#not saying I won't but I won't make any promises

[coldilikeit]

Isekai reader x Batfam (Neglected au)

Female reader

Chapter 7- the true princess of Wayne Manor

Short chapter*

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"(Name)... I noticed something from you" Dick says "When you try something new, you stop pursuing it if you're not immediately good at it"

A reincarnated and two vigilantes go rock climbing, sounds like the start of an awful joke huh?

After the continued event of you encountering the villains and school shooters, they decided to teach you some stuff, Karate, Muay Thai, Taekwondo, jujitsu, painting, swimming, Camping, Ziplining, trying the scary roller coaster rides-

Huh?

This is slowly starting to feel like family outings

You jump further up "What do you mean?", He looks up at you "I mean... When we went swimming and Damian dived you wanted to try it out too, but when you realized you couldn't do it you just stopped, but when we tried archery and you could do it, you wanted to stay there longer"

"I just don't want to keep on trying on a lost cause, I hate feeling helpless and disappointed" you say, as you three reached the top, you rest for a bit and Jason hands you a bottle of water "what kind of helpless?" He asked

"When mom was sick, we had one problem, and it was money, I thought to myself that it'll be okay since I know how to make money, just give me a couple of months and we'll have what we need, turns out we didn't have a couple of months, I worked really hard and I was just disappointed that I couldn't save her, there I promised myself I wouldn't try on a lost cause" you drank the whole bottle and even burped after"Excuse me"

"I mean" you stated "Why didn't you think I never even tried to get along with you guys, first meeting Damian calls me an 'it', who'd expect family after that" you laugh

Nevermind the fact that you know you're in a world where they're not supposed to love you

After losing your family the first time, and your mom the second time, knowing you'll have no one after that was depressing, you wanted to at least defy the system, you told yourself that if you tried to get along with them, maybe they'll accept you

The system quickly shut that thought down by telling you that "In any of the fics you've read, were any of the readers successful?"

Basically telling you that if in the fiction you've read no main character succeeded, you trying to gain their love would do nothing, you'd just set yourself up for failure

Reader... I'm sorry but you are on the verge of failing, at this rate, you won't get the special reward...

You look up at the screen in curiosity, their hatred meter was on 2%, but the past few days that the new vigilante Protagonist has been fighting with the bat family, it went up again to 15%, and whenever they spend time with you it goes down again, when they spend time with protagonist it goes up again, you honestly have no idea what's going on

Bruce's hatred meter is already in the negatives, if all of them go to the negatives you've failed

Dick hugs you "Let's go shopping" he smiles

____________________________

And you find yourself at the mall, you find some books you think you'll like and Jason pays for you, you find some clothes you think you'll like and Dick pays for you

They both drag you to a dress store, and to be honest you feel like you're forgetting something really important

You open your phone to find no messages, not from your friends or anyone

They settle you with a black dress you like, of course they'd pick something in their color, and you ride the taxi home

The Manor is eerie and quiet, Alfred isn't there to greet your return and frankly you're worried, he's always there to greet us, did something happen?

The Joker attacked? But you didn't see any bat patrolling? And why would Dick and Jason be with you?

You open the doors of the manor and-

"Happy birthday (Name)!" They yell, there you see Alfred, your friends, children from the orphanage you visit, the children you tutor, and some paparazzi, some rich looking people you don't know, and holy fuck- is that the justice league in civilian form!?!? oh and also your family is here

Right.

It's your 16th birthday...

And this... Is your first official Wayne Gala

You totally forgot.

You rarely celebrate your birthday... Because sometimes, the system tells you to celebrate it alone, sometimes it doesn't, you only remember your birthday when the system makes a mission surrounding it

Shit.

You can't get out of this one

Bruce smiles at you and he takes your hand the music starts

Another shit.

Is this a father-daughter dance?

It is.

Everyone is eager to see it, the paparazzi has cameras pointed at the both of you, your friends are smiling enjoying the party, and the kids are laughing

"(Name) Looks like a princess!" A kid says

You laugh uncomfortably "I don't know how to dance" you whisper to your father (that's a lie, you're amazing), he then places your feet to step on his "that's fine" he says

Then you he dances, his feet guide yours and it becomes this adorable moment where dad doesn't mind that his daughter doesn't know how to dance and is just happy that your in his arms

You are screaming on the inside.

How could you forget about something like this!?!?

You see his hatred meter drop even more, then you see the others, from 15% it goes to 10% then 5% then-

The dance finishes, the crowd claps and cheers, the dance showing you and your father's closeness...

Then a girl speaks "Excuse me?" She says, Everyone's attention is on her and she smiles, she runs to your father "I'm so happy to finally meet you!" She holds his hands pushing you away

Bruce pulls away from her "What are you doing!?" He glared

She looked flustered but smiled either way, she pulled out some documents and gave it to Bruce

"I thought it would be the right moment to tell you since everyone is here... I'm your long lost daughter Viviana!"

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EHEHEHEHEHHEHE MANHWA READERS YALL PROLLY KNOW WHERE THIS IS GOING

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@jellyedkazoo @vanilliona @shyenemyperson @popboomcha @plsfckmedxddy @devotedlyshamelessdetective @dorkatron-2000 @yuyuzi-ling @sweetsugerskull @butratherbutrather @yu-reiii @clementinesyummy @lfiee @iamapotatoe @type-ink @unknownloner1345 @randomlyappearingartist @justatimidcreator

[strwberri-milk]

Hi! I know mc forgot all their memories from other lives and all, but how would they react if the reader got into an accident and had amnesia ? Thank you

*intense flashbacks to rick grayson* anyway i did this w the assumption that zayne is the only one unaware that this isnt the first time you lost your memories bc i think. he also lost his memories so yall are in the same boat lmaoo

He is absolutely devastated. He blames himself for your injury, feeling that he should have been there to protect you. He should have taken your injury, done something besides just happen to be there when you finally woke up in the hospital bed. He hates how tired you look, the way you glance at him as though he were nothing more than a stranger. That look haunts him, and he finds himself stuck in place as the doctor gently pulls him aside and tells him it seems you're suffering from amnesia. The doctor reassures him that it's most likely temporary but they're going to keep you in the hospital for monitoring.

The others all need a moment to process the news. He's upset, sure, but he also hates that sense of familiarity that settles in his chest at the news. It's not to say he isn't surprised, just that unfortunately, a part of him knows how to receive this piece of information.

He's going to be at your side no matter what, this dull ache in his chest only slightly abated at the doctor's promise that this is temporary. Sylus and Xavier take the news better than Rafayel, keeping conversation light and easy with you. You can see the pain in their eyes at not remembering him but he won't say anything to you about it. You wish that you could remember him now but you also know that rushing things won't do any good. Instead, you decide to ask him questions about your life together, feeling a sense of relief wash over you as you realise even if your brain doesn't remember him, your body seems to feel comfort in his presence.

Zayne wishes for a moment he didn't spend so much time focusing on cardiology. Maybe, if he swapped to neuroscience he would have an answer right now, or if he focused more on becoming a general physician he'd know more. He hates the not knowing, understanding on a technical level what the doctor is telling him but none of it fully processes, not until he's at home without you because they thought it might stress you out too much to come home to a strange place.

He comes to visit you every day, not insisting on your time but comforting enough that you don't really mind. You're also glad to know he's also a doctor, feeling safe that if something were to happen to you he'd be able to help until your primary doctor appears. You find it hard to believe that this incredibly handsome and talented surgeon is your lover but he shows you some photos that prove the fact.

He's very patient, only able to be so because the doctors have agreed to show him the scans of your brain to calm his nerves. He's sure that even if your symptoms continue to persist he'd be able to keep you in his life, whether that be as his lover or just as a friend. Simply being able to be with you is all he ever wants, whatever that means.

Rafayel is pissed beyond belief. You don't recognise the man standing in front of you but you can tell by the quirk of his brow and the way his fingers tap against his thigh that he is not happy. Despite his turmoil, it only takes him about a second before he sighs tiredly, kneeling at the side of your bed and asking if you seriously don't remember him. The slight shake of your head is enough for him to understand the gravity of your injury, making his heart break.

This time he feels like he has more control over it, thankfully. He decides that despite your amnesia he'll do his best to make a stronger impression on you this time. He's not overbearing but he is consistent, keeping you company in a friendly manner. He doesn't want to scare you off by being too attention hungry but he also misses your touch, trying his best to keep his hands to himself as he tells you about what the two of you did last week.

[peppermintquartz]

not like that (but I can pretend)

Tommy isn't sure he's doing the right thing, but too many tequilas and not enough sense get him to Evan's loft, where he knocks on the door, head resting against the surface and humming to himself.

When the door opens he topples inwards, right into Evan's arms.

"Hey," he says. Evan looks so beautiful, he thinks. Soft and glowing and warm and too fucking beautiful. He can't possibly have all of this in his life. It'll be too much good for any single human to possess and the world would be imbalanced and then the Earth will spiral out of orbit.

"I think the Earth is plenty safe, Tommy." Evan looks worried. "How much did you have to drink?"

"Not enough," Tommy says. "Not enough to forget." Tears well up in his eyes. "I've tried to. I can't. You're in every neutron. In my brain."

"I think you mean neuron," Evan offers as he sits Tommy on the couch and pulls off his shoes.

"That too."

Reclined on the couch, Tommy watches Evan move about the kitchen. The scene is golden, like it's out of a movie. Evan with his curls and his blue hoodie in a golden space. Like an angel.

Tommy reaches up to cradle Evan's face. It's prickly. "Angel," Tommy whispers.

"Actually, I'm Evan," Evan says, as if Tommy doesn't know that. As if Tommy doesn't murmur the name every night when he thinks about them together. As if Tommy can erase it from his mind at all.

Evan helps him open a bottle of water and makes him drink at least a third of it. "You know where the bathroom is," he says. "I'll get you a change of clothes."

"Don't leave me," Tommy blurts out, grabbing Evan's hand.

"I'll just be upstairs, Tommy."

"No, no please. Don't leave me," Tommy begs. He feels the tears again and lets them fall this time. He's had nightmares like this. Evan going upstairs and he finds the person he loves and he leaves Tommy down in the dark forever and ever and ever and ever.

A strange expression passes over Evan's beautiful face and he kneels down on the floor, next to the couch. "I'm not going to leave you here forever, Tommy. I promise."

"Don't go," Tommy whines. "I'll change. I'll be whoever you need me to be. I'm not... I'm not confident or comfortable or admirable. I'm really not. I'm a fucking mess. But I can pretend. I promise I can. Just don't leave me behind."

