as you tried to close your legs and deny him the sight, you couldn’t. 

“Now… What does Tyler want so bad he sent you here, hmm?” He stepped back, raising his hand to show his talons protruding from the tip of his fingers.

Your eyes widened for a moment while one of his sharp fingers tipped your chest. You didn’t have to be a genius to understand one slice of them was enough to end you on the spot. But nervousness had a habit of turning you into a parrot when the nerves kicked in. 

“Might as well call you kitty-man.” A stupid parrot that earned a growl from the danger before you. 

The sound of fabric tearing was too deafening for a moment, your eyes closed as soon as the talons reached up to you and then a shiver ran through your skin when the cold air hit your bare and hardened nipples. He had sliced to shreds your robe, leaving nothing but hanging pieces in between the ropes and you. A beautiful soaked and flushed mess. His talons retracted. 

“I liked you better when you weren’t talking without my permission.” He mumbled and approached the special table, retrieving a bamboo gag and waving it for your eyes to see. “Ball gags are unsafe for little things like you. Wouldn't want you to choke on purpose.” His hands fastened the gag around your mouth, making your teeth sink into the bamboo piece. “I’d rather do so myself.” 

A crawl pooled in your lower back, but even so, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, refusing to completely acknowledge his undeniable advantage. 

“Now. I speak, you listen.” His hands pulled your open thighs closer to his face, his eyes couldn’t help but admire properly the wondrous display of his authority effects on your skin. 

A lovely patch of hair covered your pubis, stopping an inch away from your cleft. Puffy labia remained slightly parted by the position of your thighs, doing a poor job in covering the prized pearl of nerves resting in between them, calling for proper attention. His pupils widened involuntarily when it pulsated. 

The man in him urged him into making you talk. And by the reactions of your body, he knew the perfect torture for such task. Conventional methods would only be inefficient but boring. Even if you were his enemy, the chivalrous side of him dictated he couldn’t ignore a wet pussy. 

His eyes darted to a wriggling you, staring, amused at how your desperate movements of freedom made the ropes to friction tighter, leaving faint red imprints of their pattern in your skin. But oh, when the little whimper echoed behind your gag as soon as the rope touched your nipples, fueled him. He knew he had to do something. 

“Look at me.” He instructed once more and your eyes darted his way with a glare. 

That stupid and smooth smirk in his plump lips only fed dry bones to the hatred fire burning within you. 

“We’ll make this quick and easy. I’ll ask something and naturally you’ll reply. I know… I know. Don’t look at me like that, corazón. If the answer is yes, you’ll…” He took your chin and made you nod. “But if it’s a no?” He moved your head to shake it side to side gently. “Understood?” 

Upon not hearing an answer, he reached for your folds and pressed his thumb against your clit, applying the right amount of pressure. Your thighs twitched and you whimpered. 

“I said, understood?” 

You nodded almost right away. 

“Good girl.” He released your clit and rubbed the inside of your thigh, relishing in the sight of the wetness seeping through your pores. 

Miguel reached for a little clamp and pried it open, hovering it over your nipple. Your eyes followed the wooden device, backing up as much as you could. 

“Do you know what the scroll contains?” He held you still

You shook your head. But the clamp was put on your nipple anyway, tearing a throaty whimper from you while glaring his way. You weren’t lying, and still the asshole preferred to complete the task by adorning both breasts with the wooden clamps. The pressure sent a delicious crawl through your chest. 

“You came here to retrieve it, without knowing what it had inside?” The palpable mock in his tone had your eyes rolling, annoyed, but he tapped your clit, rewiring immediately your focus on him. “Nuh-uh. Eyes on me. Yes or no?” His thumb found its way to your pulsating bundle once more, rubbing in tortuously slow circles. Your hips by instinct twitched to the side, seeking more of the friction. 

You managed to nod, panting behind the gag while he flickered it to the sides. Each touch only sent burning waves of need through your body.

“Silly girl. Fetching things without knowing what they have is dangerous and stupid.” His face hovered over your cunt, examining with narrowed eyes the way your insides clenched around nothing the more he caressed it. 

“Does it feel good? Hm?” Other fingers joined the party as they parted your folds apart, revealing the soaked flesh in between. A fine thread of your juices escaped, smearing itself on his palm, a frisson of lust crossed his focused features when you eventually nodded. 

Of course it felt good. Too good for your own well being and damned you if Tyler found out about it. He’d deem you not trustworthy on the spot. But… Did it matter? You were done for anyway as the man before you, edged you into breaking two of the three most important restrictions a shinobi couldn’t break. Need for pleasure and longing. 

Both a distraction that nearly cost your life once, and now has gotten you into this predicament. You didn't need his hot breath fanning your pussy, and you certainly didn’t longed for his fingers to explore your insides, like his eyes were. You couldn’t. 

“Bet. Just look at you” He kept your puffy and sensitive folds open, too focused on the delicious mess he had created just with his fingers. He smiled, pleased. “So fucking wet. Has it been a long time for you, huh preciosa?”

He buried one of his long fingers inside, watching every reaction of you. Your brows arched and your eyes turned glossy, the flush in your cheeks increased despite the feeble attempt of anger flashing in your eyes. Yet you were angry at none but yourself for enjoying this man’s touch. Not that you could do something about it. And the more friction he provoked inside your spasming and needy walls, the more you planned on doing nothing about it. 

The moment his fingers stopped a whine dared to float out from your gagged mouth. And never in your life had you seen a man smiling so shamelessly. And he beamed when another fingers sunk in the glistening and clenching hole, knuckle deep. 

“Hear yourself, cariño.” He whispered and your breath hitched. His long and thick fingers curled up in a hook motion and pumped. Once, twice, over and over and over. Faster, deeper. 

Each pump turned wetter and wetter than the previous, the sounds your sopping cunt did only mixed with the whimpers and groans your mouth gave him. For once you were grateful you were gagged, or else the shame of having to beg him to not stop would be too much to handle. Yet each stroke of him inside your melting walls caused an obscene slurp and suck, and when the first spasm came, he released your insides with no remorse. 

You wriggled, desperate. If your mouth couldn’t  beg, your hips and cunt did by moving forward, trying to still get a feeling of his fingers. 

“Did you hear that?” He chuckled, admiring the hot and wet mess in his hand. Much to your disbelief, he took each of his soaked fingers in his mouth, groaning as soon as the first hit his taste buds. 

Your eyes stared, pupils wide, at the way his tongue cleaned every single trace of your juices off, like if he had just ate the most scrumptious of delicacies with his hands. 

“Funny thing is that you interrupted my meal time.” He stepped back to slick the stray strands of hairs that had dared to come in his sight, but quickly propped your bent and tied knees on top of his shoulders, “Guess you’ll do.” 

Nothing prepared you for the feeling of his mouth sinking in between your thighs, devouring, starved, caring little for the finesse his mouth kissed and sucked every inch of your cunt. One of his hands held your thigh in place, as the other held your hips tightly, his thumb pressed against the curve of your stomach. Preventing you from wriggling too much. 

His ears kept fueled with the syrupy sweet moans erupting every couple of seconds the more he delved in. His nose buried in the soft patch of hair as his tongue focused solely on your clit. He dribbled it with such hunger and energy it was impossible for your eyes to keep themselves in front.

But you had to, cause you didn’t want to miss a single second of his tongue slipping in and out, dribbling, slurping and sucking that sweet bundle that nearly made you see stars. A spank echoed and you groaned. Drool escaped the fissures of your lips, also making the gag a mess. 

A violent shiver shook you when his tongue traveled further and further, your head shook but he spanked you again, a warning to stay still and he now parted your cheeks and used his tongue to tease the pulsating ring of muscles. Your spine arched in a way that would put a contortionist to shame when he shook his head and traveled up back at your clit.

Devouring was a flimsy word for what he was doing. His eyes pinned you in the spot as his tongue feasted on your pussy, viciously. The sounds coming out of his mouth nearly matched the ones his fingers did. 

“Don’t come.” 

Well, fuck him cause that was just what you were about to do. How could you not when he was purposely instigating that spot that ached so good? Fuck him and his authority. Fuck his warnings. Fuck him. You came. 

It was like an electric jolt had impacted through your body, your head shook over and over, too overridden trying to assimilate the orgasm hitting you with such force it bulldozed all coherent thoughts from your brain. The muffled shriek was like music to his ears, but even so a growl rumbled in his chest. You had disobeyed. 

His eye twitched for a second but sighed, backing up. His hand wiped his glistening chin and lips and approached the table once again. He took a long dark bar that elongated itself when he pressed a button. The hooked a set of cuffs in the hoops on each side’s end pulled the lever of your contraption down. 

The chains whirred and he maneuvered the lever again, stopping you right before you impacted the floor. When he crouched right before you, a hardening bump in between his robe caressed your face as he removed the gag. 

You coughed, meekly, with swollen and flushed lips, exhaling like you had ran a marathon in just a couple of seconds. 

“Since you wanna disobey me so bad…” With a swing of his talons he cut the ropes that held your body suspended, and he caught you, just to put you gently on the floor. “I think it’s time for discipline.” 

Miguel placed the bar right above your ankles and secured each limb on each side with the cuffs, spreading your hips and thighs as well, giving him the perfect view of your exposed holes. He carefully cut the box tie around your breast in charge or caging them but didn’t remove the clamps. Instead, he took your reddening arms, full of the rope texture imprinted and guided them underneath you, straight to touch the bar. 

“Hold it.” He ordered and took a piece of jute nearby and bound your wrist to the stretcher. 

The numbness in your arms mattered little when the tingling remains of your peak still drowned your mind. Too momentarily gone to notice he had removed his robe, leaving his bare body to your unfocused scrutiny. 

He kneeled behind you and pulled your hair back, showing the mouthwatering curve of your throat. For a moment, the itch of his fangs to sink in that tender skin of yours was too strong to ignore, but his self control reminded him of the punishment he had in store for you. 

His hand lifted your hips higher, to align his cock into your trembling cunt. Miguel stretched his hand to grab your nape and press you deeper against the cold floor. Your body welcomed the coolness as the burning persisted. 

A moan echoed in the room as his broad tip rubbed against your drooling hole. 

“You want it, pequeña?” 

Your hips gave him the answer as they bucked to meet him, but he pulled away, chuckling.

“No, no. I removed the gag because I want you to use your voice, so use it. Do you want it?”

A throaty and meek ‘yes’ came past your lips and it was all he needed to push inch by inch inside. An involuntary gasp rumbled in your mouth

Each bit of himself stretched and molded your walls to his hefty girth, as they choked and gobbled him in. The fiery fluttering of them had Miguel sighing in relief while he kept your hips in place. And once he pushed against your hilt, he pushed forward, as if needing to go beyond, deeper with a powerful thrust. 

Your skin slapped against his once, twice, thrice, four times, until you couldn’t keep up the pace to count, or breath, or think. Your breast shook underneath you, the clamps and the coldness of the floor stimulated the right spots, yet no sound dared to come out your mouth. Too fucked out to chose which one you’d vocalize with the pleasure he inflicted.

The sound of flesh slapping unceasingly screwed the synapses course in your brain, filling the room. Weak and broken sobs turned into breathless wheezes. Your mouth parted open, in a silent scream when his pace increased. His hand once again pulled your hair back as his hot breath tickled your neck. 

His tongue licked the pleasure tears rolling on each side of your flushed and ruined cheeks. The mascara and the courtesan makeup were no longer able to withstand the heat, nor the sweat pearling your body. For a moment he took the time to admire his cock stretching you, filling you to the very top as you milked him.

“You take me so well, corazón” He grunted, plowing with all his might, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. To your inevitable doom. “You wanna cum, pequeña?”

“Y-Yes!” You shrieked in between wheezing sobs. 

“Have you earned it?” 

Your poor body bounced mercilessly underneath him. Your nails scratched and sunk into the bar, desperate for permission as the first sparks of your peak ignited in the pit of your abdomen. 

“Ple…Please!” You choked, unable to hold it in any more. 

“See? Manners aren’t that bad.” He smiled against your neck and groaned right into your ear. So sinfully deep and commanding. “Cum.” 