With a soft murmur of reassurance, Evan hugs him. It's a strong hug and Tommy returns it, fingers clutching the soft hoodie. He thinks he's begging again, or maybe he's just crying, or he is begging and crying and it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter at all.

Evan is holding him.

The world is going to spin out of its axis and hurtle into the sun and Tommy doesn't care, he does not care, he gets to have Evan in his arms and that's all he wants.

He feels soft kisses on his temple, on his cheek, and once more on his lips. Evan smiles at him. "Come on, finish that water and go to the bathroom. Then we'll go upstairs together."

"You won't leave me alone?"

"No, baby." Evan brushes his thumbs under Tommy's eyes. "And you won't have to pretend, okay? Not one bit."

[unluckilyimnot]

Okay, but bonten with like a SUPER soft gf. Like, we talk like cry on every sad movie ivies with an animal to be specific). Takes things other says to heart. Often like cry over small things and stops to pet EVERY single animal she sees.

Feel free to ignore if you don’t feel like doing this one 😭 I know it’s lowkey weird.

Bonten with a soft gf!

Characters: rindou, ran, kaku, mikey, sanzu, kokonoi

fluff / no tw / wc: 900+

Note : no way it's so cute don't ever worry !! I love it, thank you sm ! I dispatched it between all the characters. I hope it's fine.

m.list | rules

Rindou never minded more than that the fact that you cry a lot. He loves it a lot and it makes him chuckle and laugh more than anything else. He's always there to wipe your tears away when you cry when the dog dies in the movies, or when you tear up at any inconveniences. You wear your heart on your sleeve, you're sensible, the opposite of him, and he cares and loves you for that.

Yet he's the first one to draw a radical line the second you get hurt, in any way, by someone. It's silly and fun until some abuse it and use it against you or to hurt you. He will find who did this, who made you cry and will burn their house down.

Sanzu sighs a lot when you decide something was wrong when he, in fact, didn't care. Yet his heart always skips a beat when he hears you speaking louder than you usually do, mad at people treating him poorly. He listens to you for a while before he finally steps in and holds your hands when he's feeling cheesy, or your elbows when he's a bit tired or high.

"Babe, it's really nothing. Don't worry yourself like that, you'll get wrinkles." He honestly makes you laugh every time, or at least confort you that he doesn't care about anyone's opinion besides yours. And oh how much you love and care for him everyday, he can't even doubt it. He wished you'd stop hurting yourself over things like this, but recognize that your sweet nature is definitely what he loves the most about you.

Ran laughs at you when you get offended for nothing. It can be about something going your way to work to you spiking your coffee on the counter. It's his own comic relief of the day when you're stroming around, a deep frown on your face making you look like a small, angry animal but still defenseless. His laughter always makes it worse, without mentioning his venom filled remarques, to make fun of your overreacting nature. To the point you can cry and not speak to him for hours – but for sure mentioning it all to Rindou.

Ran hates it when you team up with him, because you wouldn't talk to him but Rindou would, on the other hand, mention you and everything you told him to Ran. He's always making the first step to you and apologizing with probably a hundred wroth bouquet and your favorite snacks – promising you he'll never do it again, when he will most certainly do it again.

Seeing you enjoying small things about life is the reason why Mikey kept you around at first, you reminded him of his younger self and his friends at that time. Every time you stop to pet a stranger's dog, a small smile shows on his lips, one you rarely get to see even if you're always the reason for it.

You listen to him so carefully the few times he does talk to you, it makes him feel alive again. You're doing most of the talking and you're always so sorry to take this kich when that's what he loves about you. He makes sure to tell you that he likes it from time to time, just to be sure you won't stop. Your heart is so soft and warm, welcoming him every time you see him again with new facts you learn and an unconditional love that overflows everywhere, and he gets the chance to be showered with it every time.

Kokonoi gets used to you stopping all the time the second you catch the glimpse of a stay animal. So he instinctively adds ten minutes to every trip you two have to do, even if it's only to walk to his car because there's a few stray cats in the parking lot and he's sure you're gonna stop or even wait for them to walk out from their hide spot.

But he just can't bring himself to get impatient when your eyes light up at the sight of the small cats. The way you jolt in joy when their cold nose finally touches your hand, and you look up to him with the softest smile he ever had the chance to witness. Yes, you're usually late, but he just had to snap a picture of you with the white kitten and everyone is accepting the fact that those ten minutes of your happiness are worth the delayed meetings.

Kakucho's always there to rub your back when you cry in front of a movie. He never sees why you cry particularly, but always listen thoughtfully to what you have to say about it. He brings you tissues, sometimes even wipes your nose for you and lets you dive into his arms when a character you like dies. He can't help but tell himself how sensible you are every time, but also how he loves that. You bring him back to his human nature and what it is to be emphatic about normal things, far from his rough life where his life is at risk every time he steps outside the door.

To that, he hopes he'll never be the reason for your tears, and that he'll always be there to wipe them away and shush you down.

Sorry its rather short, tell me if you want a particular hc with one or a whole os.

Let me know if you liked it !

[bullet-prooflove]

Evan Buckley "Your screams will wake everyone up."

Tagging: @kmc1989 @mckinleysbones @sophiah2253 @qutequeersstuff @gatefleet

Companion piece to:

Catalina Island - You and Buck meet for the first time during a daring rescue.

Not Yet (NSFW) - Buck loves it when you tug at his curls.

Time (NSFW) - Buck and you spend a little time together.

Burning Down The House - You and Buck cause a fire during date night.

After the tsunami Buck has nightmares, terrible, horrific dreams off being swept away, of losing Christopher, and the dead, he always sees the dead. Their blank unfocused eyes as he wades past them, their pale blue lips whispering his name, he can feel their hands brushing past him as he forces his way through the water, screaming out for the boy he lost, the one he never finds.

On those evenings he wakes up yelling, sweat pouring from his skin, his face wet with tears and you kiss them away just like you are tonight, chasing away his terror, his guilt.

“Evan baby,” You say softly as your lips brush over his damp cheeks. “We need to be quiet ok? We don’t want to wake the kids.”

You mean the scout troop of ten year old boys that are currently sleeping outside of your tent. The two of you are chaperoning your nephew’s first outdoor camping trip and it’s been a whirl wind of smores, campfire songs and ghost stories. When he’d settled down into the double sleeping bag with you, he’d felt safe, warm, contented. Now he’s trying to stifle a panic attack in the middle of the forest.

Your arms wrap around him, drawing him close. He tucks himself against you, burying his face into the curve of your throat, taking shelter in the reassurance that comes with being tangled up in you.

“You’re ok.” You whisper, your hand combing lightly through his unruly curls. “I promise you, you’re ok.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[thriftyshark530]

"such a pretty little thing, aren't you?" Whumper whispers as they gently stroke their thumb over whumpees bloody lips.

Whumpee is suspended by 2 chains, one wrapped around each wrist, dangling them above the floor to match whumper's height.

"Bit of a mess, but nothing a little bath couldn't fix. Oh, but a problem for another time, you didn't seem to enjoy the last one" whumper mocks as they release their hold on whumpee, and begin to walk a circle around them.

"Jesus, do you ever shut up?" Whumpee questions, a smirk appearing on their lips as blood slowly drips from their mouth.

"No, not for you, whumpee. You're my favorite. Besides, I got no one else to talk to." Whumper exclaims as they begin running their fingers through whumpees hair.

"Gee, I can imagine why" whumpee scoffs, rolling their eyes and pulling away from whumper's touch.

"Don't want any pets this time, hm? That's funny, y'know I can remember before when you were begging for my touch. Any comfort to ease the pain, even if it was from the one who hurt you in the first pla-"

"Shut up" whumpee cuts off whumper as their gaze darts up, staring a deep hold into whumper's eyes. "Why the hell am I here? You would've killed me already if you didn't have a use for me, isn't that right? So what is it?"

Whumper rolls their eyes, mimicking whumpee's previous eye roll as they begin circling whumpee again. "Oh, whumpee, I would've thought a smart chap like you would've already figured it out." Whumper stops Infront of whumpee again, and hooks a finger under whumpee's chin to make whumpee look up at them. "This is your purpose".

Whumpee's heart sinks as their eyes widen, realizing the weight of whumper's words. "What do you..what?" Whumpee stutters out.

A devilish grin falls over whumpers face at the sight of whumpee. "Oh come on now, you heard me. What, you got wax in your ears? Listen I know that sounds bad, but it won't be that bad, I promise. Y'know if I'm ever having a bad day, or things just haven't gone my way, or hell if I even just feel like it. I'm going to come down here and just..." Whumper releases their hold on whumpee and throws a vicious punch into whumpees abdomen, causing whumpee to begin violently coughing up blood. "Relieve some stress, just like that. Doesn't sound so bad, now does it?" Whumper asks as they slightly squat down and get close to whumpee, waiting for a response.

Once whumpee is done coughing and choking, they catch their breath and begin to mumble something under their breath, still facing the floor to not meet whumper's gaze.

"I'm sorry, what? I couldn't hear you." Whumper mocks as they tightly grip whumpee's hair, forcing whumpee to meet their gaze.

Whumpee's eyes narrow, before they spit blood at whumper's face. "F....fuck you" whumpee mutters, blood still dripping from their lips.

Whumper reaches a hand up and slowly wipes the blood from their cheek. "Hm, still need some convincing I see. We can fix that" whumper states as they release their hold on whumpee's hair and fully stand up. Their attention turns to the table in the corner of the room, housing all of the tools whumper has used on whumpee so far.

Whumpee's gaze follows whumper as they move to the corner of the room. "Please, no, please not again." Whumpee pleads as they start pulling against their restraints.

"oh, it's too late for that whumpee. I'm feeling....something simple, what do you say?" Whumper questions as they grab a glass shard from the table, and return to whumpee.

Whumpee stares at the shard, eyes wide as their heart beat rises, sweat forming on their forehead. "Please don't" whumpee begs as they forcefully begin pulling at their restraints.

"shut up and be still" whumper commands as they grab onto whumpee and force their mouth open, placing the glass shard inside whumpee's mouth before closing it tightly, pushing the glass against whumpee's tongue and cutting it open. Whumper then delivers a hard punch across whumpee's jaw, causing the glass to cut open whumpee's mouth even further. Whumpee's muffled scream only puts a smile on whumper's face, and they punch whumpee again across the jaw. This time letting go of whumpee, and stepping back to enjoy their work.

Whumpee groans and screams as they slowly open their mouth, the glass falling out with a pool of blood. Whumpee begins choking and coughing again, clenching their fist as they groan and watch the blood spill from their mouth and onto the floor.

"so fucking loud, aren't you?" Whumper growls as they rush forward, forcing whumpee to look up again and wrapping their hands tightly around whumpee's neck. "You won't leave here, not alive anyway. I'm going to find caretaker, and all your friends, the same way I found you. And then I'll kill all of them as you get to watch, begging for mercy that won't come. Then after I'm done with you, I'm gonna burn this city to the fucking ground". Whumper tightens their grip further and begins to choke whumpee, their eyes darkening as they watch whumpee gag and struggle to get a breath in.

Before whumpee loses consciousness, whumper gets a notification on their phone, and releases the hold. "Oh, hold on, I got something. Phew, almost lost my cool there" whumper chuckles as they reach in their pocket and pull out their phone, paying no mind to whumpee's coughs and gasps for air. "Oh, this is important. I really hate to leave you alone, whumpee, but I have to go, it's been fun though." Whumper calls out as they quickly make their way to the exit, giving a little wave to whumpee as they leave.

Only whumpee's cries can be heard as whumper leaves them all alone.

[soldearestsoulmate]

Character + Prompt/Request:

Sol x GN!Reader, for the beginning, then Sol and GN!Reader (spoiler. you break up)

One angsty torturing of Sol coming right up! pfff <3 (More could of been added to this...A continuation? Maybe Reader comes back...Even after all the red flags there, and suspecting what was done...What if they still come back? Only time may tell. lol)

Warnings: Attempted drugging with sleeping pills, manipulation, toxic relationship.

“Why would you put so much hope in me? Things have clearly never worked out for me!”

Rarely he rose his voice at you, unless he really was affected by his emotions, which clearly he was right now.

You've heard him say this before though, done this before. Over and over again, things go well, then they fall, then you work to try to rebuild it all with him, for him.

You loved him, you did. Cared for him deeply. But everyone has their limits, and you finally reached yours.

"You're right...They haven't, and maybe it's a sign this won't work out after all." His eyes widened at your words. He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out at first. Then he started to panic, you could see it clearly, he quickly grabbed your hands, with pleading eyes.

"NO! THIS WILL WORK! IT WILL! IT HAS TO! YOU'RE MY SOULMATE AFTER ALL! WE'RE MEANT TO BE!" You felt his hold tighten, it was starting to hurt...

"Sol...Maybe you've been wrong though? What kind of soulmate can't make their love truly happy?...Help them with their problems when needed most? Make them more happy than sad, and feel more love than sorrow? That's no soulmate...at least one you deserve. You deserve better."

"No no no please don't say that. Don't believe any of that. I'm sorry! I'm sorry I keep screwing this up! I keep making it hard for you, for us! But I'll try, I'm trying! I'll do better. I'll--I'll try therapy again. I'll talk to Hyugo and--"

"And what? We repeat this all over again? Sol...Please...You know we've been hanging on by a thread for too long...I love you, I really do but...I love you too much to keep making you suffer like this...I...I can't stand to see you hurt anymore...And I know I'm mostly to blame for it all..."

"NO! YOU'RE NOT! IT'S HIS FAULT! ALL ICHABOD'S FAULT! EVEN AFTER RIDDING OF HIM HE STILL--"

"...What?"

Sol let his grip go, taking a step back, realizing what he said. "I mean...I..."

"Sol...What about Crowe? What do you mean 'ridding of him'?"

"P-pumpkin...I can explain. Let me just--" Sol attempted to hold your hands again but you stepped back, moved away from him. Eyes widened in confusion and fear.

"...What happened to Crowe? Solivan, god help me if you did something to him--"

"Pumpkin please! I swear it's not like that! Just let me explain and--"

"Then explain right now what happened to him. Explain or I will call the cops." Sol felt his heart skip a beat and tighten from your threat. Yet he forced a smile, trying to act calm.

"Of course...But let me please make you a drink, some tea, it'll help calm you while I explain...Okay? Please..." Sol's pleading eyes never failed to have a affect on you...So you nodded and let him go get that drink for you.

As Sol left the room, he texted Hyugo, a simple text, saying "They found out." sent out and then he put the phone away to focus on you.

He went to the kitchen to prepare that tea he promised, but pulled out something he thought he'll never have to use again.

"...You just need some sleep, pumpkin. I promise you. It'll all be better soon." He softly said this as he mixed in the pills into your drink. Then looked at the drink in his hands. He knew this had to be done, but wished it didn't come to this again. "I'll make this better again. I promise..."

After a moment of making peace with this decision with himself, he made his way back to the room where you were at.

"Here you go, pumpkin. One warm cup of tea made with lov--" Sol froze as he entered the room, to see no sight of you. Then saw the window wide open, your one and only exit taken. He didn't even care about the cup of tea he dropped, that both shattered and spilled over his shoes.

All he was focused on now was running to the window, to look around outside, in hopes of seeing you but you were nowhere to be found.

"PUMPKIN?! Y/N!" His breathing quickened, his heart raced, he felt his panic rising more as he started to pace the room. Looking for a sign of where you could of went. He even flipped the house upside down for a possible chance of finding you, hoping you were just hiding but you weren't there. You were gone.

Then with trembling hands he grabbed his phone to try to call Hyugo but kept messing up. He was scared, not over you getting the cops after him though. He was scared of losing you, of you being away from him.

He wasn't thinking straight anymore. He left the house in a panic now to look for you, to find you and bring you back home. To make this all right, but you wouldn't be found...Not anytime soon that is...

So he'll just run, and search for you for hours, calling you out, begging and pleading for you to come back. All while he ignores Hyugo's panicked texts and calls...

[from-memphis-with-love]

The Price of Living

Summary: What happens when a frontier nurse saves an entire town from deadly fever - and names her price? A child of her own, to be given by one of the survivors. When the straws are drawn, fate chooses Elvis Presley - a classics professor turned miner with a fiancée back home. Their marriage of duty becomes something neither expected. Word count: ~6,600 Warnings: None. Sexy but tasteful mention of making a baby.

The Price of Living

When the fever came to Gold Hill, it took the women first. 

I remember Mary Wilson clutching her throat on a Tuesday, my hands trembling as I mixed the willow bark tea that had saved so many others back East. By Thursday, she was gone, and the tea sat cold and useless by her bedside. Then it was Martha James, then the Widow Carson, then little Jenny who helped me in the infirmary. The children followed their mothers into the earth, ducklings following in a neat row. I buried them all, my hands cracked and bleeding from the shovel's wooden handle, while the men stood back and watched, their hats pressed to their chests.

"Y’know, you oughta wear gloves," John Matthews said one evening, watching me dig another grave from a respectable distance. "Your hands–"

"My hands need to feel what they're doing," I snapped, then immediately regretted my tone. He was only trying to help, in his clumsy man's way. But I couldn't explain how the pain in my hands was the only thing keeping me sane, keeping me from screaming at God for making me watch mother after mother slip away while I stood by, useless with my teas and poultices.

I alone remained untouched. Perhaps it was because I'd had scarlet fever as a child, or perhaps God had other plans for me. I couldn't say. 

What I did know was that twenty-three men now looked to me as their only hope of survival when the fever caught them too. Their eyes followed me everywhere I went, hungry and desperate, like wolves tracking the last deer in winter.

They came to my infirmary one by one at first, then in waves. I stripped their sweat-soaked shirts from their bodies, pressed cool cloths to their foreheads, and forced bitter willow bark tea down their throats. I sang to them when their fever dreams made them cry out for their mothers, their wives, their lost children. I held their hands when they thrashed against the sheets, and I prayed over them when their breathing grew shallow.

When Elvis Presley took ill, I felt a fear I hadn't known since Mary Wilson first showed symptoms. He'd been helping me tend the others, his educated hands surprisingly gentle with the sick. 

In health, he'd stood out among the miners – a classics professor from Memphis who'd traded his lectures on Aristotle for a pick and pan. The other men mocked his fine manners and careful speech, but they came to him in the evenings to have their letters written home, appreciating his way with words even as they teased him for it.

Even in sickness, he was beautiful. The fever that made other men gaunt and ghostly seemed to burnish him instead, like gold in a crucible. His dark hair curled damply against his forehead as he twisted in the sheets, calling out for his mother, for his Priscilla, for God. I wiped his brow and sang the hymns he'd played in church, watching his face for any sign that the fever was breaking.

"Angel," he murmured on the third night, his eyes fever-bright as he caught my wrist. "Are… are you an angel?"

"No," I said, carefully loosening his grip. "Just your nurse."

"The angel of Gold Hill," he insisted, his voice cracking. "Everyone says... says you're the only thing keeping death away." He tried to sit up, his movements jerky and desperate. "Don't leave me here. Priscilla... I promised her..."

"Hush now," I said, pushing him back against the pillows. "You ain’t going nowhere. I won't let you." I pressed another cool cloth to his forehead, trying not to notice how his skin felt like silk beneath my roughened hands, how his lips parted slightly at my touch. "Rest. Dream of your Priscilla."

But when he slept, it was my name he whispered - Anne, not Annie like the others called me, just Anne, soft and wondering like a prayer.

Some died despite my efforts. William Parker was the first - a young man, barely twenty, who'd been saving his gold to bring his fiancee west. "Please don't let me die," he begged, clutching my sleeve with strength that belied his wasted frame. "Catherine's coming in the spring. I promised–" He never finished the sentence. 

I buried him next to the others, and wondered if his sweetheart would ever know where to lay her flowers.

The others lived, though there were nights I thought I'd lose them all. Nights when the fever rose so high it cooked their brains, made them see devils dancing in the corners. Nights when I had to tie them to their beds to keep them from running naked into the snow, chasing visions of their dead wives. Nights when I caught myself nodding off and jerked awake in terror, certain I'd dozed while another soul slipped away.

They emerged from my infirmary changed men, hollow-eyed and grateful in a way that made my skin crawl. They brought me things: gold nuggets, pretty rocks, wild flowers. 

They fixed my roof, chopped my wood, fetched my water. They called me "Miss Anne" and treated me like I was made of spun glass, precious and fragile, when I was the one who had carried their dying bodies and cleaned their sick and buried their dead.

"You shouldn't be alone," they'd say, hovering around my porch like nervous suitors. "Let us help you more."

But I saw the fear in their eyes when they looked at me - fear mixed with something else, something hungry that made me pull my shawl tighter around my shoulders. I was the woman who'd seen them at their weakest, who knew their fever-babbled secrets. The woman who remained when their wives were gone. It was a dangerous combination.

When they gathered at the saloon that night, the air was thick with relief and whiskey. Someone had dragged out an old piano from storage, its yellowed keys chiming discordantly as men who hadn't touched music in months remembered how their fingers moved. The bartender, Tom Sullivan, kept the drinks flowing, though his hands still shook when he poured.