It wrecked you. He ruined you completely after hitting that forbidden spot that had you a blubbering and shrieking mess underneath him. Peak too devastatingly good for your poor brain to process, too intense to keep it all in, you came. And came hard. Drowning his cock in the warmth of your juices as they gushed the moment his tip kissed your cervix. 

The raspy and manly groan he gave you as he shot the hot and thick ropes of himself in the depths of your spasming walls was everything he needed for an idea to finally seed out in his mind. 

“From this moment…” He panted, satisfied with the wreckage he just created. “You belong to me.” He gasped, pulling out with all the reluctance of the world. “Meaning, you work for me now.” 

He staggered and picked his robe, a giant spider symbol scarred into his chest was quickly covered when he secured the robe around him. A fulfilled smirk played briefly in his flushed mouth.

“Don’t disappoint me, preciosa.” Was all you managed to hear before the door closed.

Maybe being a double agent wouldn't be that bad.  

Dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

[jjenthusee]

Like Him

Pairing: AK!Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: What hurts more? The initial burn or what comes after?

A/N: IM BAAAACK and to celebrate i wanted to give u some soul ripping angst as i get back into writing again :D every time i write about AK jason i always think of my pooks @heavysighing-dreamyeyes 💐💐 i hope you all enjoyyyy

Tags: hurt/no comfort, ANGSTTT, warnings: description of injuries, scars

Word Count: 1.2k

Every step was agony. You felt every pull, every pinch, every tense muscle screaming at you to stop.

But you couldn’t risk it.

“Jason, please. Stop walking away from me.”

It was ironic. You are pleading with him to stop moving and to stop emotionally pushing you away. Now he was ignoring you completely.

You were locked away by his goons, tied to a chair for hours while your legs numbed, taking hit after hit to your face that had you dizzy and bruised.

You thought you completely lost it when your long dead friend reappeared to you as the crazed man taking over Gotham City.

It wouldn’t hurt to laugh hysterically after all that was revealed in the last two hours, but pain was keeping you awake and in reality.

You tried to walk behind him, stumbling and irritating the deep ache in your right leg.

Due to your injuries, speed wasn’t an option. Momentum was the real reason why you were still able to practically drag your leg forward. Feeling every streak of sweat prickle down your forehead, sticking your hair to your neck.

You tried to straighten your back, feeling your bones crack as you weakly adjusted to standing upright fully again.

“Look at me.” You spoke with as much precision as you could command your voice to. Trying to pair a steady voice to a feeble stance.

You felt yourself shake from the last remaining strength in your arms and legs as you continued to push a one-sided conversation with Jason.

It was jarring to think you were trying to talk to the Arkham Knight, the one person that was single handedly creating one of the worst nights in Gotham City you’ve had to endure. But you were also talking to your best friend, your boyish childhood savior turned trusted ally. It was a twisted struggle on how to reach out to him, trying to figure out who you were reaching out to.

“Jason—“

“Don’t call me that!” He yelled, the anger reddening his face as he turned his head to you. The visible “J” scarring his face turned to face you directly.

This was the Arkham Knight, the one commanding such a distasteful voice as he peered down at you. Embracing the military grade armor coating his skin.

The scarred skin surrounding the letter was appearing pinker the longer his rage was lingering.

“I am—not your enemy.” You hunched forward, choking rather than breathing in as you spoke while simultaneously trying to balance some of your weight off your weak leg. It hurt like hell as you clenched your jaw to the pain.

“You sound so much like him. I can’t stand to listen to you.” Jason turned his back to you, pacing forward. No visible scar catching your eyes.

“I am not Bruce.” You spit out, feeling blood mix in with the saliva in your mouth.

“‘Course not! But I’m going to fix what he’s done and if you are going to stand in my way, I’ll make sure you won’t be able to interrupt me ever again!” He turned so fast, you blinked as the “J” barely flashed before you, but you only saw his clear, spotless cheek, the side with no scar.

“You don’t mean that.” You exhaled, calmly closing your eyes as you held your side, careful to not press against your bruised ribs. Talking was already irritating them enough.

“What do you know?! You. Don’t. Know. Me. So, stop pretending like you do!”

“You know that’s not true. Ugh—“ You fell to your knee, unable to catch your fall as you banged it into the steel floor. Pain throbbed down to your foot. “It just sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself, not me.” You groaned out, stubbornly not backing down. You may have been on the floor, but you felt higher than Jason was.

“I have nothing to prove, especially not to you.” Jason was ready to pull his opened helmet down, hoping to mask away his face, but it only looked like he was running away.

“Then why am I still not tied to the chair stained with my blood?! Why bother to untie me?” You yelled from your sprawled position, much too vulnerable, but you were heavily pressuring and facing the armored man with enough artillery to take your life away with a simple trigger.

“‘Cause you are useless to me.” Jason started to walk away again. No longer interested in your angry yells.

“It’s ‘cause I mean something to you, Jason!”

“Shut up!” Jason turned and pounded his feet to the ground as he ran back to you. He pulled out his handgun, directly aiming the sight onto you, the end of the barrel covering your entire left eye.

Your eyes widened as you looked into the endless abyss of what became of the Arkham Knight.

Watching his finger itch at the possibility of pressing further and making a choice he could never come back from.

But you saw it.

The look in his eyes.

You met his gaze directly as your eyes relaxed. Glancing at the visible side of Jason’s face with whatever sight you had left in your right eye. The deep “J” also in view. Burning your pupil as you stared up at him but never looking away.

“I never stopped asking Bruce what happened.” You gravely explained, each word ripping into your throat, croaking out every painful word as you watched his face contort the longer you spoke. “Every fucking day, I couldn’t believe that he never found you. I’ve hated Bruce everyday for it. I miss you, Jason.”

The pistol shook. You didn’t know if it was from your eyes watering or from his own emotions, but you leaned forward.

Your back hunched from the painful posture you endured while tied up. Pushing the ache aside, you pressed the muzzle of the gun on your face, your skin sensitive to how hot the barrel was from firing many rounds throughout the night.

The pain seared around your eye, burning into the skin underneath your bottom lashes and eyebrow.

If Jason was scarred, you also wanted to physically burn this night onto your skin.

“Don’t leave. I need you, Jason.” You cried. “You deserve to live. I want to help you live.”

The pain on your face stopped, leaving a burn behind. It pricked your skin relentlessly.

The salty tears burned even more.

As you melted into the floor, your legs hurting, your eye hurting, Jason let the weight of his handgun pull his hand down to his side. Gazing down to you as he watched the gash on your face form.

His stomach twisted severely. He wanted to puke at the brand he made. The same one he gave him.

You may have pushed your face into the muzzle, but Jason held it. He held every gravely second it was pressed into your undamaged, unmarked skin.

Everything he was not.

He reached out his armored hand, extending his fingers to almost touch the swollen skin, but as you hiccuped in a breath to get any air into your lungs, he pulled his hand away. Like he would be burned back.

Jason crouched down to you, getting his face closer to yours, so you could hear him loud and clear.

“Now we’re both mangled.” Jason whispered, watching every twitch of your face as his words split your heart. Feeling his own scar burn as he traced yours with his eyes before he lifted himself back to his full height to walk away. To finish what he started and to ruthlessly leave you ruined by his own words and not your injuries. “Never come back. I never want to see you again.”

[sciencebecameouraddiction]

prompt: who did this to you? tell me now.

summary: when you end up getting hurt while out, you make it back home, but just barely.

genre: angst, hurt/comfort

characters: alastor, lucifer

warnings: talk of fighting, abuse, broken bones and getting hurt, being stabbed. essentially you’re hurt and they respond to you being hurt. blood and medical care by the characters too.

alastor

you walked into the hotel, staggering in, barely able to keep yourself up. every breath your feeble body tried to drag in aggravated another part of your body, causing even slight breaths to feel like you were being punched again.

you grimaced as you found stability against the wall next to door, leaning against it, your head hitting the wall. you micro-adjusted yourself trying to find a spot where you could breathe, knowing if you didn’t you would pass out. you couldn't find that spot, and were near tears. you couldn’t breathe, everything hurt, your eye was swollen shut, and you didn’t know what else to do. you had to get to your room but the thought of walking up those stairs and then down the hallway to your room seemed more of a torture session then you just got through.

that’s when you heard the soft pattering of feet and you looked up to see wide eyes.

red eyes bore into yours as the momentary shock of seeing alastor stopped your brain from thinking about the mind numbing pain you were experiencing. you watched him tighten his grip on his cane as he slowly made his way over to you, like you were a wounded animal.

“can you walk?” he asked, sizing up your figure and waving the cane away.

“i’m not… sure. i… got here… okay…. but my rooms… far.” you muttered out, long pauses between words to catch your breath. he nods, a dark shadow passing over his face along with apprehension, before he shakes his head and approaches you holding out his hands.

“may i carry you?” he asks.

“what?” your shock at his question causing you to not fully register what he said.

“will you allow me to carry you up to the rooms. i’ll help you with whatever injuries you have there.” he says slow and careful.

“i don’t know if… you can carry… me.” you murmur. he smiles a bit more now.

“i’m stronger than i look.” he replies back easily. you wave your free hand at him, giving him consent to go ahead. he gently places his arm under your knees and in a swift movement your in his arms, your body searing as your injuries are jostled.

“fuck.” you moan out trying to breath. alastor stays still and waits until you’re breathing somewhat regularly. he then starts taking you up the stairs, heading the opposite direction from your room.

“my room…” you say pointing behind him.

“i know. we’re going to my room. i have more first aid supplies then what charlie put in the rooms.” he replies easily, not breaking a sweat or even seeming out of breath. his door opens and he gently places you down on a chair near the opening to the forest. you try and find your breath again as alastor quietly darts off and comes back with a box of medical supplies.

he’s quiet as he examines you and asks permission to take off your shirt. he quickly assesses the damage to your ribs, your ankle and your face. checking your hands as well and glaring at the wounds on your knuckles. he starts with your ribs first, setting them and then wrapping them, forcing your posture straight. had you not been just trying to stay awake, you would have blushed at how gently his hands trailed your sides, piecing you back together. next he hands you a cold pack for your eye. you hold it up as he wraps your hand in gauze and ointment. you switch hands as he treats the other one.

“i don’t think your ankle is broken.” he says, “but at the least it’s sprained horribly.” he pulls out a stabilizer and gauze. “this will hurt.” you nod.

“do you worse.” you mutter, finally able to take deeper but still shallow breaths. he turns your foot to face up and your eyes widen as you scream.

“it’s okay. you’re okay.” he says, his eyes wide and worried.

“it hurts al. it hurts.” you cry, tears running down your face.

“i know. but let me finish up. it will feel better.” he assured you as he reaches up and wipes your tears away.

“go ahead.” you whisper. he quickly puts the stabilizer against your leg and then wraps it with gauze. tears running down your cheeks as you keep still and silent.

“it’s done.” he says leaning back as you sit in the chair feeling exhausted.

“thank you… alastor.” you voice no louder than a whisper but you know he hears you as he nods. he packs everything up and then moves you to the bed that magically appears in the room.

“i have a room al.” you say, sitting against the pillows.

“i know you do, but you can’t do anything in this condition. so you’ll stay here until i deem it okay for you to leave.” his tone leaving no room for argument and you nod. “now, who did this to you?”

your eyes widen as your head snaps up at him. gone was the man you saw before, replaced with what you knew as the radio demon. the shift happened almost instantaneously. “it was nothing alastor. i just… fucked up.” you say looking off to the side.

“i don’t take well with lying dear.” he says, his hand hovering over your ankle as a warning. you look at him disbelieving and he just tilts his head. almost as if he’s saying ‘try me’. you sigh.

“it was an ex of mine. he worked for vox and i left him before i came here. he was abusive and i had enough. but he found me and he knew i was at the hotel. said i couldn’t get away from him, and that we were meant to be. and when i tried to get away…” you motioned to yourself. you hoped your words came across as truthful and sincere. you internally sighed in relief as alastor nodded, and sent his shadow off. moments later husk appeared and alastor murmured something to him. you saw husk’s eyes widen as he looked at you and then alastor.

“i’ll take care of it.” husk said, his gaze steely as he left.

“relax my dear. you’re safe now and we’ll help you recover.” alastor said, as you moved to lay down, him taking up an arm chair by the bed and procuring a book from thin air. you closed your eyes as guilt consumed you. you had told alastor the truth but not the full truth.

you didn’t tell him that your ex mentioned that him “giving to you what was coming” was from vox and was to be a message to the radio demon. you knew that alastor would withdraw after that and that would hurt you more than any other physical pain anyone could put you through.

lucifer

you quickly shut the door to the house, leaning against it and taking a breath. you looked down to your abdomen and got a bit woozy seeing the blood spread across your white shirt.

“damn it.” you mutter, feeling a bit foggy from the blood loss. you shake your head trying to clear it. you knew that lucifer was home and you could only hold onto the hope that he didn't hear you come in. you were getting ready to make your way to the bathroom when lucifer popped in front of you.

“honey! you’re home!” he says, looking mostly at the papers in his hand as you straightened up much to the protest of your body, trying to seem like you had not been stabbed maybe 15 minutes ago.

“i- yup!” you responded, your voice tight as you tried to cover your wound with your hand. you moved your jacket over it so that it couldn’t be seen either. lucifer looked up at you as his eye squinted at you. 

“are you all right?” he asks, coming closer to you, his focus on those papers in his hand all but forgotten. 

“i-i’m fine, luce.” you smile, it not reaching your eyes though. you clear your throat, looking off the left, trying to figure out a way to stop him from really observing you. “i know you said you wanted to show me those new plans for the hotel, let’s go check them out!” you say, changing the subject. hoping that worked. you didn’t want to worry him, nor tell him why you were hurt.

“okay…” he says drawing out the word and then motioning for you to follow him. you start walking behind him, every footstep jostling you and causing your wound to bleed even more, when you reached the three stairs to his study. he crossed them easily but you stepped up on the one and gasped, feeling searing pain in your side. your hand coming out to hold the wall so you didn’t fall. your breath rushing in and out of you like you had ran a race, as your head swam, your body loosing more blood. you see the red substance drip from your hand and watch it fall to the floor, blending into the red carpet. you look up and see lucifer standing there, his eyes wide. 

“what the fuck happened?” he cries, going to you and lifting you up, your hand falling from your wound and your jacket falling back, showing the slice through your shirt. he quickly makes a portal and gets you to your shared room. he gently lays you down on the bed, and dashes off to get some gauze. you try to get off the bed not wanting to ruin the sheets. he comes back to you flailing, trying to get up and pushes you back down, looking at you like you had completely lost it.

“the sheets…” you murmur, coughing and wiping your hand away seeing blood. “oh no.” you whisper and his eyes widen. he throws the gauze away and places his hands on your stomach.

“why didn't you tell me immediately?" he cries, shaking his head looking distraught. "i’m going to heal you, just... stay still.” he says closing his eyes. you grab his hand with the strength you had, though you felt all the strength in your body seemingly being siphoned just by laying on the bed. he looks at you, his eyes wide.

“it hurts you.” you say. 

“don’t care.” he says, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. before you can argue again, his hands glow gold and you body starts stitching itself up, cell by cell, inch by inch. you can feel it all. you cry out as lucifer healing you seems to go on forever. the few minutes it takes seems like hours, as your mind swims through a sea of pain and exhaustion. finally the golden glow subsides and lucifer drops to his knees next to you. you grab his hand as he rests his head against you. both of you trying to recover. you can barely keep your eyes open feeling them closing. you drift off to a dreamless sleep, almost like your body forcing you to rest. 

when you wake next you sit up quickly, looking around the dark room trying to find lucifer. your breath coming in short pants as you can't see anything but the darkness in the room.

“luce?” you ask, your voice hoarse and then you look next to you. lucifer was sleeping close by you. you sigh out in relief as you lay back down and brush his hair back from his eyes, kissing his forehead. “you saved me, again.” you murmur, gently resting your hand on his cheek, resting your forehead against his. his eyes open slowly.

“i’ll always be there to do so.” he smiles and sits up. 

“i’m sorry i woke you up.” you said as he turned to you, drawing you to him and situating you to straddle his lap. clutching you close.

“i was so scared.” he whispered, not like he was asleep just a moment ago.

“i’m sorry.” you respond back. your head slotting in between his shoulder and neck. he lets you rest there for a moment and then pulls you back to look at you.

“who did this to you?” he asks, his eyes steely as he cupped your face gently. you shook your head not wanting to say. “darling, who did this?” he asked, the tone of his voice sharper and more impatient.

“i-“ tears start running down your face. “you’re going to be so upset… and i don’t want you to be. i don’t want.. you to pull away from me again. it’ll make you do that and i can’t bare that lucifer. i just-“ you start talking quickly, your breaths coming quick as you hold on to his shoulders, looking into his eyes even as tears pour from yours. lucifer’s eyes widen and his eyes are misty seeing how upset you are. 

“i won’t. i promise you. i won't pull away, regardless of what you tell me. but i need to know who did this to you. tell me. now.” lucifer says, his voice firm. 

“i-they were masked. they looked like sharks?” you phrased the last statement as a question. “they cornered me in an alley and said that i needed to take a message to lucifer. that they knew how to get to you, and they could use me to do that and you needed to give them what they asked for.” you said as you recounted the tale with your eyes closed. you opened them when you felt lucifer’s claws digging into your hips. you saw his eyes had turned red and his horns were fully out. 

“and they stabbed you?” he ground out. you nodded. "that was their message?" you nodded again.

"that if you didn't do what they asked, they would hurt me." you explain, realizing near the end of the explanation that it probably wasn't needed. his eyes darkened as you spoke, and he moved you gently onto your side of the bed. he took a deep breath as he got up. he gently petted your hair and helped you lay down, his horns no longer out, but his eyes bright red.

“where are you going?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

“out. i’ll be back all right. stay here and go to sleep, you need it. i’ll be right back.” he says, a steely resolve in his eyes, and a gentle smile on his face. you nodded as your eyes felt heavy and fell asleep before lucifer even reached the door to leave. he straightened his jacket and walked down the hall. he had important work to take care of as he created a portal and stepped through it.

[loganhowlettshousewife]

animal

chapter 1

friendly reminder that i am not a writer, i'm just a girl who loves logan howlett and wanted to write something exploring his animalistic side since i so rarely see it done. my first language is also not english, so please do not be rude when giving me any feedback.

warnings: non-sexual nudity, swearing, some sexual-ish thoughts

series masterlist │my masterlist

you had been baking a pie, rolling out the homemade dough for the crust, humming along with the soft music playing through the house, when through the open window you’d seen him. a large man, as naked as the day he was born, running towards your farm. you could only watch in numb shock as he went into your barn, now hidden from view.

what the fuck.

you haven’t been inside that barn in over a year. the farm belonged to your grandparents, and you’d inherited the property after they died. while you love the peace and quiet that came from living in the middle of nowhere, you aren’t a farm girl, so the barn went largely unused.

you think about just leaving the man alone, hoping that he’ll leave eventually.

you keep rolling out the dough, soothing repetitive motions, while you stare at the barn, expecting something else to happen. but nothing does. you almost think you made the man up in a moment of insanity.

it’s this that gets you to finally exit the house, anxiously heading towards the old barn with its creaking wood and chipped paint. you take a deep breath to prepare yourself before stepping inside, every nerve in your body screaming at you that this is a very bad idea. 

you’re both relieved and not when you see the man curled up in a corner. relieved, because you weren’t going insane, and not because, well, now you’re going to have to deal with this strange situation.

you take a step closer when he doesn’t lunge at you to attack, then immediately jump back at the gleaming metal claws that appear from between his knuckles. one second he seems mostly harmless - or at least as harmless as a buff, six foot tall man could be - and the next he’s growling at you, face twisted into a snarl, body tense and ready to pounce at the slightest wrong move.

“hi,” you say, softly, the way you were taught to speak to distressed animals. the man cocks his head to the side but doesn’t lunge at you, which you take as a good sign. “i won’t hurt you, promise. but i am curious to know what led you here.”

by here, you mean both the physical location of your house in the middle of nowhere but also whatever reason he has for running through said middle of nowhere naked. there’s some kind of story there, likely not a good one judging by the way he watches you distrustfully. you have a feeling he hasn’t had a good or easy life.

the man doesn’t answer, not that you really expected him to, but slowly his claws retreat back into his skin. he’s marginally less threatening like this, though you know the smallest thing could bring the sharp blades back out.

despite this, you don’t believe he’s a danger to you. he just seems scared and confused.

“are you hungry?” you ask him. again, he doesn’t answer, and you wonder if he’s able to speak. “okay, how about this, i’ll bring you food and you don’t have to eat it but you can. i’ll be right back.”

you don’t turn your back on the barn, on him, as you jog back into your house. it’s much warmer inside than it is in the barn - you were so distracted that you hadn’t been feeling the full effect of the early winter cold. you think of the man, he must be freezing, but you hadn’t seen any sign of it, no shivering, not even goosebumps raising on his skin.

one thing at a time, you tell yourself.

your half-finished pie is sitting discarded on the kitchen counter and you look at it mournfully. you’ll finish it later, and maybe you’ll actually have someone to enjoy it with you.

(it gets lonely sometimes, so far from any cities or towns. usually, you don’t mind it, but apparently there’s some small part of you that still desperately craves human contact and interaction, since you’re jumping at the chance to take care of a random stranger.)

you have leftovers in the fridge that you suppose will have to do, since making him a fresh, home-cooked meal would take time, and you’d promised to return hastily. you heat it up quickly, the warmth emanating from the food another reminder of the frigid temperature outside as you bring the plate into the barn. 

he looks up when you enter, sniffing the air like a dog. it’s cute, and you smile as you put the plate down, careful not to get too close to him, letting him make the first move.

whether he trusts you or he’s just starving you don’t know, but he rushes to your side and starts eating like he hasn’t had food in a month. with him distracted and closer to you, you can get a better look at him. 

he doesn’t look malnourished. he’s buff, muscular and hairy, and you have to stop your eyes from going lower as you stare at his chest.

you look away despite the man being too distracted to notice your shameless ogling. he might be the hottest man you’ve ever seen in your life - or you’ve just been away from men for too long and have become pathetic.

he eats quickly, and looks up expectantly at you when he finishes, like a dog at their owner. you giggle at the comparison you’ve made in your head - it’s quite accurate, you find, with the way he immediately seems to trust you now that you’ve fed him.

“do you wanna go inside? it’s pretty cold out here, and inside i have more food.” you say, and when you go to stand up so does he. you explicitly do not look down.

he follows you into your house, and you’re so glad you live alone so there’s no one to question whatever is happening.

it’s easy to find extra clothes in the guest room, less easy to find any that you think will fit him. eventually, you give up, hoping the sweatpants you found will do for now, and grab one of your own shirts, thankful for your habit of buying oversized men’s t-shirts. it goes down to your thighs, surely it’ll fit him.

you turn to head back into the living room where you left him, and your soul nearly leaves your body when you spot him standing at the door. you yelp, your hand flying to your chest and the clothes falling to the ground.

he startles at the noise, tensing and looking around like he expects danger. 

“shit,” you swear, “how are you so quiet?”

he frowns, and you could swear that he seems apologetic, though you aren’t sure how accurate your interpretations of his facial expressions are given that you’ve only known him for about an hour. it makes you feel a little guilty, though really you shouldn’t be since he snuck up on you.

you’re about to offer him the clothes when you pause, gaze locked on his chest. “you should shower.”

he follows you when you lead him to the bathroom, which you take as agreement on his part. he’s dirty, covered everywhere by a thin layer of dirt. a shower will feel good. it would also give you time to process this without him watching you. his eyes are quite intense, and he keeps them directed at you. you need the privacy to freak out.

it’s only after you place the clothes down on the countertop and show him how the knobs in your shower work that you realise he’s not making any moves to enter the shower. you start to leave the bathroom and he takes a step to follow you.

you stop, thinking about how he doesn’t seem to know how to speak, how he looked so scared and confused when you’d found him, and you sigh when you realise it’s likely he doesn’t know how to use a shower either.

what is your story? you think to yourself.