"To Miss Anne!" They raised their glasses, voices rough with emotion and drink. "The Angel of Gold Hill!"

I stood in the corner, my shawl pulled tight despite the heat from the crowded room. Twenty faces turned to me, flushed with whiskey and life. Twenty men who'd seen death's shadow pass over them and lived to tell the tale. Twenty men who owed me everything

It was Tommy Wheeler who brought up the subject of proper payment. "It ain't right," he said, his voice carrying across the quiet room. "What you done for us, Miss Anne. We can't never repay it proper."

"I don't need payment," I said, but they wouldn't hear of it.

“We ought to give her something," John Matthews declared, swaying slightly as he got to his feet. "Something proper, to show our gratitude."

The suggestions came fast and eager. A new roof for the infirmary. A new garden full of medicinal herbs. A piano like the one currently being tortured by drunk fingers.

“Why don’t we ask her what she wants?” Jim Barnes added as if it were the brightest idea in the world. Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to them to ask.

I set down my spoon and looked at them, these men I had nursed back from death's door. They were strong again now, their faces filled out, their eyes bright. They had everything they needed to rebuild their lives – except for what they'd lost.

What I'd lost too.

"I want a baby," I said, my voice quiet. "I want one of you to give me a baby."

The silence that followed was absolute. Then someone laughed - a sharp, ugly sound that died as quickly as it came.

"You can't be serious," said John.

"I am." I looked around the room, meeting their eyes one by one.

"Now, Miss Anne," Tom said carefully, as if speaking to a spooked horse. "Wouldn't you rather have something practical? We could build you a greenhouse, maybe. For your herbs."

"Or a new well," another voice chimed in. "Closer to your house."

"Or a fiddle. Maybe you wanna pick up an instrument!" said a third man.

"I'm twenty-six years old," my voice was stronger now, fueled by their obvious discomfort. "I came west to be a nurse because no man back home would have me. Now all the women are gone, and you want to repay me? Give me what I've always wanted. A child of my own."

The saloon erupted into chaos. Chairs scraped against wooden floors as men jumped to their feet, their voices rising in a cacophony of shock and protest.

"She's gone mad with grief!" someone shouted from the back.

"It ain't proper!" called another.

"Think of what the territory marshal would say!"

John Matthews slammed his fist on the table. "We owe her our lives, but this… this is too much to ask!"

"She saved my Tommy," Wheeler's voice cracked. "But I can't… my Mary ain't even cold in her grave…"

The accusations and protests grew louder, more frenzied. Some men backed away from me like I was carrying the fever again. Others argued amongst themselves, their faces red with whiskey and embarrassment.

"It's indecent!"

"We're God-fearing men!"

"She needs a husband, not a…"

I felt the tears coming then, hot and unwanted. My hands trembled as I gathered my shawl, my medical bag, my dignity. These men had cried in my arms, had trusted me with their fever dreams and desperate prayers. Now they looked at me like I was something dirty, something shameful.

"I should have known better," I whispered, though no one could hear me over the din. My vision blurred as I stood, nearly knocking over my chair in my haste to escape.

I was almost to the door when Billy Maynard's voice cut through the chaos. "Well, hell, if the woman wants a baby," he thundered, "by God, we'll give her one."

Wheeler cleared his throat. "But who…"

"Draw straws," I said. "I don't care who. But that's my price."

They did it right there in the saloon, using pieces of straw from a broom. Twenty men, all of them shifting uncomfortably, none meeting my eyes now. All except one. Elvis Presley stood apart from the others, his handsome face troubled.

When Billy offered him the straws, he hesitated. "I can't," he said. "I'm promised to another. Back in Memphis."

"Draw," Billy said firmly. "You took the same care she gave as the rest of us."

On the men continued, drawing straws with shaking hands, pale faces turned away from me as if I couldn't see their relief when they pulled a long one. Elvis’ fingers trembled as he drew, his educated hands suddenly clumsy as a schoolboy's.

The straw was short.

The room erupted in relieved laughter and back-slapping. Elvis stood frozen, the damning straw in his hand, while I watched from my seat by the fire. His eyes met mine across the room, dark with something I couldn't name.

"It ain't right," someone muttered. "The child'll be a bastard."

"Then they'll have to marry," said Wheeler, and more laughter followed.

But Elvis wasn't laughing. "I told you," he said, his voice carrying that musical lilt that had first caught my attention months ago, when he'd wandered into town with his guitar strapped to his back. "I'm promised to Miss Priscilla back home. We're to be married come spring."

"That was before the fever," Matthews said. "Things are different now."

Different. Yes, everything was different now. I stood up, my chair scraping against the wooden floor. "I won't force anyone," I said quietly. "That wasn't part of the bargain. If Mr. Presley doesn't wish to fulfill the debt, draw again."

But Elvis was shaking his head. "A debt's a debt," he said. "And a promise is a promise. I made one to Miss Priscilla, and now I've made one here. I just…" He ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing it from its usual careful style. "I need time to think."

I nodded once and left the saloon, the men's voices following me into the night. I had time. I had nothing but time, in this town of grateful men and empty cradles.

Elvis avoided me for three weeks after that night. He kept to himself mostly, through his books and his music that drifted down from his room above the general store late into the night - mournful songs that made the dogs howl and kept half the town awake. Every Sunday after church, he'd write his letters to Memphis, seal them with shaking hands, and press them into the postmaster's care like they were made of gold.

I didn't push. I had meant what I said about not forcing anyone. But I watched him, same as I had when he lay burning with fever in my infirmary. He was different from the other men - softer somehow, like clay not yet fired. His hands were unused to labor, though he'd taken his turn with the burial detail same as everyone else. The other men noticed it too, this difference. They'd watch him tune his guitar with those gentle fingers and shake their heads, muttering about men who weren't quite men.

The letter from Priscilla came on a Wednesday. I was in my infirmary, rolling bandages, when I heard the commotion at the general store. Elvis had read the letter right there on the front steps, his face draining of color, then walked straight to the saloon. By sundown, he was roaring drunk, smashing bottles and trying to pick fights with men twice his size.

It took three of them to drag him to my infirmary. They dumped him on a cot, bloody-knuckled and sobbing.

"She's marrying a cotton merchant," he kept saying, over and over. "A proper gentleman. Says she can't waste her youth waiting for a fool who got himself trapped in some godsforsaken mining town."

I cleaned his cuts in silence. What was there to say? She wasn't wrong - he was trapped here, same as all of us. The fever had passed, but the quarantine remained. No one in, no one out, by order of the territory marshal.

Father McKinnery started visiting Elvis daily after that. I'd see them walking together, the priest's black cassock collecting dust, Elvis's head bowed as he listened. Sometimes I'd catch snippets of their conversations - talk of duty and honor, of making the best of God's plan.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," Father McKinnery would say, loud enough for me to hear as they passed my infirmary. "Perhaps this is His path for you both."

A month later, Elvis appeared at my door in his Sunday best, sober and grim-faced. "I reckon we ought to do this properly," he said, not meeting my eyes. "If you're still wanting what you asked for."

We were married the next day, a quick ceremony in the little church. Elvis spoke his vows in a flat voice, like he was reading from a faraway script. When Father McKinnery told him to kiss the bride, he pecked my cheek like I was his maiden aunt.

He moved his things into my house, but that was all that changed. Each night, he'd lie rigid on his side of the bed, careful not to let any part of him touch any part of me. I'd lie awake, listening to his breathing. Waiting. Sometimes I'd hear him mumbling in his sleep – calling her name, not mine.

During the day, he'd tip his hat when we passed on the street, polite as you please. "Mrs. Presley," he'd say, like I was a stranger he had to show respect to, not his wife. At night, he'd come home late from the saloon, smelling of whiskey and regret, and collapse into our bed without a word.

The whole town watched us, whispering. They saw how he flinched when I reached for him, how he kept his distance even as we shared a roof, a name, a bed. They saw, and they pitied me. The woman who'd saved their lives, now living like a ghost in her own home.

But still I waited, night after night, for him to remember his promise. For him to turn to me in the darkness and give me what I'd asked for. What I'd earned.

Winter came early that year. The passes filled with snow, and the quarantine hardly mattered anymore; nobody could get in or out even if they wanted to. The men huddled in the mines for warmth between shifts, and my infirmary filled with cases of frostbite and fever.

Elvis took to playing in the saloon again. Not for money anymore, but because the men needed something to lift their spirits. He'd sing those old hymns his mama taught him, and for a little while, the men would forget about the empty chairs where their wives used to sit, the silent cradles in their homes.

I'd listen from my place by the fire, pretending to mend someone's shirt or darn their socks. He never looked at me while he sang, but sometimes his voice would crack on certain words - love, home - and I'd see his hands tremble on the guitar strings.

One night, Tommy Wheeler's boy started crying during "Amazing Grace." He was only eight, the last child left in town, saved from the fever by being away at his aunt's when it hit. Elvis stopped mid-verse, his face white as paper.

"Keep singing," Wheeler said gruffly. "Boy's just tired."

But Elvis set down his guitar and walked out into the snow. I found him later, sitting on our front porch, his breath freezing in the air.

"I ever tell you about my mama?" he asked without looking at me.

"No."

"She used to sing that hymn every Sunday. Said it was God's own favorite." He laughed, a sound like breaking ice. "Wonder what she'd think of me now. Married to a woman I won't touch, playing songs in a dead town."

I stood in the doorway, watching the snow collect in his dark hair. "You could touch me," I said quietly. "I wouldn't break."

He turned then, really looked at me for the first time in months. "No," he said slowly. "I don't reckon you would. You're probably ‘bout the strongest person in this whole damn town."

But still he didn't touch me. Just went inside and lay down on his side of the bed, rigid as a corpse, while I stared at the ceiling and listened to the wind howl through the empty streets.

Another letter from Priscilla came two days later. I saw the postmaster hand it to him, saw him tuck it into his jacket without opening it. That night, he burned it in the fireplace without reading it.

"Ain't nothing she could say that would matter now," he said when he caught me watching. "This is my life. For better or worse, like the preacher said."

It wasn't much, as declarations went. But it was something. A crack in the wall he'd built between us.

That night, he didn't turn his back to me when he lay down. He stared up at the ceiling too, his breathing uneven in the darkness.

"Anne," he said, "you ever wonder if God has a sense of humor?"

"Sometimes," I said. "When I think about how He put a man with a beautiful voice like you in a town that's gone quiet."

He was quiet so long I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then I felt his hand move across the sheet between us, his pinky finger just barely touching mine.

"Maybe," he said, "He knew what He was doing after all."

Spring came to Gold Hill like a woman trying on her sister's dress - awkward and uncertain at first, then with growing confidence. The snow melted, revealing the graves we'd dug in fall, but also the first green shoots pushing through the mud. The men started talking about the future again. They smiled more. Laughed sometimes.

Letters started going out - not just Elvis' to Memphis anymore, but dozens of them, to sisters and cousins and friends back East. "My cousin Mary's got a friend," they'd tell each other in the saloon. "Real nice girl, good family. Writes that she'd consider coming West, now the fever's passed."

John Matthews was the first to get a response. He showed the letter to everyone who'd stand still long enough to listen. Three pages of careful handwriting from a widow in Pennsylvania who'd agreed to marry him sight unseen. "She's bringing her sewing machine," he said proudly. "Says she can make curtains."

After that, it was like a dam broke. Every week brought new letters, new promises, new hope. Tommy Wheeler's sister was coming with her two daughters. The blacksmith had a sweetheart in Ohio who'd waited for him. Even Father McKinnery had written to a seminary back East about sending more priests - the town would need them soon enough, what with all the weddings and baptisms surely coming.

I watched it all from my infirmary window, my hands busy with the endless work of keeping men alive. They still needed me for the burns from the mine, the cuts and breaks, the lingering coughs that winter had left behind. But they needed me less now. They looked past me sometimes, their minds already full of the women who were coming to replace the ones they'd lost.

It happened on a Sunday after church. The Wheeler boy – the same one who'd survived the fever by being away – was showing off for the new children, climbing the old oak tree behind the church while their mothers chatted about the upcoming social. I heard the crack before I saw him fall, that sickening sound of breaking wood that's followed too often by breaking bone.

I was running before the screams started, my skirts hitched up past my ankles in a way that would have scandalized the new ladies if they weren't all too busy screaming themselves. The boy had landed wrong, his neck bent at an angle that stopped my heart for a moment. But there was no time for fear. My hands knew what to do even as my mind raced with prayers.

"Don't move him!" I shouted as John Matthews reached for the boy. "Tommy? Tommy, can you hear me?"

His eyes were wide with terror, but he managed a small nod. Good. His neck wasn't broken then. But the way his chest heaved, the horrible whistling sound with each breath. That was bad. Very bad.

"Something's in his throat," I said, more to myself than the crowd gathering around us. "He's choking on it."

I turned him carefully onto his side, supporting his head and neck. The new Mrs. Matthews gasped when I thrust my fingers into the boy's mouth, but I ignored her. I could feel it – a chunk of something he must have been chewing when he fell. Apple, maybe, or one of Mrs. Wheeler's hard candies she always snuck to the children after service.

"Come on, Tommy," I whispered, working my fingers deeper as he gagged. "Work with me here."

The crowd had gone silent, holding its collective breath. I was dimly aware of Elvis pushing through to the front, his church clothes getting dusty as he knelt beside me. Without a word, he took over supporting Tommy's head, his hands steady and sure.

When my probing fingers finally dislodged the candy, Tommy's whole body convulsed. I pulled him up against me, letting him cough and splutter against my shoulder while I rubbed his back. My good church dress would be ruined, but I didn't care.

"That's it," I murmured. "Get it all out. You're alright now."

It wasn't until Tommy was breathing normally again, crying in his aunt's arms while the other ladies clucked and fussed, that I noticed the state of my hands. They were bleeding again, the barely-healed cracks from winter's work torn open by the rough work of saving yet another life.

Elvis caught my wrists as I tried to hide them in my skirts. "Let me see," he said softly.

"It's nothing. Just need to wrap them again."

But he held on, turning my hands over in his. The women around us had fallen silent, watching. They saw my rough, red hands in his smooth, clean ones – a contrast as stark as our match.

"Nothing," he echoed, his voice strange. "You call saving a child's life nothing?" His thumbs traced the scars, the raw places, gentle as Sunday morning prayer. "These hands have done more good than any soft, pretty ones I've ever held."

He looked up then, and the expression in his eyes made me catch my breath. It wasn't pity or guilt or duty I saw there. It was something else entirely. Something that made my scarred hands tremble in his grasp and my heart beat faster than it had during all the emergency.

"We should get some salve on these cuts," he said, but he didn't let go. Not even when Mrs. Matthews started herding the other women away, not even when Tommy's aunt led the still-sniffling boy home.

"Elvis," I said, suddenly conscious of how we must look, kneeling in the dirt behind the church. "The people–"

"Let them look," he said quietly.

That night, he brought me a jar of honeysuckle salve from the general store and insisted on wrapping my hands himself. His touch was different now, less clinical than when he'd helped me tend the sick, more like the way he handled his precious guitar. Like he was touching something valuable. Something worth caring for.

"Isn’t it wonderful?" Elvis said one night, his voice dreamy. He'd taken to sitting up in bed reading the newspaper instead of going to the saloon, pointing out every mention of trains running again, of trade resuming. "Everything's coming back to life."

I thought of the tiny garden I'd kept behind the house, the seeds I'd planted that refused to sprout. "Yes," I said. "Wonderful."

He must have heard something in my voice, because he put down his paper and really looked at me. "You still want it, don't you? A baby?"

"Doesn't matter what I want," I said, folding the quilt back with careful hands. "Some things aren't meant to be."

"I made a promise–”

"You've kept your promise," I cut him off. "You married me. You're a good husband. You don't drink too much or spend all our money or run around with other women. That's more’n most get."

"But we haven't–"

"No," I said. "We haven't. And we won't, unless you want to. I won't have you touching me out of duty, Elvis. I've had enough of men doing things for me out of duty."

He stared at me for a long moment, something like wonder in his face. "You really mean that, don't you?"

"I do."

"Even though it's the thing you wanted most? The whole reason for this marriage?"

I smoothed the quilt, avoiding his eyes. "I learned a long time ago that wanting something doesn't make it right. I wanted to save everyone during the fever, but I couldn't. I wanted to be pretty like Priscilla, but I'm not. I wanted you to love me, but…" I shrugged. "Life goes on anyway."

When I finally looked up, his face had that same expression he'd worn the first time I sang to him during his fever - like he was seeing something he hadn't known was there.

"You're something else," he said softly. "You know that?"

I blew out the lamp and lay down, turning my back to him. "Goodnight, Elvis."

But I felt his eyes on me long after the room went dark.

The first bride arrived in May. Sarah Matthews, formerly Sarah Cooper of Pennsylvania, stepped off the wagon in a blue calico dress with a sewing machine clutched to her chest like a shield. John Matthews lifted her down like she was made of china, his face split with a grin so wide you'd think he'd struck gold all over again.

I watched from my porch as the whole town turned out to welcome her. They'd swept the streets and hung bunting, like it was the Fourth of July instead of a random Tuesday. Even Elvis had put on his good suit to join the welcoming committee, his guitar strapped to his back in case anyone called for a song.

The new Mrs. Matthews looked around at all the men's faces - eager, hungry faces that hadn't seen a new woman in nearly a year - and clutched her sewing machine tighter.

"John wrote that there was another woman here," she said, her voice carrying in the strange quiet. "A nurse?"

"That'd be Mrs. Presley," someone said, and all eyes turned to my porch.

I nodded to her from my rocking chair, not getting up. My hands were busy with mending - they were always busy with something these days. "Welcome to Gold Hill, Mrs. Matthews."

She stared at me for a long moment, taking in my plain dress, my work-roughened hands, my face that had never been pretty even before the fever aged it ten years in as many months. Then her gaze slid to Elvis, standing there in his fine suit with his blue eyes shining like the Pacific and his skin so tanned, and I saw the question in it clear as day.

How did she end up with him?

It was a question I saw more and more as the brides trickled in through spring and summer. They came in ones and twos, clutching their belongings and their dreams of Western adventure. They looked at Elvis - still beautiful despite the hard months, still gentle-mannered and sweet-voiced - and then they looked at me, and I could see them trying to solve the puzzle of us.

The new women brought life back to Gold Hill, sure enough. Curtains appeared in windows that had been bare since the fever. The smell of baking bread replaced the lingering medicinal scents that had hung over the town. Flowers appeared in garden plots that had gone to weeds. There were socials and sewing circles and church suppers. All the trappings of civilization that the men had done without.

I wasn't invited to most of them. The new women were polite enough, but they didn't know what to make of me. I was a reminder of the time before, of the dead women I'd failed to save, of the desperation that had brought them here to marry men they'd never met.

"Don't let it trouble you," Elvis said one night, watching me watch the lights in the church basement where the Ladies' Aid Society was meeting. "They're just scared. Everything's strange to them here."

"I know strange," I said. "I live with it every night."

He flinched at that, and I immediately regretted the words. We'd achieved a kind of peace in our marriage of convenience; he no longer avoided my eyes or flinched when I passed him the coffee pot, and sometimes he even told me about his day or asked my opinion on things. It wasn't love, but it was a sort of friendship, and I'd learned to be grateful for small mercies.

"I'm sorry," I said. "That wasn't fair."

"No," he said quietly. "It was perfectly fair."

He went back to his newspaper, and I went back to my mending, and we sat in our familiar silence until bedtime. But that night, when I was almost asleep, I heard him whisper:

"You deserve better than strange."

I pretended not to hear him. It was easier that way.

The next wedding was set for August – Tommy Wheeler's sister Emma and her girls were finally arriving, and she'd been corresponding with the blacksmith. They'd decided to marry the day she arrived, "to avoid any awkwardness," as Father McKinnery put it.

The whole town was buzzing with preparations. The women baked and sewed and decorated the church, while the men built a proper house for the new couple. Even Elvis was caught up in the excitement, practicing wedding songs on his guitar late into the night.

I kept to my infirmary, tending to the usual injuries and ailments. But one afternoon, Emma Wheeler's eldest daughter found her way to my porch. She was maybe twelve, with Wheeler's stubborn chin and suspicious eyes.

"Mama says you're the one who saved everyone," she said without preamble. "During the fever."

"I tried," I said. "I couldn't save everyone."

"But you saved Uncle Tommy. And Mr. Presley." She looked at me hard. "Is that why he married you? Because you saved his life?" Before I could answer, Elvis's voice came from behind me: "No, little miss. I married her because she's the strongest, bravest person in this town. She could have left when the fever came, but she stayed. Could have given up when it got bad, but she fought. Could have asked for gold or land or a ticket back East as payment, but all she wanted was to bring new life to a place that had seen too much death." He paused. "I married her for that.”

The girl stared at him, then at me, then scampered off without another word. I kept my eyes on my mending, though the stitches had gone crooked.

"You didn't have to say all that," I said finally.

"Didn't say anything that wasn't true." He sat down in the other rocking chair, the one that had become his over the months. "Been thinking a lot lately. About what makes a person worth something."