“do you want help?” is what you ask instead.

he nods slowly, which is the closest you’ve gotten to a response from him so far. you look up at the ceiling, inhaling deeply and bracing yourself when you realise this means you’re going to have to touch the hot, naked man.

you turn on the shower, waiting for it to warm up before you motion for the man to get in. you are absolutely not willing to get naked in the shower with a stranger whose name you don’t even know, so you step in fully clothed, already regretting it when you feel the fabric growing wet and sticking to your skin.

it’s as you’re helping rinse the dirt off him that you spot the writing on his dog tags. you’d noticed them previously but hadn’t been able to get a good look. 

you take the metal chain in your hand, turning it to read the name stamped into the metal.

“logan,” you read, and the man in front of you purrs, a low rumble in his throat. you smile. “i’m going to guess that’s your name. logan.”

this seems to relax the last dredges of tension that he holds. he practically melts into you, and the feeling of being trusted so fully by someone who seems so broken warms your heart in a way that you haven’t felt in years.

you finish washing him up in silence, only interrupted by occasional soft purrs and hums from logan. he quite enjoys it when you wash his hair, hands reaching up to scrub shampoo into the strands, nails scratching at his scalp. you switch your earlier comparison from a dog to a cat, the purring reminding you of the kitten you had growing up.

he shakes his head when he gets out of the shower, water flying everywhere, and you laugh as you hand him a towel. you once again have to help him when he just stares at it like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

he gets dressed on his own, thankfully, since you already feel like you might implode from being in such close quarters with an extremely attractive, wet, nude man for so long. 

you leave him for a minute to dry yourself off and change into dry clothes. it’s nice to have a moment of reprieve, where you can simply breathe and process and question what the fuck you just got yourself into. you finally allow yourself to freak out a tiny bit, muttering to yourself in the mirror, tugging at your hair.

you just manage to pull a shirt over your head when you hear quiet whimpering at the door and the sound of loud banging against it.

your heart breaks at the sound, reminded of the wounded animals your grandparents would nurse back to health, and you rush to pull some pants on so you can open the door. logan looks at you with the most devastated eyes and then falls into you, face nudging into your neck, inhaling deeply. you stumble back, thankful for the wall that catches you. he’s heavier than he looks, which is saying something, given his size.

you’re shocked for a moment, frozen, but quickly come back to yourself and place your hands on his firm back.

“i’m sorry,” you say, “i didn’t mean to scare you. i wasn’t going to leave you, i just needed privacy for a moment.”

you don’t know if he understands anything you’re saying but it makes you feel better to explain yourself. you’re shocked that this is the same man who was snarling at you, claws out and ready to rip your throat out not so long ago, shocked at how quickly he’s grown attached to you.

shocked at how quickly you’ve grown attached to him, too. then again, you’ve always been this way. you like to help people, and logan seems like a man who needs a lot of help.

“i was baking a pie, when i saw you,” you tell him, “how about we go finish that? you don’t have to leave my side. you can watch me and i’ll teach you all my secrets.”

and as you expected, he follows you into the kitchen, trailing after you like a lost puppy. normally, you hate having anyone else in the kitchen with you, getting in your way when you’re in the zone, but his presence is nice. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t distract you or get in your way, just stands and watches you intently.

you’re already used to having him here with you, comfortable enough to turn your back to him. it’s crazy, and a (big) part of you knows that this isn’t exactly a smart thing to do, but you’re already planning on letting him stay for as long as he needs, maybe even forever.

taglist: @mystiquesvendetta @raeinyourdreams

[yaymiyas]

ISEKAI!YANDERE!CROWN PRINCE INTRODUCTION

warning: female reader, his name is saer…just so you can follow a bit lol, isekai lol

a/n: it’s structured a bit differently than my other introductions, do note that yes this is x reader but you had gotten isekai’d into a novel so….i do say her name but…..you’re also you…..if that makes sense, also he is hardly in it but its like….an introduction to the story bc its…an isekai and i needed to layout how i wanted everything to be

its not like you didn’t realize something was up. bright white lights blind you right when you open your eyes. maids coming in and out, calling you ‘miss’ and telling you not to sit up because ‘it will harm you even more’. granted, you were very thankful for their words because, around ten minutes before they came in, you attempted to sit up and gave yourself a headache. even though nobody was explaining anything, you remained quiet, trying to gather as much information from the surrounding maids as possible. the red-haired one with tight curls and an everlasting smile was amanda. she seemed to like you much, more than the other two, and tended to you more carefully. maybe she was your personal maid,or maybe she was just good at her job, but she never let up and called you your ‘name’.

admittedly, none of the other two maids called you your ‘name’ either. it was all just ma’am or miss from them. you just expected a hint of your identity from amanda, based solely on her care for you. selfish? maybe but you needed more hints. the other maids are named cynthia and tilly. the former of the two had long black hair slicked into a low bun, with a small maids hair on top to finish the look. it was a cute detail, if you must say, since the other two didn’t wear them. cynthia hardly spoke above a shout, coming off as more soft-spoken than the other two. she wasn’t really rude, nor did she have an attitude while tending to you, but she wore an expression of indifference that made you think she would rather do anything else.

tilly, on the other hand, was more bold than the other two. still not outwardly rude, but she tested your patience a few times. the main one that got to you though, was when she was rubbing your face. while she was washing off your face with the washcloth, she rubbed against your cheeks too hard, and upon this ‘realization’ she gave you a malevolent grin. her thin lips formed an o shape, mimicking the action of saying ‘oops’. luckily, it seemed as if amanda and cynthia didn’t really care for this ‘prank’ of hers. they both scoffed in disgust, continuing to pick out outfits for me to wear for the day ahead.

a soft but stern knock was heard at the door, revealing a man with black slick back hair and yellow eyes to put the look all together. he reminded you of those webtoon male leads that were cold but female audiences loved. being a sucker for those types, you raised your neck up, making sure to keep your body in the same supine position. the man standing at the foot of your bed looked down at you with an expression that you couldn’t read. an expression that wasn’t scary but wasnt welcoming. tapping along the footboard of the bed, he let out a low sigh out that resembled a growl and turned around to leave. tilly, amanda, and cynthia didn’t acknowledge the man. neither did he to them. the only thing that could resemble an interaction between the four of them was when tilly and amanda gave small bows and the slight side eye cynthia gave before going back inside your closet to look for something.

“madam,”

thats a new one.

“lord saer would like you to have breakfast with him today.”

lifting your head enough to turn your focus towards amanda, you started to guess your facial expression was a bit too expressive because amanda started to giggle. the pain in your body wasn’t really high; it was more the numbness that bothered you. moving your neck and head didn’t really take much strength, it was attempting to move your legs that was the problem. walking towards you in a shift movement, amanda placed the rich, deep purple hair piece down on top of the dress set she had picked out for you. upon arrival, she softly removed your blanket and shifted your body into a sitting position. you felt like a doll.

“okay now miss, i will be lifting you up to wash you now.”

placing her right arm underneath the backs of your knees and her left arm supporting your neck, she quickly moved you to the area you’re assuming was the bathroom. the door to the large room was already open, since once she had lifted you up, cynthia had pushed the door open and walked in herself. the room was massive, twice the size of a normal person’s kitchen. the walls and floor tiles were both the same shade of pale pink, matching the sleeping set you had on. amanda sat you down in a chair and started to strip you down. while she was doing that, the other was running the bath water and testing if it was safe enough. every time the water was a bit too hot or too cold, you saw cynthia’s eyes squeeze shut.

“alright madam edina,”

cynthia sighed, standing up from the clam shaped tub.

“it’s all set for you. please do not make it hard as you have always done.”

not sparing you even a small look, she and amanda were already picking you up and guiding you into the tub. quietly instructing you to lay back, wet, cold liquid found its way both on your scalp and on your legs. edina? are you sure thats what she said? the only edina you knew of was the villainess from the hit novel “obsession falls”. you never really read the book, but you knew of the characters and the content that surrounded it. it was rather controversial for how obsessive and dangerous the male lead was. he had stalked the female lead for years, and it didn’t stop once he got married. with a wife so dismissive and uninterested, the male lead was given all the time in the world to go hunt his prey.

unfortunately for him, once edina randomly started to care about what her husband was doing during the day he had to slowly stop. losing the love of his life to the second male lead, alastair. due to this very random string of events, saer had grown irritated by the events his wife was clumsily stringing together. he then decided to take care of his wife, edina. the night before he was to go and kill alastair, he had poisoned the dinner he had helped make for his wife. from your memory, this was one of the few times in years he had asked his wife to sit at the table and eat with him. she would usually just take her food into her room separately. this night, edina came into the dining room with her most expensive jewelry and dress. she thought this was the night her husband was going to admit his faults and leave the female lead for her. however, what actually ended up happening was that the moment she took a bite out of her steak, her vision went black and her head banged on the table.

focusing on the soft brushes of your hair, you start to put the pieces together. you don’t remember the faces of any of the characters in the story, you just remember the basic blot and conflict. if what cynthia said was true, that you are in fact edina tudor gwynn then that means the reasoning for your stiff body was because of your ‘husband’ trying to kill you. sharply sucking in some air, you seek strength within your legs. even though the lower half of your body was still partially numbed, the feeling of pins and needles filled the tip of your toes to the back of your knees. not wanting to cause much of a scene, even though you were sure she wouldn’t care much, you looked up to check to see if your maid was paying you any mind. cynthia was too focused on rinsing your body, while amanda stopped brushing your hair to grab towels for you.

“cynthia,”

it was amazing how you could even get that out. due to the affects of the poison, your throat had become overly dry and it hurt you to even swallow. that was mainly one of the reasons as to why you hardly spoke to them this morning. stopping in her tracks, she lazily turned her head into your direction. the woman didn’t have much of any emotion on her face. her eyelids halfway down, making it appear that she was tired or just bored. her lips were in a thin line. you had hardly seen her smile or really speak, so you started to believe this was just how her resting face looked like.

“why did he poison me?”

tilting her head a bit, cynthia’s facial expression changed. it was as if your question intrigued her. her low eyelids raised a bit, along side her eyebrows, as she tried to tame the smile that was creeping on her thin lips. this was the most expressive you have ever seen her. she began to part her lips when amanda came back through the door with the towels.

“perhaps this conversation will need to be revisited, my lady.”

[tinytownn]

road rage – pt. i

joel miller x f!reader

word count: 5.4k

summary: on a drive home after a late night shift, a tailgating truck hits you, sending you off the road. the driver—his looks catching you by surprise—offers you a ride home.

content: enemies(?? for like two pages) to lovers??, age gap, minor car crash??, subtle flirting, a lotttt of joel using sweetheart, joel trying not to be a creep lol, temptationnn, no use of y/n, pretty slow first chapter ngl

a/n: hello!! this is my first post on this account and on tumblr in general. i'm still getting used to everything, but i've just recently gotten back into writing after a few years so i'm just excited to be doing this again!! i am planning to make this a short series with maybe 3-5 parts?? this first chapter is pretty slow with just a little flirting, but things will definitely pick up as the story progresses. (also i pictured in game joel in this fic but obv it doesn't matter)

pt. ii pt. iii pt. iv

—

The cool air blowing through the vents did little to keep you awake, so you reached down to turn up the music. The seat gently vibrated in sync with the bass, almost lulling you to sleep instead of keeping you alert.

You shook your head. Only twenty more minutes.

Trees blurred in your peripheral vision, and the oncoming headlights cut through the thick night fog, almost blinding you. Silently cursing, you squinted as the combination of bright lights and loud music gave you a headache. It wasn’t an ideal situation, but as the people-pleaser you were, you had agreed to cover a shift for a friend. Which normally wouldn’t be too bad if it weren’t the worst shift possible– 3 PM to 11 PM.

Spending the entire day under the harsh fluorescent lights of the office had been miserable, but at least you avoided rush-hour traffic. Now, the highway was deserted, the pavement stretching endlessly ahead, and you took full advantage. The speedometer ticked upward—eighty, ninety—until it settled on a bold 100 mph. You straightened your back, gripping the wheel tighter.

This was the only good part of your night.

You, the open road, and the music moving in sync. Your foot pressed the gas pedal to the beat, the car swaying slightly as you danced along to the rhythm. For a brief moment, freedom rushed through your veins.

Then, your joy was cut short.

Blinding LED headlights filled your rearview mirror.