"Have you now?"

"Priscilla," he said the name carefully, like it might shatter, "she used to tell me I was worth something because I was a professor. Because I was handsome and had prospects and I could play a tune. But you…" He picked at a loose thread on his sleeve. "You look at every broken-down miner like he's worth something, just because he's alive and trying his best."

I tied off my thread, started a new seam. "Everyone's worth something."

"See, that's what I mean." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "You really believe that. Even after everything you've seen. Everything you've lost."

The wedding was three days later. I wore my second-best dress and sat in the back of the church, watching Emma Wheeler become Mrs. James Goodall. Elvis sang "Amazing Grace" during the ceremony, his voice filling the little church like sunshine. The new Mrs. Goodall cried, and all the other women cried with her.

At the celebration after, the women laid out pies and cakes on long tables, competing to show off their skills. I hadn't brought anything. My cooking was functional at best, meant to keep men alive rather than please them. I stood at the edge of the crowd, watching the dancing, until Elvis appeared at my elbow.

"Dance with me," he said.

"Elvis–"

"Please." He held out his hand. "My wife should have at least one dance at a wedding."

So I danced with him, there under the August sky. He held me carefully, properly, like a gentleman dancing with a lady at a ball. But his hand was warm against my back, and when the music ended, he didn't let go right away.

That night, he sat on the edge of our bed instead of lying down straight away. "Know what I thought about today? During the ceremony?"

I shook my head, working the pins out of my hair.

"I thought about our wedding. How quick it was. How I didn't even look at you properly when I said my vows." He twisted his hands together. "I've been thinking maybe we could… maybe we should do it again. Proper this time. With music and cake and dancing. If you'd want that."

My hands stilled in my hair. "Why would you want that?"

"Because you deserve a real wedding. Because I want to say those vows again and mean them this time." He swallowed hard. "Because I think maybe God knew what He was doing when He had me draw that short straw, and I've been too stupid to see it."

"Elvis." I turned to face him. "Don't say things you don't mean. Not about this."

"I do mean it." He reached out, touched my cheek with shaking fingers. "I mean it more than I've meant anything since I came to this town. You're not what I thought I wanted. You're better. You're kind and strong and good, and I've been sharing a bed with you for months without seeing what was right in front of me."

"And what's that?"

"A woman worth loving," he said simply.

His kiss tasted of promise and wonder, of months of longing finally set free. My hands found his hair - that beautiful dark hair I'd smoothed back from his fevered brow so long ago. His fingers trembled as they traced my face, my neck, learning me like a new song.

The lamp burned low, casting long shadows on the walls of the room we'd shared for months without sharing. His hands moved with purpose now, no longer hesitant or guilty. When he touched me, it was like the first warm rain after drought, like spring earth opening to seed.

"Want to give you everything," he whispered against my neck. "Want to put our baby in you."

I pulled back just enough to see his face in the lamplight. "You're sure?"

"More sure than I've ever been about anything." His eyes were dark, serious.

When he laid me down on our marriage bed, it wasn't like all those nights we'd lain stiff and separate, a canyon of silence between us. He took his time, touching me like I was precious, whispering sweet words against my skin. And when we finally came together, it was like finding a piece of myself I hadn't known was missing.

"My love," he called me, over and over. "My strong, beautiful love."

After, he held me close, his heart thundering under my ear. "We'll do it right now," he said. "Everything. A proper wedding, a proper home. No more hiding in the shadows while the town moves on without us."

And he kept his word. The next Sunday, he stood up in church and announced our plans to renew our vows. The new women whispered behind their fans, but their husbands - the men I'd nursed through fever and grief - they stood up one by one.

"I'll make the cake," said Tommy Wheeler's wife.

"We'll decorate the church," said Mrs. Matthews.

"I've got fabric for a proper wedding dress," offered the seamstress.

They rallied around us, these women who'd come to make new lives in our broken town. Maybe they finally understood something about love and duty and the strange ways God works His will. Or maybe they just saw what I saw - Elvis Presley looking at his wife like she hung the moon and stars.

The town changed after that. The new women stopped seeing me as a relic of the fever times and started asking my advice, about childbirth and medicine, yes, but also about love and marriage and making a life in this harsh land. Their children came to my porch to hear stories of the fever days, no longer afraid but proud to know the woman who'd saved their fathers and uncles.

Seven months to the day after that first real kiss, I felt our baby move inside me. Elvis laid his hand on my growing belly, tears in his eyes.

"See?" he said softly. "God knew exactly what He was doing."

[callsign-rogueone]

bruised, but not broken

Sawyer Henrick x reader (peach!) words: 2.0k 🏷: pt5 for sawyer and peach, very mild iron flame spoilers, mild descriptions of injury, soft sleepy sawyer <3 (he's concussed and needs to be held, okay), second squad makes another appearance, peach has a mouth on her, peach getting distracted by his muscles, more will-they-won't-they (they will eventually, I promise), two updates in two days! that's a record for me. ok byeee

Tomorrow comes and goes with no sight of Sawyer or his friends. 

He wouldn’t have forgotten about you, especially not after all that ordeal yesterday with that piece of parchment that’s still burning a hole in your bookbag. Maybe they’re just busy training.

Yeah. Extra flight time, or something. Or they’re out in the woods again. But wouldn’t they have a healer with them, then? None of the third years are unaccounted for. Maybe the second time they send them without a healer, to make it more difficult — not that you really did anything for them when you were there, besides figure out that the two maps were different. 

You probably weren’t supposed to do that, but after passing by the same tree four times, it became abundantly clear to you that most of these city kids had never spent any time in the woods, and you just couldn’t help yourself.

You bring a hand up to hold the little flower charm between your fingers, taking a breath. He’s fine. He has to be fine. Just crack your knuckles and say a prayer, and he’ll be fine. 

The infirmary being full really isn’t helping you relax right now, either. Not when half of the patients are infantry cadets who have just returned from four days of camping in the woods, and James and his twin idiots could walk in at any time. You’ve had it up to here with one of them in particular, who has been mouthing off about how long he’s been waiting to be checked out for a tiny cut on his arm that would need one stitch, if any.

“They’ll get to you when they get to you, but keep whining like that and I will personally make sure you’re the last one to be seen today.” He starts to protest, but you cut him off. “Do I make myself clear?” you ask more firmly. He nods, looking sufficiently embarrassed. “Good. Now sit your ass down, and treat me and my classmates with some respect.”

The squad exchanges a look. “Has she always been like that?” Ridoc asks in a whisper.

“Only when I did something really stupid,” Sawyer replies, his eyes not leaving you. “I haven't seen her that mad since I pretended to drown in the river when we were sixteen.”

“That wasn’t funny then and it still isn’t now,” you chide, turning to face them. Your jaw drops at the sight of the two boys — and Rhiannon, too — all looking battered and bruised. 

“It’s worse than it looks,” Ridoc reassures, giving you a smile that stretches the purpling bruise on his left cheek.

“He means that it looks worse than it is,” Violet corrects from his side. She appears unscathed, but looks exhausted to the bone.

“Isn’t that what I said?”

You point down the hallway. “All of you, exam room, now.” The infantry cadet opens his mouth, but you silence him with your stare. “I don’t want to hear a fucking word out of you, kid.”

You exhale deeply as soon as the door is closed behind the five of you. “Sorry. It’s been a day.”

“All good,” Ridoc supplies. 

“Her first,” both of the boys say in unison, looking at Rhiannon. She doesn’t protest, sitting down in front of you and stripping off her flight jacket so you can take a proper look. 

The first thing you notice is that both of her wrists are circled with patches of raw, irritated skin. “What did they do to you, tie you up?” you ask, incredulous.

“Yeah,” she answers. “Handcuffs.”

“For what purpose?”

“Top secret rider stuff,” Ridoc answers around a yawn, and you see an identical mark on him as he lifts his hand to cover his mouth. “Torture training. But we broke ourselves out, ‘cause we’re the best.”

“Gods above,” you swear. “I don’t know how half of what they do to you guys is legal.”

“It really isn’t,” Violet answers tiredly, “but we signed up for it.”

It still doesn’t sit right with you, but you can’t do anything to change it. All you can do is keep patching them up the best you can.

“Ridoc, can you…”

“Gotcha.” He takes the small bowl from you, holding it under the tap, and the flow of water turns into several small chunks of ice.

“Thanks.”

He hums in response, taking one for himself and holding it to the split on his cheekbone.

“What’s your date of birth?” Violet asks quietly, pen in hand. She’d managed to swipe a handful of intake sheets off the counter without you noticing, and is sitting in the corner, dutifully filling them in for you. Scribe habits die hard, you suppose. Nobody will care as long as it’s your signature at the bottom certifying everything, especially when you’re so short-handed and the leadership has a dozen more important things to do than check it.

Ridoc looks deeply offended. “Ow, dude. You don’t know my birthday?” 

“April 23rd,” Sawyer answers for him, not looking up. He’s definitely got some sort of concussion — the unfocused look in his eyes and his unusually quiet, slow-blinking demeanor give it away.

“See? Somebody knows.”

“Only because you made a ginormous deal about it.”

“Excuse me for wanting to celebrate still being alive!”

The room falls silent. You’ve only heard a few things about their squadmates that had passed, but it’s obvious that they were all deeply affected by the losses.

“I didn't mean…” 

“We know,” Violet says gently, laying a hand on his arm. “It’s okay.”

There’s another moment of quiet before you pull back, assessing your work. “I think that’s about all I can do.”

“Thank you. It feels a lot better already.”

The squad sits quietly, not saying anything as you patch up Ridoc, then turn to Sawyer. “You guys can head back without me,” he says quietly. There’s a moment of hesitation from the others, but they exchange a look and silently decide it’s okay. 

“For the road,” you say, handing them each a tin of bruise salve and a small bottle of pain tonic — and some more stretchy bandages for Violet. “Get some rest if you can.”

They take their leave quietly, thanking you, and shut the door behind them, leaving just you, Sawyer, half a bowl of ice, and the pile of neatly written paperwork. He slowly gets up, moving to sit on the edge of the table — almost at eye level with you now. “Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi.” He’s struggling to keep his eyes open, blinking at you slowly.

You cradle his jaw in one hand, tilting his head up so you can look at his pupils — they’re equal and reactive, with no signs of permanent damage. The few days worth of stubble covering his jaw tickles your palm as he leans into your touch, closing his eyes. “M’ sorry for bailing on you,” he murmurs. “I really was going to come get you, I promise.”

“I know, sweet boy,” you soothe. “Don’t worry about it.”

He reaches out, pulling you closer and resting his head over your heart — and whining like a sad puppy when you don’t return the hug.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” you say gently. 

“I’ll be fine,” he mumbles. “C’mere.”

You wrap your arms around him loosely, resting a hand on his back and stroking up and down gently while you work the other into the hair at the back of his neck, gently massaging away some of the tension. He hums in contentment, settling against you and closing his eyes.

You’ve only seen him like this once, this clingy and sleepy, when he’d caught the world’s worst cold during harvest season and you were tasked with taking care of him while everyone else was out working. Of course you’d gotten the same cold from him, and then the roles were reversed. He would actually have made a decent healer. If only he were safe here with you all the time instead of risking his life every day doing gods-know-what in the name of preparing for war. 

“I worry about you, y’know. All of you,” you admit. 

“Don’t. We managed to escape a literal dungeon together.”

“I wish you hadn’t been there in the first place.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “Me too.”

You feel your stress slowly start to drain away, replaced with the reassuring steadiness of his breathing and the soft tick of the clock. You can finally stop worrying about his name being on the death roll tomorrow.

He pulls back, looking up at you. “Can you check if one of my ribs is broken?”

Your eyes widen. “You really just let me — asked me to hug you, when you thought you had a broken rib?” He winces at your volume, and you apologize immediately. “Sorry, sorry. Take your jacket off?”

He complies, setting it on the table, then tugs his shirt over his head, and your jaw drops — both at the yellow-purple bruises across his chest and ribs, and the definition there. He’s always been lean, but the last year has really toned him. All the muscles you had to memorize the names of are on clear display. You pick them out one by one as your eyes rake over the exposed skin.

“Is it that bad?” he asks after a moment.

Busted. “No,” you stammer. “It’s not the worst I’ve seen. Can I…?”

“Go ahead.”

You lay your palm against his side, feeling for an obvious point of discomfort. His skin is warm to the touch, and the muscle has just the right amount of give to it. He’d be nice to cuddle with, among other things.

He inhales sharply, distracting you from your thoughts. “There?” you ask, prodding gently. “I think it’s just bruised. There’s no swelling or evidence of displacement.”

“Ah. And the other side?” he asks hoarsely, his cheeks flushed pink.

There’s no bruises or cuts on his other side, but you humor him anyway, moving your hand down his ribs. Five… six, seven, eight… nine, ten… “Turn a bit?” you prompt. 

You’re very grateful that he can’t see your face right now. You’d admired his chest, but his back… the expanse of his shoulders and the relic stretched across them, the thick lines of muscle there… Focus. Stop being a creep. He’s injured, for Amari's sake.

You smooth your hand over his side, finding the floating ribs… there. Eleven, twelve. “Nothing broken,” you manage. “Anything else to report?”

He shakes his head no. “Just sore.” He pulls his shirt back on, and it takes you every ounce of self control not to look disappointed as his skin is covered in the tattered black fabric. He looks you over like he’s assessing you for injury. “How are you doing? Any creepiness I missed out on when I was chained up?”

You wince at the mental image, but shake your head no. “I haven’t seen him in a few days. Are you going to be okay to get back on your own?”

“I thought I told you to stop worrying about me.”

“You did,” you answer. “But I’m not going to stop.”

He sighs. “You’ve always been stubborn like that.”

“I should probably get back out there, but if you want to lay down for a while, I can keep the door locked.”

He shakes his head, standing. “I’m gonna go shower, n’ probably sleep for the rest of the day.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Why are goodbyes with him always so awkward? You never know what to do, where you stand. You definitely aren’t in kiss territory. Maybe a cheek kiss, but that’s pushing it. You’ve settled for long hugs a few times, never knowing if it would be the last one you ever get.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. “For patching me up.”

“Always,” you answer softly, looking up at him. “I’ll always be here for you. Just keep coming back to me, okay?”

“Always.”

[daddysfangirls-marvel]

Helping Hand

Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader/ Steve Rogers x fem! reader

Warning: Smut, fluff

"I can't believe this."

"What was that?" Bucky asked as he approached behind her, wrapping his arms around her. We can stop right now. You don't have to do this. I can just tell him to turn around."

"No, Don't do that to him." (Y/n) said as she leaned back into his chest, rubbing his arms. " Just... promise you won't be upset. Promise you'll still have me after this."

Bucky chuckled, spinning her around. " Doll, I'm the one who suggested this. All this was my idea."

"Still, if you change your mind, you'll tell me, right?" He pulls her close, kissing her.

Against her lips, he whispered," I am yours forever and always. Nothing will ever change that. Especially not this."

A knock at the door brought them back to reality.

"It's time. How do I look?" she said, pulling away from him and opening her robe, revealing a simple, short pink silk dress.

He whistled, " Is this new?"

"Yeah, I figured...I just thought he'd like it," she said shyly, closing her robe.

"He'll love it, " he said, giving her another kiss before he went to open the door. She stayed in the bedroom, sitting on the bed and taking a deep breath.

(Y/n) listened as Bucky let him in. She heard them talking in the living room and heard Bucky reassuring him. She stood up as she heard them open the bedroom door.

"Hi," Steve said as he stepped into the room. "Um...I-"

"Bucky told me everything. He explained everything. It's okay."

"You can say no."

"I don't want to." (Y/n) watched as a deep blush erupted on his skin.

"I guess I'll leave you to it," Bucky said as he closed the door. " I'll be in the front room. Hollar if you need me."

They both waited until they heard him walk away before turning to each other, a bit more relaxed without the audience (although he was no doubt still listening from the front room) but still tense.

"Thank you for doing this."

"You don't need to thank me. I am honored that you want to experience your first time with me." She sat on the bed and motioned for him to join her, which he did. " How about you tell me what you'd like."

"I don't know," Steve confessed, looking down at his shoes as he nervously rubbed his hands on his pants. " I've never done any of this. I mean, I've kissed people before, and I've had someone touch me with their hands before-"

"A handjob"

"Yes, that, I've had that. But nothing else." Steve said, still not making eye contact.

"Bucky was my first," (Y/n) confessed. Steve snapped up to look at her. " He was my first everything. My first kiss, the first time having sex... I've never been with anybody else."

"We can stop."

"I told you I don't want to stop. I just want you to know that I'm not some expert."

"That's not what Bucky says. Sorry," Steve quickly apologized when he realized what he had said.

"You guys ... talk about me?"

"Not in a bad way. He loves you. He loves you very much." Bucky did talk about (Y/n) a lot, and sometimes, if they were alone, the conversations got explicit.

"And he loves you too," (Y/n) said as she leaned forward. " I think that's why he trusts us." She gently kissed Steve. As she pulled away, he gave chase, finding her lips again, his movement both eager and hesitant, as if scared to take it any further.

(Y/n) gently pushed Steve away and stood up, carefully sliding her robe off.

"Woah," Steve whispered. She smiled and moved to sit in his lap. "Woah," he whispered, already panting. Steve was hesitant, wrapping his arms around her waist.

She pulled him close, wrapping her arms around his neck as she connected their lips again. He might be inexperienced, but he sure as hell knew how to kiss. (Y/n) moaned as she felt his tongue slip into her own mouth, tasting her.

As she started to move her hips, grinding against him, he whimpered against her lips. He held on to her as she moved her hips, riding his cloth cock. Rocking against him in a slow rhythm. She loved the whimpers and whines he let out; Bucky never made such sounds. She was eager to hear more, desperate even as she pressed down hard.

Until Steve started pushing her away. "Wait, wait."

"what's wrong?" she asked.

"I just... I'm about to... and I don't want to." He looked down slightly. She looked down as well. Seeing the wet spot forming in his pants. " Sorry"

"No, It's okay," (Y/N) said as she stood up, pulling Steve to stand with her. He was confused for a moment until she pulled off his shirt and started unbuckling his belt.

"Wait, wait," she stopped, pulling away.

"I can- I can do it." He stuttered. The truth was, he feared that he was going to cum at that moment and wanted to slow down, catch his breath and get a grip before he embarrassed himself. He unbuckled his pants with shaky hands and let his pants fall to his ankles. He fingered the waistband on his pants, took a deep breath, and pulled down his boxers.

And, of course, (Y/n) eyes went to the saluting soldier.

"I... I know I'm not as big as Bucky-"

"But you are," (Y/n) said." You are." She stepped forward, giving him a gentle kiss before pulling back. She slowly lifted her dress, revealing her lace panties and nothing else.

The pre-cum leaking from his cock told her she did well.

"Do you want to be on top?"

"Top?" Steve asked, confused. That answered her question.

(Y/n) pushed him onto the bed, making sure he got comfortable, and put the condom on. Grabbing the condom off the side table, she then pulled off her panties and got on the bed, straddling him.

"Ready?" she whispered. He nodded and let out a breathless 'yes.'

Sitting up, she lined him up and slowly lowered herself onto him. Steve gasped as he watched his cock slowly disappear into her, gripping and pulling at the sheets as she went.

"Oh shit, oh fuck, fuck, fuck" he cursed, tossing his head back.

(Y/n) moaned out as she finally bottomed out. She had to take a moment. This was very different from Bucky. She hadn't been lying earlier when she said Steve was as big as Bucky; while Steve didn't have the same length as Bucky, he sure as hell had girth. She had to take a few moments to get used to the stretch.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked when he noticed her eyes closed and how still she was.

"I'm fine." she leaned forward, kissing as she started to move her hips. He moaned, placing his hands on her hips as she put her hands on either side of his head. Rolling and lifting her hips, just as Bucky had taught her. Slow and steady, sweet and gentle.

She could tell by the way he was gripping her hips and could no longer keep up with kissing her that he was close. She began kissing down his neck and chest. His chest had risen and fallen in its pink hue.

She had no clue what compelled her, but she wrapped her lips around his right nipple. Something Bucky had done to her numerous times. Gently biting and -

In an Instant, Steve quickly filled the condom with a shout.

Something Bucky no doubt heard.

(Y/n) gently ran her fingers through his hair, and Steve caught his breath. For a moment, she feared that he would fall into an asthma attack, but he waved her off.

"You okay?" she asked.

"yeah, " he smiled, " I'm good...um ...Did you..."

"It's okay. This is about you," she said, moving to sit up, but Steve wrapped his arms around her.

"I want you to feel good, too."

"Don't worry about it. I'm fine, Stevie."

"No, tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you feel good, please."

"Okay," she sits up, " Just... don't move. Stay inside."

Steve watches her in confusion, hands on her hips. She bounced a little as she reached down between them. If Stevie remembers correctly, the place she was touching Bucky was called the clit.

Steve couldn't stop the whine that slipped out of his mouth or the ones that followed as (Y/n) walls clenched down onto him. The tighten he was not prepared for, he was overwhelmed and overstimulated. He started bucking and shaking underneath her. She tightens her legs around him and pushes him down.