Despite your already reckless speed, the approaching truck was closing the distance fast, its lights growing brighter by the second. With a frustrated sigh, you flipped the switch on your mirror to dim the glare, but the relief was minimal. You pressed the gas just enough to hold a steady 90 mph, hoping the driver would back off.

They didn’t.

The truck inched closer, practically kissing your bumper. Your patience thinned.

"Where do you have to be right now?" you yelled, throwing your hands in the air before slamming them back onto the wheel.

You refused to speed up any further. You were already pushing legal limits, and there was an entirely open lane to your right. Why isn’t he just going around me? A quick glance in the mirror confirmed your suspicions—a middle-aged man, his expression unreadable.

"Go around me if you're that impatient, grandpa!"

But he didn’t. He just stayed there.

Your jaw tightened as the truck loomed behind you, headlights flooding the interior of your car. And then—just when you thought his lights couldn’t get any more obnoxious—they flickered.

Your irritation flared. Is he seriously flashing his brights at me?

Normally, you avoided road rage. You knew better than to test angry strangers in metal death machines. But today had been a day.

Burning coffee spilled on your chest that morning. The dreadful realization that you had to work this godforsaken shift. The mind-numbing hours spent under soul-sucking office lights. And now, this asshole riding your bumper.

Your nerves snapped.

On the third flicker of his brights, your foot slammed on the brake.

The jolt wasn’t enough to stop the car entirely, just a warning. A signal.

But the truck didn’t back off.

Instead, his brights stayed on—permanently.

Your car felt like the inside of a lightbulb, and the overwhelming glare made it hard to see the road. Your speed dropped slightly as you struggled to focus.

You have got to be kidding me…

This time, your foot hesitated over the brake. You weren’t sure how close he really was. The last thing you needed was an accident.

But fate had other plans.

A deafening horn blast rattled through the night.

The sudden noise startled you, and before you could stop yourself, your foot slammed down—

—on the brake.

Everything happened in an instant.

Your forehead hit the steering wheel, only to be snapped backward by the force of the deploying airbag. The nylon burned against your skin, suffocating and blinding you. Your tires screamed against the pavement as the car spun out of control. Your body strained against the seatbelt as you felt the car dip into the median. A sharp pain shot through your neck as your head slammed against the headrest.

"Fuck..." you groaned.

It was a minor crash, all things considered. But your car? Completely totaled.

The front bumper was crushed into the median railing. The back was crumpled—rammed in by the truck.

The truck.

Adrenaline masked the pain as you forced yourself to move. The car was a mess—your tote bag had spilled across the seats, its contents scattered. You fumbled with your seatbelt, fingers shaking, until—

Click.

You were free.

You sprang into action, anger seizing complete control. The car door slammed behind you as you stomped toward the man’s driver-side door.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You could have killed us!”

You didn’t care that his door was closed—he was going to hear you.

To your surprise, the man opened the door, unbuckling his seatbelt as if nothing had happened. His truck sat parked on the shoulder, barely touched. A few scratches on the front bumper. No airbags deployed.

Meanwhile, your car was wrecked.

The stark contrast sent a fresh wave of rage through you. Your fist slammed against the hood of his truck—not even a dent.

“You could have just moved over.” 

His voice was calm. Unbothered.

The indifference made you freeze.

Eyes wide, you finally looked at him—really looked at him. He was older—dark hair streaked with gray, hands calloused and worn. His lips pressed into a firm line, tired eyes set deep beneath a hardened expression. He had an air of intimidation about him, the kind that came with experience rather than effort. And despite everything—despite the wreck, the rage still simmering in your chest—he was handsome. If you weren’t so pissed off, the way his unwavering gaze dragged over you might’ve made you falter—hell, maybe even blush.

You scoffed at his southern drawl, unimpressed. His voice carried the charm of a gentleman, but his actions were anything but.

“I was there first. You should have moved over.”

He huffed a laugh. “It’s called the fast lane, sweetheart. And I was the faster one.”

You clenched your jaw. “I was going twenty over. Is that not fast enough for you, old man?”

His expression hardened. His eyes dragged over you, then flicked to your totaled car.

“What, you just get your license a month ago? A little speed too much for ya?”

“I’ve been driving for over ten years, and I’ve never met anyone as obnoxious as you.”

“Double that and get back to me, sweetheart.”

The nickname made your eye twitch. The condescension, the complete lack of remorse—it was infuriating. The minutes ticked by, the night stretching darker as the two of you bickered on the side of the empty highway.

Finally, you yanked your phone from your back pocket, the glow illuminating your face as you scrolled to contacts. Turning the screen to him, you snapped, “Put your number in here. I’m getting my insurance card.”

With a grunt, the man took the phone, holding it at an absurd distance from his face. He extended a middle finger, jabbing the screen at a snail’s pace.

You crossed your arms. “Christ, you’re old…”

With the last of your patience slipping away, you turned to your car, lips pressing into a thin line as you took in the damage—worse than you remembered. You yanked open the glove box, rummaging through the mess before pulling out a small booklet of insurance papers.

The crash, the argument, the adrenaline—it had all faded, leaving behind a dull ache stretching from your neck to the back of your head. Each step back to the truck felt heavier than the last.

Joel handed your phone back without a word. He sat in the driver’s seat now, feet propped on the step bar, door wide open. Peering past him, you took in the state of his truck—well-worn, maybe just as old as him. The glove box hung open, spilling out crumpled papers, loose receipts, and junk strewn across the seats. Dirt encrusted the floors, stains lined the fabric, and the entire cab smelled faintly of sweat and sawdust. A typical work truck.

Glancing at your phone screen, you found his name entered stiffly, all caps, on the first line only.

JOEL MILLER.

A small grin tugged at your lips as you fixed the spacing before saving the contact. You sent him a message—just your name—and watched as his phone lit up in confirmation. 

Joel cleared his throat. “D’ya got anybody to get you home?”

Your eyes met his. The frustration still simmered, but his question forced you to acknowledge what you’d been avoiding.

His gaze flicked to your wrecked car. “That thing ain’t gettin’ you nowhere, and it’s not safe for a girl like you to be out here this late.”

You huffed. “A girl like me?”

You knew what he meant. You had already run through the worst-case scenarios in your head—alone, stranded, barely past midnight. Every woman’s worst nightmare.

But you weren’t about to let him have the satisfaction of thinking he was doing you a favor.

“Yeah,” Joel said, a playful tone lacing his words, “ones that like to start problems.”

You glanced past him into the truck once again—exactly the kind of scene you were warned to avoid. Cluttered, worn, the kind of place that set off alarms in the back of your mind. But your options were limited—this or the highway.

When you looked back at his face, the sharp edge of his anger had dulled. He no longer looked like the man who had run you off the road, but someone weighed down by exhaustion, just trying to get home—same as you. The toll of a long workweek clung to you both.

He exhaled sharply. “You got a ride or not?”

Your hesitation must’ve been obvious because he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “Look,” he muttered, flipping the screen toward you.

A blonde girl beamed back, clutching a trophy and soccer ball. 

Joel’s expression softened, a quiet, tired smile pulling at his lips.

“I got a daughter,” he said, voice quieter now. “I wouldn’t want her out here like this.”

Something in your chest eased. This was the first time you had seen him smile all night.

“Thank you.” You nodded. “Yeah- uh no, I don’t have a ride.”

Joel motioned toward your car. “I’ll clear a spot. Grab your stuff.”

With a grateful nod, you turned back to the wreck. You reached inside, sifting through the mess until you found the essentials—wallet, keys, and headphones. Tossing them into your bag, you made your way back to the truck.

Joel stood by the open passenger door, waiting.

You climbed in with a small nod of thanks. The cool air inside was a relief from the heavy night air. The seat hugged your body, and you wasted no time clicking the seatbelt into place—already well aware of Joel’s driving.

The truck dipped under his weight as he dropped into the driver’s seat, door slamming shut behind him.

“Where am I headed, kiddo?”

The engine rumbled to life, country music blasting through the speakers. Joel grimaced, quickly turning the volume down.

“Uh—just outside downtown, by the school- the highschool. Not the college. Just take exit fourteen and it’s pretty much straight until the river.”

Joel gave a short nod, seemingly satisfied with your poor, over-explained directions.

Silence settled between you, the earlier hostility replaced by something quieter. The shift was jarring. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the realization that this wreck wasn’t about reckless driving—it was about two overworked, pissed-off people taking their frustrations out on the wrong things.

Joel wasn’t the kind of man who let emotions get the best of him—he couldn’t afford to be. Not as a father. Most days, life’s inconveniences were just that. As long as Sarah was happy, everything else was just noise.

But today had pushed him too far.

Three months of work—scrapped in a single meeting. No discussion. No warning.  The new plans were a mess, the compromises were nonexistent, and the client was an insufferable pain in the ass. Joel had spent the entire day fighting for compromises that never came, his patience thinning with every rejection. Agreeing on the original plans had been difficult enough, and now this high-paying client was proving to be more trouble than he was worth.

The rest of Joel’s day was spent reviewing these so-called new plans, searching for compromises that might salvage at least some of the work already completed. But every suggestion he made was quickly rejected. The client wanted things done his way—no exceptions.

By the end of the day, frustration had Joel gripping the arms of his chair, clinging to the hope that at least one compromise might be accepted. But it wasn’t until eight o’clock—long past the time he should have been home—that the final rejection came. Even then, he persevered, spending the next few hours adjusting measurements and sketching out a rough plan to present the following morning. He just wanted this project to be over.

By the time he eventually left the office, his patience was gone.

The open road was supposed to be his escape. Just him, his truck, and the empty highway.

Then you got in his way.

He could’ve merged. Could’ve passed you and been done with it.

But the sight of your car in his lane, unaware, unbothered—it was the final straw.

He’d done this a hundred times before.

A little bumper-to-bumper game.

A little misplaced frustration.

He never meant for it to go this far.

But here you were, in his passenger seat. And your crumpled car was proof of just how wrong the night had gone.

And now, he had to get you home.

The low rumble of the engine and the faint hum of country music filled the quiet space between you. Joel drove at a far more reasonable pace now, nothing like the reckless tailgating from earlier. The road stretched ahead, lined by dense forest on either side, the scenery offering a welcome distraction as you gazed out the window.

"I'm sorry about your car."

The sudden break in silence made you jolt slightly in your seat. Your lips parted, but no words came out at first.

Sure, he was giving you a ride home, but that didn’t erase the mess he’d made of your night—or your car. You still had to deal with insurance, miss work, and somehow navigate the nightmare that was the current car market. The frustration bubbled up again, only to be met with the nagging reminder that your own childish stunt had played a part in this too.

The thought sent heat creeping up your neck. You huffed, crossing your arms. "Deserved. Partially– I think you gave me fucking whiplash."

His eyes met yours briefly, a flicker of compassion breaking through his stoic exterior.

As his gaze fell on the lock screen of his beloved daughter, guilt settled deep in his chest. If she had come home telling him a man had run her off the road—wrecking her car in the process—he knew the rage he would feel. He had been raised to be a gentleman, to respect women, and fatherhood had only reinforced those values. Your original outburst had been justified; after all, he had watched you crawl from the wreckage of your car, shaken but alive. Yet, his pride had held firm.

Now, faced with your unexpected kindness despite his wrongdoing, the weight of his indifference bore down even harder.

“My bones aren’t as brittle as yours, old man.” A smile spread across your face, the relief of a genuine conversation lifting the tension that had been weighing on you all day. “I think I’ll live.”

Joel rolled his eyes at the nickname.

“Speaking of,” you added, a playful gleam in your eyes, “what’s an old guy like you doing out so late?”

Your attempt at making small talk and a joke fell flat as Joel’s expression soured. The events of his shift replayed in his mind, only adding to the pit of worry in his stomach.

“Work,” he said simply.

“Me too,” you sighed. “It never gets better, does it?”

“Don’t think so.”

The conversation ended there, the soft melody of a country song filling the car as you bobbed your head to the beat. The thought of the day behind you brought a wave of exhaustion to both of you, the prospect of how you were going to get home creeping back into your mind.

You could take the bus?

Maybe call up a coworker or a friend?

Neither option was particularly appealing. With a sigh, you turned your attention back to the man next to you. In the short half hour you’d known him, your initial thoughts had changed drastically from his less-than-ideal first impression.

While the memory of your wrecked car still lingered, so did the reminder of your own fault in this situation. It was something best left to the insurance companies to handle, the previous anger dissipated.  The coming weeks of ridesharing and public transportation wouldn’t be ideal, but at least you had a ride home tonight.

Your eyes lingered on the graying man next to you. His eyes were fixed on the road, glancing occasionally at his speedometer. The tension in his jaw had faded, his face more relaxed, weighed down by the exhaustion that was evident in both of you. His hair was messy, and you briefly recalled him running a hand through it when he first exited the truck—probably a nervous habit that had turned into a kind of permanent bedhead.

Despite his somewhat rough exterior—soiled, calloused hands, mud-streaked clothes, weathered skin adorned with scars and sun-kissed freckles from years of hard labor—staring at him for too long made a warmth spread to your cheeks.

The attempt to distract yourself from your car had worked a little too well.

You quickly pulled your gaze away from his face—hopefully before he noticed—and turned your attention elsewhere. His short-sleeve, button-up work shirt clung to his arms, biceps flexing as they stretched the fabric. His hands, strong and capable, gripped the wheel with ease, barely needing to look at it as his focus remained ahead. You watched as he took the exit, smoothly navigating the almost circular turn, his gaze not shifting from the road. Without turning his head, he effortlessly merged, the awareness of his surroundings second nature—an instinct gained over decades behind the wheel.

“Fairview or Jackson?” Joel’s voice cut through your thoughts.

Heat crept up your face as you whipped your head to the side, eyes landing on the familiar split in the road. “Fairview—for another eight miles.”

You knew exhaustion was setting in from the way your mind raced. Your unblinking stare drifted back to Joel, taking in details that anger had blurred before. Maybe it was the proximity, the sleep deprivation, the whirlwind of emotions—or all of the above—that sent warmth trailing lower. You shifted uncomfortably, legs brushing against each other.

Anything to distract yourself.

“What do you do for work?” you blurted, wincing at how dumb you sounded.

Joel huffed a quiet laugh. “You sure you’re not concussed, kid? Might need to take you to the hospital.”

You groaned, slouching into the seat. “Just trying to make conversation…”

His amusement lingered as he adjusted his grip on the wheel. “Been in construction pretty much my whole life. Started right after high school. Had other plans, but…” He exhaled through his nose. “Had Sarah young, so I did what I had to. Hard work, but I’d do anything to provide for my girl.”

Your gaze flicked to his hands, catching the glint of a passing streetlamp. No ring. No tan line.

You shook your head. Why did that even matter?

This man had run you off the road. He was just driving you home, and after tonight, you’d never see him again. No reason to get caught up in things that didn’t concern you.

“What about you?” Joel asked. “What do you do for work?”

You blinked, surprised he’d bothered to ask. His eyes left the road for the first time that night, meeting yours expectantly.

“I work at a bank,” you scoffed. “Exciting, I know. Not a teller, just… office stuff. Behind-the-scenes.”

Joel smirked. “Can’t relate. I’m shit at math.”

The warmth in his voice sent your brain short-circuiting for a moment. His smile—subtle but real—stood out in the dim glow of the dashboard. The soft crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the creased lines on his forehead—despite the exhaustion in his face, he looked…warm.

You cleared your throat. “I am too.” You laughed. “I’m honestly shocked I haven’t tanked the place yet. Not that I’ll have much time to—I’ll probably get fired soon.”

Joel chuckled. “Talking like that, I can see why.”

You shot him a playful glare. “I’ll have you know, I’m actually good at my job.”

“You sure?” His eyes flicked to you, amused.

You nodded, lips curling into a smile. “I just don’t see my boss being too happy about me missing a few days until I can find a ride to work.”

Something shifted in Joel’s expression. His lips pressed into a thin line, eyes glazing over as he turned his attention back to the road.

He was thinking.

Then, simply—

“I can take you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You heard me.” His grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “Unless you really wanna get fired..”

The initial temptation almost had you saying yes before your brain could fully process the offer. It was a kind gesture, but the thought of inconveniencing him—forcing him to carpool you to work every day—made you pause.

Then your eyes met his.

You should’ve known better. Should’ve recognized this for what it was—just a man doing the right thing, easing whatever moral strain the accident had put on him. But his stare held you captive, and for a moment, logic blurred.

Normally, you’d be panicking. Snapping at whoever was behind the wheel to keep their eyes on the road. But with Joel, you didn’t. Confidence radiated from him—not in a cocky or arrogant way, but the kind that came from experience, from years of knowing exactly what he was doing.

There was something in his gaze—something that mirrored what you felt deep in your stomach. A flicker of hesitation, a reluctance to let the night end. A reason to keep seeing each other.

He wanted to see you again too.

No. That was delusional.

The combination of exhaustion and your embarrassing need to get laid had clearly fried your brain. You were sitting here, crushing on a man at least twenty years your senior—someone’s father for god’s sake.

But you did need a ride to work.

You exhaled, glancing up at the moon before muttering, “Only if you’re sure. I don’t want to be a burden. I know it’s hard for someone your age to remember so many things.” The quip slipped out before you could stop yourself, a flimsy attempt to break the tension—at least, the tension you felt.

Joel turned slightly, failing to hide his grin. “Not more than I’ve been.” Then, after a beat, “Unless you keep it up with the jokes. Might find yourself in the same place as your car.” He paused. “Sweetheart.”

Your heart stuttered.

The nickname had driven you crazy earlier in the night—condescending, demeaning. But now?

Now it had you looking away, pressing your legs together in a weak attempt to ignore the heat spreading through you.

And Joel paused.

Why did he pause?

He’d said it so easily before, like it meant nothing. But now, there was something different in the way it left his mouth—like he almost caught it before it slipped out.

You swallowed, shifting in your seat. “The jokes come free with the ‘totaling my car’ deal.”

“Lucky me.” His voice was thick with sarcasm.

You hesitated for a second, then narrowed your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Joel raised a brow. “What?”

“I don’t need a pity ride.”

His lips parted slightly before he shook his head, rubbing a hand over his jaw. Whatever ran through his mind, he wasn’t letting it slip.

He smirked, settling instead for, “Maybe I just wanna see if you’re always this annoying.” 

Your breath caught. The way his voice dipped—the way his eyes flicked to your face, searching for the smallest twitch of a smile—it made something coil tight in your stomach.

You didn’t fight the grin tugging at your lips.

“Or,” Joel continued, smirking, “maybe I’m not so convinced you don’t got that concussion.”

“Oh, hush.” You rolled your eyes, giving his arm a playful shove. 

The teasing had shifted, the edge of frustration softening into something lighter. You didn’t know where this boldness was coming from—flirting with a stranger like this—but he wasn’t stopping you. If anything…was he returning it?

You bit your lip, gaze flicking anywhere but him. Then, before you could think better of it— “I get run off the road by a handsome stranger and you expect me to play it cool?” 

Joel cleared his throat—definitely caught off guard.  

“That right?” 

His voice—low, steady, unreadable—sent a ripple of uncertainty through you. You shifted in your seat, suddenly aware of how small the space between you felt. Had you misread the moment? 

The air thickened. His gaze held steady, the weight of it pressing into you, testing you. 

You swallowed. Nodded. 

A beat passed. Then another. 

And finally, a smirk. “Guess you’ve made up your mind then.” 

Joel let the words settle before tilting his head, eyes still locked on you. “This handsome stranger gets to drive you to work ‘til you get a new car.” He threw your words back at you, mocking—but not unkind. You exhaled a laugh, the tension giving way to something else entirely.

You let out a nervous chuckle. “Oh, so now you’re deciding for me?”

He shook his head slightly. “Never said that.” He paused. “You just don't sound too opposed to the idea. Choice is all yours, honey.”

His voice had deepened just slightly at the last word, slow and deliberate.

Your pulse thrummed in your ears.

“And if I say no?” You challenged.

Joel chuckled lowly, sending a shiver up your spine. “You said it yourself—you’d be out of a job. And my company.”

You scoffed. “Can’t tell which one I’d be more grateful to miss out on.”

He smirked. “Better for me, sweetheart. You’re too much of a distraction anyway.”

Your breath hitched.

He adjusted his grip on the wheel, the tension thick in the space between you. His gaze flicked to you again, raking you up and down in a way that made your skin prickle with heat.

The truck jolted as he slowed, bringing the conversation to a halt. The school’s looming brick silhouette glowing under the buzzing street lamps, moths greedily swarming the light. The road, littered with potholes, sent a rough shudder through the truck as the tires fought for traction.

“Take this right,” you murmured. Joel turned down the music, his focus shifting, and you swallowed against the lump in your throat.

“It’s the third one on the left.”

He pulled into your driveway, cutting the headlights as the truck settled into park. The night air was thick and quiet, the world outside still.

Neither of you moved.

The truck rolled back slightly, settling into the incline, and for the first time all night, there was no tension, no urgency—just the unspoken weight of exhaustion pressing into the silence between you.

And still, neither of you seemed in a rush to break it.

You barely noticed the way Joel shifted in his seat, full of anticipation. His hands flexed around the wheel, the tension in his knuckles mirroring the unspoken energy hanging between you. Your mind raced through the events of the night, trying to make sense of how this even began—how a collision turned into something so unexpectedly charged.

Not that you were complaining.

You had at least a week of one-on-one time with Joel and that realization sent your heart stuttering against your ribs. This ride had already escalated in ways you hadn’t predicted, and now your thoughts wandered, imagining the possibilities of the next.

Maybe you were reading too much into it.

Maybe you weren’t.

Shaking yourself from the haze, you reached for the door handle. “I should get going.” The lump in your throat made it harder to get the words out, especially with the way Joel’s eyes flicked to yours, steady and unreadable.

You clutched your bag to your side, gripping it like an anchor, grounding yourself in the reality that—somehow—your subtle advances had gone far more successfully than you expected.

The overhead light flooded the car as the door clicked open, the night air brushing against your skin. Your fingers curled around the handle, your balance slightly off-kilter from the nerves running through your veins.

You barely had time to register the movement before warmth encased your wrist.

Joel’s hand.

Firm. Steady. Completely engulfing yours.

Your breath hitched.

“Already forgot about our deal?”

His voice was smooth, tinged with amusement.

Before you could process it, he gave a gentle tug, pulling you back into the seat just enough that your face was level with his again. You kept the door ajar, caught between the instinct to flee and the undeniable pull of his presence.

His eyes searched yours, taking in any flicker of hesitation, any nervous shift of your body. His fingers, still wrapped around your arm, traced the goosebumps rising beneath his touch.

He smirked at his effect on you.

But the amusement didn’t erase the conflict in his mind.

You had just met, and the circumstances weren’t exactly the most flattering on his part. He had hit your car. He–an older man–had insisted on driving you. And now, here you were—breathless, your full attention on him, hanging onto his every word.

It was dangerous.

Tempting.

And guilt-inducing.

He didn’t let go.

Joel swallowed, jaw tightening as he weighed the situation. Maybe this was just harmless flirting on your end. Maybe his immediate attraction to you had made him think otherwise. Maybe it was nothing more than a fleeting moment, a late-night illusion spun by exhaustion and circumstance.

Still, he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Not yet.

His voice came quieter this time, deliberate. “What time do you have work tomorrow?”

“Joel—”

“It’s not up for discussion, sweetheart.” His grip didn’t tighten, but the firmness in his voice left no room for argument. “What time?”

You sighed, knowing there was no use fighting him on this. “Eight.”

Joel clicked his tongue, considering. “I’ll be here at seven-thirty.”

You blinked. “Joel, don’t you have work too?” A bubbling anxiety began to brew endless questions in your mind. “How are you gonna-”

“Don’t worry about it. Just be outside.”

You gave him one last look, searching for any hesitation, any sign that this was some kind of moral obligation rather than something he actually wanted to do. But his gaze was unwavering, he seemed absolute.

Finally, you relented with a soft sigh. “Yeah, okay, whatever. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. His lips parted slightly as if he had something else to say—but instead, he just gave a slow nod.

“I’ll be here.”

The truck creaked as you lifted yourself from the seat, your shoes landing against the driveway with a soft thud. You adjusted your bag against your chest, the cool night air nipping at your skin.

Joel watched you, his hands still gripping the wheel, his knuckles still tight, as if holding himself back from saying more.

You hesitated, slowing your steps as you departed.

Say something. Anything. Don’t make this weird.

Before you could, his window rolled down. His tired, gruff voice cut through the silence.

“Get some sleep, kiddo.”

You whipped around, startled by the sudden shift in demeanor. He had spent the whole night teasing you—flustering you—but now, the words were softer. Almost… affectionate.

Your lips curled into a grin. “Don’t hit any more cars, old man!”

His chuckle followed you as you disappeared inside.

—

[cherrychilli]

18+

Eddie Munson x AFAB reader, friends to lovers, mentions of nudity, brief mention of masturbation (m). Basically, Eddie finds you sleeping naked in his bed.

A/N: Idk I've had this idea in my head for too long now and I need to exorcise it out of me with this little drabble or I'll never be able to get on with my life.

Forest Hills trailer park wasn't your usual stop after clocking out of work but after the day you’ve had you don’t have it in you to wait for the next bus back to your apartment. Your place is 30 minutes away but the journey is sure to take even longer in the current downpour.

Staying over at the trailer wasn't anything new. A spare key was entrusted to you years ago and you made use of it on days like this to crash at Eddie’s for convenience sake. The key came with the promise that you were welcome to anything you needed even if both Eddie and Wayne were away – shower, food, an extra change of clothes, what have you, and you needed them all today.

With Wayne out of town for a few days and Eddie due back in two hours you sink into auto pilot, weary down to the bone from your shift. Maybe that’s why it doesn’t feel as weird as it probably should when you started to undress in their kitchenette, hanging your work clothes over the back of a nearby chair, rummaging through the fridge in your bra and panties for a quick bite to eat before heading for the shower.

There wasn’t much in it besides beer since Wayne hadn’t been around to stock it. Eddie always preferred ordering take out over getting groceries – something you were going to nag him for again when you had the strength to do so.

Cereal it would have to be.

You located a box inside one of the cupboards, tipping the wheaty, sugary contents straight into your mouth without bothering with a bowl and spoon. It’s not lost on you how similarly you’re acting to Eddie right down to the unruly state of half undress, wiping crumbs off your lips with the back of your hand. If you finished off with a belch it'd be like he never left the trailer this morning.

The messy mouthfuls of cereal prove enough to silence the toad’s croak of hunger that'd been gurgling noisily inside your belly, putting the box away.

Traipsing through, feet dragging, you threw your clothes into the washer next along with your underwear, completely nude now in the Munson trailer as you made your way to the shower – but not before reaching out for Eddie's Garfield mug that sat on a nearby shelf, turning it around so that the cartoon cat's lazy smirk no longer faced you. For your modesty.

You try to keep the shower brisk, not wanting to use up all the hot water but with the way it sprays down on your aching body, the steam and heat combo soothing your poor sore muscles, it’s so blissful that you have to keep yourself from nodding off right there.

You did make use of Eddie’s body wash, some spicy, woodsy smelling thing in a jet-black bottle but you didn't dare use the two in one shampoo that sat in their shower caddy. It might have worked fine for Eddie and his wild mane but you knew better than to apply the stuff to your own hair. Fortunately, experience had taught you to carry a travel sized bottle filled with your own shampoo whenever you stayed over, working over your locks in a lather scented with cranberries and vanilla.

Stamina depleting by the second, toweling off and brushing your teeth takes the last sliver of energy out of you. Eyelids slipping, movements sluggish, limbs feeling too heavy for your own body to hold up – you’re shutting down whether you like it or not.

Dropping the damp towel on his bedroom floor, you intended to change, you really did. You’d even picked out one of Eddie’s washed t-shirts and a pair of boxers out of the laundry and set them down at the foot of the bed to put on before you made yourself comfortable but that’s not what happened.

Still nude, you crawl into bed, seeking warmth and soft comfort, numbed down to a kind of tunnel vision with rest being your one and only goal.

It feels all the more natural because you’re used to sleeping naked in your own bed, much too tired to remember that you’re not in your bed, draping a blanket that doesn't belong to you over your spent body, surrendering to sleep seconds after your head hits the pillow.

It'd still been raining when Eddie returns later. Dragging himself through the trailer, nearly as worn down as you had been, shaking the excess water out of his hair like a dog trying to get dry.

The smell of your shampoo still lingering in the air tells him you're there, finding you curled up in his bed, all bundled up to your neck. The sight makes him smile.

It doesn't take too long for him to join you, following a similar routine – a quick bite with the addition of a beer and then a shower, only he doesn't skip out on clothing himself in his PJ's first.

If he’d shared the blanket with you he might have found out about your lack of dress sooner but as the gentleman that he can sometimes be, he pulls out a spare blanket from the closet so as to not wake you, prolonging the discovery. Being friends for so long meant that sharing a bed was never awkward even after you'd became adults.

That was until the next morning came.

It’s not the stream of morning light brightening from a cool blue to a warm amber peeking in between the curtains that wakes Eddie, or even the tinny smack of his neighbor’s broken screen door gusting open just a few feet away from his bedroom window. It’s the warmth of your ass pressed flush against his crotch and his nose nestled in your sweet-smelling hair that pulls him out of a dream he wont be able to recall later if he tried.

He shifts closer, eyes cracking open, remembering the tiny bottle of shampoo sitting on the bathroom counter. Remembering the new toothbrush placed in the cup next to his own. Remembering the powder blue towel that neither he nor Wayne ever used laying on his bedroom floor.

And then he remembers that he’s not alone.

Oh...

And then he wishes that he was.

Panic snaps up like a beartrap around Eddie when he realizes he's hard – his thick, throbbing erection pressed right up against your body.

Growing clammy, cold sweat beads on the back of his neck but he’s in luck because you haven’t noticed yet, still sound asleep.

This close together, he knows the slightest movement could rouse you. But what was the alternative? Wait it out? Hope to hell his boner goes away? Fat fucking chance. Not when the soft swell of your ass and your body heat alone had him questioning how he could ever go back to his calloused fist after this.

Carefully, desperately, he tries to inch back without waking you but just as he feared, you begin to stir. Your back arches instinctively, seeking out his warm, solid frame even in your sleep.

Shit shit shit.

The covers slip as you shift, your bare shoulders coming into view, eyes starting to flutter open. With no other option, Eddie swiftly rolls on to his back, his hard on no longer pressed up against you but the problem persists.

“Oh, morning”, you greet him through a yawn, pulling an arm out to rub at your eyes, blanket slipping lower but the frantic boy hasn’t noticed yet, too busy whipping his pillow out from under him to place over his lap.

“Uh-hey. Shower’s free if you wanna go first”, he offers quickly, smiling hard, hoping to subtly usher you out because he's too afraid to get up and risk you getting a load of the tent in his pants if he were to go ahead of you.

“Thanks”, you yawn again, still occupied with rubbing at your sleepy eyes to notice your best friend's pale face turning beet fucking red in an instant as you clamber out of bed, blankets no longer concealing you.

Eddie doesn’t know where to look first. His eyes dart everywhere, every bare inch of you on display. So much soft, naked skin it’s making him short circuit.

His gaze eagerly travels over the slope of your breasts as they jiggle gently with your movements, taking in your soft nipples, moving down over your belly and hips, noticing a few new freckles and beauty marks there along the way to the soft curls between your legs.

His erection digs into the pillow, brain dangerously close to fizzing because he’d been pressed up against you like that all night and not even known it.

A shiver works its way through you, making you question why it feels so drafty in his room all of a sudden. You turn back to ask Eddie if there’s anything wrong with the heating, catching the shocked expression on his face.

Looking down, you're met with the sight of your nude body, breasts bare, no underwear. It's a good thing the occupants of the trailer park liked to mind their own business, even if sometimes you thought they did so to a fault because in any other neighborhood your piercing screech would have had everyone within earshot dialing up the cops.

The scream ricochets off the walls at an ear ringing volume, causing Eddie to jolt and lose his balance, falling out of bed while you leapt back in. Grabbing his spare pillow, you press one half against your chest and squeeze the rest between your thighs to shield yourself.

Now he slaps his hands over his eyes.

---

More than anything, you try so hard to push it aside. To pretend that it hadn't happened but it looms over you like a cloud on the brink of bursting with rain.

After three whole days of walking around eggshells around each other it's Eddie who breaks first.

"I can't stand this I don't know what else to do, Can we just talk about it please?"

“Eddie…", you sigh, a gentle warning.

"So what if I saw you naked? you saw my boner!...sort of. I mean, I guess that doesn't exactly make us even but it has to count for something, right? you're not alone in this"

You immediately set your wide eyes on the only other patrons in the diner to see if they’d overheard – two older women swapping pictures of their grandchildren over coffee and cheesecake. When neither of them take a pause in the middle of cooing about little Tommy's third Birthday or little Emily's first day of Kindergarten you redirect your attention back to Eddie.

“Eddie! Keep your voice down!”, you whisper shout at him from across the booth. "There are literal grandmother's here!"

He rolls his eyes. Not mean spirited, just unconcerned by the ladies and what they may or may not have overheard.

And then, even though no one’s paying either of you any attention, you lean closer over your half-finished key lime pie, one hand shielding the side of your face like you’re trying to avoid getting recognized by an ex who’s just walked in.

"I'm so embarrassed...please can we just drop it?", you plead, voice hushed.

He gives you this look of mild incredulity. "You have nothing to be embarrassed about. Trust me", and the inflection in his tone almost gives him away, prompting him to double back immediately.

The last thing he wants is for you to feel more uncomfortable than you already do. So he doesn't need you to catch on that he's got every moment of your unintended strip tease memorized. Or that he likes to replay what he's since thought of as the best 10 seconds of his life over and over again when he's fucking his fist in the shower.

“I just mean that it's nothing to be embarrassed by. It could have happened to anyone. Who among us hasn’t napped in just their birthday suit before, am I right?” he finishes with a slight wince, knowing none of this is exactly helpful.

And you know he’s only trying to be nice in his own, sweet, bumbling way but you still feel terrible.

"I don't know if I can shake this feeling", you cast your eyes down, looking too close to despondent for his liking.

"Listen I- I don't know how to fix this but I want to. Please just tell me what I can do and I'll do it, okay?"

God, he's sweet and it makes you feel a little flustered being on the receiving end of that gentle stare, needing to shift the mood lest you drown in all that earnestness pooling in his eyes.

It's moments like this that call for a bad joke to cut the tension, right? some momentary and well meaning deflection before you're ready to address the matter at hand again.

Letting out a half hearted laugh, you make your best attempt to inject some humor into the situation.

"I don't know. Maybe it might help if you got naked too", you nervously scraped your fork against the buttery graham cracker crust of your pie, dislodging a few golden crumbs.

It was so very clearly a joke. At least you had thought so. Eddie? not so much.

His brown eyes go wide, looking scandalized, his voice coming out a little more quite than you're used to.

"What?"

"I mean, I showed you mine after all", you tried again in a cadence that was wholly unserious but once again, he fails to catch on.

"You want me to get naked for you?"

You should correct him and you mean to but before you're able to do just that, something about the way he's staring at you makes you want to match his seriousness. The fact that he didn't say no right away strikes you as weirdly intriguing.

"You don't have to", you clarify, adding, "It's just that – well, you asked and I think it could maybe help? to really get us on even ground?”

The words that come out don't feel like you own – foreign to your ears even though they're said in your voice, with your own lips forming them and your own tongue curling around every syllable.

What the hell am I doing?

Eddie pauses. Seconds drag on like nails on a chalkboard as he taps a ringed finger thoughtfully on the edge of his empty plate smudged with faint traces of cream cheese and lime zest.

"Fine. On one condition", he leans back, arms crossing over his chest, smiling wide and megawatt bright.

Oh my god is this really happening?

“...Yeah?”

"You're going to undress me"

---

Part two? who knows. Certainly not I.

[chuulyssa]

a/n: idk what this is, just me trying to numb the pain of ace's death. this is based loosely on the hc that reader and luffy got "married" when they were seven. it's not a full-fledged fanfic tho, just a drabble. i'll post later, i'm just trying to get used to writing post-war arc atm

𝙨𝙮𝙣𝙤𝙥𝙨𝙞𝙨 — luffy is very shaken up after the events of marineford. you must help him, as his 'wife'

𝙜𝙚𝙣𝙧𝙚 — fluff, angst, hurt/comfort

𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜 — luffy x reader ft. law, jinbei and simp!boa

"How long are you going to keep visiting him?" The voice of Jinbei woke you from your trance. You had once again snuck into the room Luffy was kept in despite constant warnings from Law and your own injuries.

You turned to find Jinbei standing in the doorway, arms crossed and a concerned expression on his face. His large frame seemed to fill the space, weary eyes trailing down your wounds.

"As long as it takes," you said simply.

Jinbei stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "You also need to take care of yourself. You can't pour from an empty cup, you know."

You glanced back at Luffy, who lay there, still unconscious. The monitor next to him was beeping steadily, albeit a little roughly. He was covered in bandages from head to toe, and his eyes were shut and eyebrows knitted together as if he was dealing with a terrible nightmare. But then again, the past few hours had been nothing but nightmares, and the hours before that even more so. Luffy had been suffering ever since he stepped foot in Sabaody, and it showed in his current state.

"This is the least I can do," you looked down at your hands, then back at Luffy's face. Your fingers reached out to brush the stray strands of his hair away from his face involuntarily, and you adjusted your position on the bed. He always liked to cuddle with you.

"And what of your own injuries?" Jinbei asked gently. "What if you push yourself too hard?"

"If my Captain is fine, so am I," you insisted. "More than that," you lay your head next to his, your feet reaching out to his to rub together with them softly, "I don't want him to wake up alone. Not after... well, you get it."

Jinbei sighed, shaking his head slightly, but there was a hint of understanding in his eyes. "Luffy-kun wouldn't want you to sacrifice your well-being for him."

"I'll come out in some time. Let me be here for now, for my own sake."

Jinbei nodded, opening the door for himself. "Very well, then."

The beeping of the monitor grounded you to the bed. Luffy needed you. You couldn't abandon him then, not when he was trapped in the darkness of his own mind.

After some time had passed, you finally decided to step outside the room. You spotted Law sitting near the forest outside of the ship. There was a sort of distant look in his eyes. He seemed lost in his thoughts, but you couldn't see what he was looking at.

"Trafalgar D. Water Law," you approached him slowly, and his gaze shifted towards you. "Can we talk?"

He turned to you, a mixture of surprise and wariness in his expression. "Y/N-ya. You shouldn’t be out here. What if you overexert yourself?"

"I'm completely fine, doctor," you smiled lightly, a gesture he returned, albeit it seemed a bit forced because of the overall tired look he carried on his face. "You didn't answer my question."

"Of course," he replied, gesturing towards an empty place next to him.

You nodded gratefully, sitting down beside him. "Thank you," you said. "What I wanted to ask was, why did you, our rival, risk everything you had to save Luffy?"

Law’s gaze flickered to the sea, contemplating your question. "I thought I made it clear then. I wouldn't want a rival to die so soon."

"What's your motive?" You pressed.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, to say the truth, we're pirates. I assume you can guess why."

Before you could respond, a loud crash echoed from inside the ship, jolting both of you from the moment. Jinbei’s eyes widened, and he was off like a shot, heading back inside.

"A Navy attack?" You muttered, rushing after him, Law following your lead close behind.

As you reached the door to Luffy’s room, you saw debris scattered across the floor, splintered wood and twisted metal. Then, without warning, Luffy shot out of the room like a cannonball, bursting through the remnants of the door frame. He landed hard on the ground beside the deck, breathing heavily, eyes wild with a mix of confusion and rage.

Immediately, the three of you ran out to him. Law had said time and again that the slightest movement might cause his wounds to open up, and he may not survive. But to think that after what he had gone through, Luffy would be able to sit quietly in one place was foolish.

"Y/N!" Luffy’s voice rang out, raw and desperate. He looked around as if the entire world was closing in on him, a battle present only behind the closed doors of his mind. "I need to get out! I can't— stay here!"

But he didn’t seem to see or hear you. His breaths were coming out in frantic bursts. He was in a full-blown panic, eyes darting around as if he was still trapped in the chaos of Marineford. Jinbei and Law quickly approached to stop his antics.

Luffy didn't respond when Jinbei shouted at him. He didn't respond when his arms and feet were tugged at. He didn't respond when the Heart Pirates attempted to drag him back to stop his rampage. With one last look at you, he made his way into the enclosed forest, splitting trees from their roots in a hurry to get away from prying eyes.

The forest echoed with the sound of splintering wood as Luffy rampaged through the trees. Branches cracked and fell as he punched wildly wherever his heart told him to.

"Luffy-kun!" Jinbei called.

But Luffy didn’t hear him. He continued to lash out, tearing roots from the ground as if he could uproot the pain inside him. You stood at the edge of the chaos, heart racing as you watched your captain spiral further into darkness. "Luffy," you said quietly, voice and sound numbed from the tears that clouded your vision. "That's enough."

Luffy paused, muscles tense and trembling, before his eyes finally locked onto Jinbei’s. "Is it true?" his voice broke. "Did Ace really die?"

Jinbei nodded slowly and sorrowfully. "Yes, Ace is dead."

The world around you seemed to freeze as the realization hit Luffy like a tidal wave. His face contorted with agony, and a heart-wrenching cry burst forth from his lips. "ACE!" The sound reverberated through the trees like a haunting echo.

His frantic energy seemed to dissipate, and he turned to you. His cheeks were wet with all the tears he shed, and his eyes were glistening with more. He stumbled toward you, collapsing to his knees before you.

Without hesitation, he engulfed you in a tight embrace, burying his face in your shoulder. The world around you faded away as you wrapped your arms around him, holding him as tightly as you could. "I can't lose you too!" he sobbed, voice muffled against your skin. "Not like Ace!"

You shook your head. "I'm not going anywhere without you."

"Ace said the same thing!" He buried his face into your chest and began crying once more, and you only tightened your hold on him. You kissed the top of his head, and his frantic movements seemed to rest.

Sometime later, the Heart Pirates left with the arrival of Rayleigh, and Jinbei engaged in a conversation with the latter. But then the air shifted again, this time charged with a different kind of energy. Boa Hancock emerged, striding into the clearing with a confidence that instantly commanded attention. Her long hair flowed behind her like a dark cloud, and a massive spread of food was arranged delicately in a large cart before her.

"I have returned with food for you, my h-hus-husband," she stuttered when she made eye contact with Luffy, and an old woman beside her sighed in apparent defeat.

"You can't even make eye contact with him, and you call him your husband," she said, to which Hancock simply glared.

You raised an eyebrow at Luffy. "I didn't realize you married her. Is this the second wife then?"

"Second... wife?" Hancock's knees seemed to give out, and with a hand on her chest, she landed on the ground, seemingly in agony.

"I feel bad for you," you said teasingly.

Hancock shot you a glare, but it lacked the venom you expected. "This is no joke! Luffy needs to eat!" Her tone was sharp, though her focus remained solely on Luffy.

Jinbei chuckled from where he stood, his hands raised defensively as he caught sight of the feast Hancock had brought. "There's no need to scold me for eating. I'm merely replenishing my strength."

"Just a little! You always eat too much!" Hancock scolded, quickly handing him a single piece of fruit, then ignoring you entirely as she focused her attention back on Luffy.

"You should eat, Luffy," Jinbei said loudly, glancing at Hancock. "Eating is living!"

Luffy placed a shaking hand on a piece of meat, then began to put it in his mouth, when, suddenly, he stopped, and glanced at you with concern.

"Why aren't you eating, Y/n?" He asked.

Before you could respond, Hancock seemed to relent, her eyes darting between the two of you. "Fine! You, over there," she pointed at you with her face in the sky, as if looking down at you. "You can have a bite. Just one, though!”

Luffy grinned widely, grabbed the piece of meat from Hancock's collection and turned to you. He shoved the food into your mouth, laughing as he watched your eyes widen in shock. "Eat up! You need to get better!"

Hancock's expression turned to one of horror as she realized what was happening. "No! Luffy, don't—" she started, but it was too late.

You swallowed quickly, glancing at Hancock, who looked torn between irritation and disbelief. Luffy simply beamed. "My first bite goes to you! I can't let you starve." He took another piece and offered it to you.

With a chuckle, you took a bite from his hand. Hancock sighed, her annoyance softening only when she saw how much Luffy seemed to enjoy this moment. "Don't get too used to it, you. I'll be the one taking care of him."

You smiled at her, and her irritation seemed to peak. Glancing at Luffy, who was still intent on feeding you, you said to her, "I think he has already made his choice clear."

[imaginespazzi]

All Fell Down ~Part 1~

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

* masterlist in collaboration with @azzibuckets *

summary: paige and azzi have never really been just best friends

a/n: Hello, hello my lovies <3 Welcome to Part 1 of mine and Cessa's brainchild. The parts of this fic will be relatively shorter than you're used to from me. In all honesty, we've been playing writing tag and just letting inspiration guide where this story goes but nevertheless, I'm very excited for all of y'all to read it!

It’s almost two in the morning and Azzi’s furiously googling how to save roses from dying. She glances at the vase of flowers whose once beautiful pink hue is giving away to a murky dirt brown color. They’re wilting over the side of their glass container, their soft petals barely hanging onto the receptacle. Azzi wipes furiously at the red hot tears that threaten to blur her vision and she thinks the roses look almost as pathetic as she feels. Her entire team is at the bar -likely drinking and dancing their hearts away as they celebrate their most recent win- and she’s holed up in her room sobbing over fucking flowers. 

The girls had tried everything in their arsenal to have her come along with them. Amari had even dramatically fallen to her knees, swearing she wouldn’t have any fun if Azzi didn’t comply but the brunette had been staunch in her stance. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to go out tonight. Really, she thinks the numbing effects of alcohol would have been the perfect ointment for her stupid heart that she’s kept stitched together with a flimsy thread of things will get better; they always do. 

But going out with the team meant going out with Paige. It meant having to watch as the blonde would have the time of her life, laughing and being silly with the rest of their teammates before seeing that large grin slip off her face as her gaze would accidentally lock with Azzi’s. It meant watching her best friend’s eyes flicker with something unreadable before she would quickly turn away, smile returning as bright as ever as she re-entered the chaos. It meant being stricken once again by that wretched, all consuming, feeling that she’s losing Paige. 

It’s all Azzi’s felt for the past two weeks. Really, she’s drowning in it and she keeps looking at Paige, hoping the other girl will throw her a lifeboat but instead the blonde decisively averts her eyes and Azzi feels the water rise further and further above her head. More than anything, Azzi wishes she just knew why any of this was happening. Things had been fine; better than fine. Being at UConn -being at UConn with Paige- was better than any dream Azzi’s mind could have conjured up. Yes, the practices were grueling and yes, her first couple of games hadn’t been quite as prolific as she hoped, that nagging foot injury slowing her down considerably. But every night had ended with Paige’s reassuring smile, her best friend’s hand clasped tightly in Azzi’s and a promise of it takes time Az, we’ll get through it together and that was enough. 

Then they’d gone down to the Bahamas. 

And Azzi had come back with a foot injury that had gotten progressively worse and a best friend who could no longer stand to be in the same room as her. 

She stares at herself in the closet mirror, a sarcastically self-pitying smile taking over her feature as she looks at her tear stained face; her nose is red and there’s dark circles under her eyes. Azzi sneers at the pathetic girl in the mirror, hurling acidic insults at herself in her mind. She wonders how she could possibly have been so foolish, so careless to have lost it all. Because somehow, no matter how tightly she thought she was holding on, she’d let it all slip through her fingers; the game she loved and the girl that it had given her. The girl she loves even more than the game. 

She catches sight of the roses in the mirror; the beautiful pink bouquet that Paige had given her two weeks ago. Azzi can still picture the blonde’s shy smile as she’d sheepishly shuffled her feet in the doorway, can still feel the ghost of Paige’s fingertips brushing against her own as her best friend had handed them over to her. She’d made a silent promise to herself that somehow she’d keep the flowers alive forever just because they were from Paige. 

But the roses are wilting. 

And Azzi thinks, maybe she is too.