"Oh fuck, please, please, please," she begged as she arched her back into him, rubbing herself closer to her release while watching Steve whether underneath her.

Steve couldn't even form complete sentences. He was just babbling nonsense, too overstimulated to do anything else but hold on to her.

Soon enough, He was cumming again.

"Yes, yes, yes." And (y/n) followed him quickly after.

(Y/n) rolled off to the side so as not to squish him and pulled him into her chest, running her hand through his hair. Waiting for him to catch his breath.

"Are you alright?"

"G-Good," he stuttered, wrapping his arms around her waist. "That... woah."

(Y/n) giggled and kissed his forehead. "Come on. We got to clean up now." He was exhausted, though. She didn't bother him to move. Getting up, she grabbed a towel, carefully pulled off his condom, tied it up, threw it away, and used the towel to clean themselves up. By the time she was done, Steve was knocked out.

Grabbing her robe, she wraps herself up. Covering Steve up, she leaves, closing the door behind her. Just as she shuts the door, Bucky steps out of the bathroom.

"Hey," he smirked and leaned against the door frame. "How was it?"

"He's happy. Fell asleep afterward."

"Yeah, after his big finish or second big finish." Bucky teased. They both made their way to the kitchen, where he poured her a glass of water.

"I just wanted to make sure you were still okay." she sipped her glass slowly.

"Still haven't changed my mind." He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her forehead. " I still love you." He tilted her head, giving her a gentle kiss on the lips. " I will always love you."

"Thank you"

"You never have to thank me for loving you. " He gave her another kiss.

[aishangotome]

[Azel] Loving Devoutly in God's Harem - Part 1

Thank you @shatcey for providing the video for this!

This is a "what if" story.

You, a book merchant, visit Tanzanite and catch the eye of the Living God. You end up imprisoned in the "harem"...

Emma: Prince Azel, thank you for everything up until now.

Azel: Rejected. Why are you casually trying to escape? Wait!

Azel grabs my hand as I try to leave the room with my luggage.

(I guess I can't just suddenly run away without any explanation.)

Azel: Have you forgotten your debt to me?

Azel: You promised to repay the debt you owe me by acting as a shield against women, didn't you?

Emma: If all I have to do is repay the debt, there are other ways to pay.

Emma: For example, I could do other work and repay in installments...

Azel: Rejected.

Emma: Stingy!

Azel: Stingy is fine. Please get to work today.

Azel confiscates my luggage and looks down at me with a frown.

Emma: Then please listen to my earnest plea.

Azel: I'll listen, but that's it.

Emma: The other day, I heard from a merchant acquaintance...

Emma: That the story of the only woman to receive the sole affection of the Living God has already spread throughout the continent.

Azel: And?

Emma: If I were to fall in love with someone in the future, the rumors might become a hindrance.

Azel: Poor you.

Emma: Yes, poor me, right?

Azel: However, even if it's a pity for you, you have an obligation to pay your debt.

Azel: I have no choice but to tearfully bind you to the God's harem.

Emma: ...In the first place, that debt is due to your fraud, Prince Azel.

Emma: You only said you would introduce me to customers looking for books, but then you suddenly demanded a commission fee...

Azel: It's your fault for not confirming beforehand. It was a good learning experience, wasn't it?

(It's no use saying anything else.)

Emma: I've decided! I'm running away tonight!

Azel: Don't declare it so boldly! I'll put a collar on you.

Emma: ...I never knew Prince Azel had such a hobby...

Emma: Eek... W-w-wait a minute!

Azel pinches my cheeks, and when I resist, he picks me up.

Azel: This conversation is over. Let's go to sleep.

Emma: Are we together again today? I don't want to!

Azel: That's how a harem works, isn't it?

(What do you expect from a fake lover?)

The Living God is famous for keeping women at bay.

The harem's caretaker had been racking his brains about this for years, but the situation changed when Azel suddenly brought in a foreign girl.

(I've heard that he wants to do something about the current situation where countless women are flocking to enter the harem...)

(I wonder how long Azel intends to keep me tied down.)

Originally, we were more than acquaintances but less than friends, a book merchant and a customer.

I don't even know why I was targeted by the God.

I'm thrown onto the bed and he embraces my prone body. The warmth enveloping my back makes my heart pound.

(He probably imprisoned me for some baseless reason like, "I'm sure she won't fall for me"... )

(I wish he would realize that's not the case.)

Azel: Let me tell you, this is a measure to prevent you from escaping.

Azel: It's not like I want to sleep with you, so don't get the wrong idea.

(...There are plenty of other ways to keep me from escaping.)

(Since coming to the harem, I've been repeatedly swayed by Azel's suggestive behavior.)

(At first, I could easily brush it off, but as time goes by, it's becoming more difficult...)

(...It's painful to be told I can't fall in love with him.)

-

The next day, my plan to run away at night ended in failure.

Since I'm the only woman confined in the Living God's harem, the people around me are always going out of their way to try and win his favor by any means necessary.

It escalates day by day...

Emma: ...Sigh...

Azel: Don't sigh so obviously. It's contagious.

Emma: I never thought I'd be thrown into the bath while Prince Azel is bathing!

Even though the spacious bath allows for distance between us, soaking in the same water while wearing only a thin cloth is nothing short of an ordeal.

(What will happen if this keeps escalating?)

Azel: Just don't mind it.

Emma: Doesn't it bother you, Prince Azel?

Azel: If it's harmless, I don't care.

(Certainly, if we're this far apart, it doesn't really matter...)

(...That's impossible, isn't it?)

I sneak a glance at Azel, and he's completely averted his gaze from me.

Is this an "I'm not interested" attitude, or is it shyness...?

Either way, there's a prickling pain in my chest.

(Right now, it's just a bath, but there's a possibility that it could become a serious situation.)

(I gave up yesterday, but I really should try to escape, even if it's forced.)

(...)

(...In the first place, I'm a decoy to ward off women.)

(Azel was supposed to hate women who approach him.)

(In other words, if I become like those women, he might get fed up and kick me out.)

(That's right... Why didn't I think of this sooner?!)

The brilliant idea that popped into my head seems like a long shot if I think about it calmly, but...

Cornered, I have no other choice.

Emma: Prince Azel, since we're here, shall I wash your back?

Azel: Huh?

Emma: Or perhaps I could wash your hair?

Azel: ...Ah, so you're trying to get kicked out by deliberately harming me.

(Ugh... He saw through me in an instant.)

Emma: N-no, I wouldn't think of doing something so straightforward.

Emma: It's just that, if I'm going to play the part of the favored woman, even if it's a lie, I thought I should be able to do at least this much.

(Don't be shy. Just a little... just a little more to endure.)

I inhale the steamy air and move closer to Azel through the water.

When I close the distance enough to touch him, his mystical eyes, filled with the starry sky, suddenly turn towards me.

(...!)

Azel: Unfortunately, that's not even enough to be considered harassment.

Emma: ...I'm not trying to harass you.

Emma: It's just... well...

Emma: I just want to love the Living God!

Azel: ...Is that so?

(Huh, he's calmer than I expected—)

(!?)

He puts his hand on my waist in the water and pulls me closer.

Before I know it, our bodies are touching through the thin cloth.

Azel: Then please do your best.

(...Eh?)

.

.

.

Part 2

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[cantfightmoonlight]

"We go home eventually. A tooth brush is involved and, anyhow, I don't eat deer. I just know other wolves who do and vampires too for that matter," She said in a matter-of-fact manner. "I do like creme cheese," Her eyes lit up momentarily distracted by the thought of food. "Not always! I was making a suzette crepe and you flambée the candied citrus peels in Grand-Marniér. I already graduated from brownies, cookies and cakes. Though my decorating skills still need work..."

"I've never caught fire before so how would I know how to put it out? Do you have any more criticisms or are we going to stand here bickering over a fire?" She exclaimed out of frustration. "Play what now?" She scrunched her brows in confusion. "What is Taps? I'm fine. I don't burn that easily and if I did, I'd heal anyhow. You-" Her eyes scanned Suresh over whose eyebrows were perfectly intact, but she couldn't help herself but say, "If I tell you something about your eyebrows, you promise you won't freak out?"

Suresh shook his head, putting up his hands. "No! No! I don't want to hear about you and your little wolfies devouring deer in the woods. Do you all brush your bloody teeth the next morning? No. I didn't realize the frozen bagels were the sole force standing between you and starvation, love. Come around. Maybe I can get a cream cheese spread delivered!" He scoffed, shaking his head. "Don't you bake in the oven? What's with the burning oil pan? Maybe start with the appliances and their bloody functions!"

Suresh grit his teeth. "Oh, so you know all that, Gordon Ramsay, but not how to put out a fire? Who cares? I eat bloody pizza most nights," he grunted. "Wot? Wot? Your hoodie! Just...just keep it on!"

With too much fanfare, Suresh began to sprinkle sand over the fire until it was largely extinguished into a few smoldering bits. He looked down at it before casting a sideways glance in Elif's direction. "...Shall we play Taps for your Amazon pan?" He sniffed. "Are you all right? Still have your eyelashes?"

[luci-z-wont-shut-up]

I have been Searching and I cannot find anything does ANYONE have any reference pics of that one bratty kid that got Red framed for arson?

...and perhaps any headcanon names or name suggestions?

[ghostradiodylan]

I really love that I've now been called misogynist AND racist for shipping Rylan, in subtweets (subtumbls?) from people I've never even interacted with. I genuinely do find it hilarious because, to paraphrase the immortal words of Fall Out Boy, I typically don't care what you think as long as it's about me. :3

But this is getting kinda weird and personal and if you think I won't hear what you say about me just because you've blocked me specifically then you must be new.

I'm sorry, who was unnecessarily nasty? Because I haven't seen anyone be nasty in this very oblique conversation until now.

For what it's worth, in case anyone with two braincells to rub together was confused (not that they would be), I don't 'have a fetish for gay men' (which is something I feel like only a homophobe would say, but I tend to try not to call names until someone does it to me). I just feel the chemistry between those two characters that's very clearly intended in the script and performances. The arc of their relationship is deeply wholesome and sweet, and that kiss at the campfire is one of the cutest things I've ever seen in a video game. Also Dylan and Ryan sparked something in me that I honestly thought was dead, reminded me that I was full of stories when I was in a very, very dark place in my life and I will love them for that forever. And I've already promised another 100k of fic about them so anyone who has a problem with that can die mad I guess stay tuned for that.

This is a silly thing to fight about and I should be above getting heated over internet shipping wars and responding to insults from unserious people. But when they turn into personal attacks for no good reason? I guess I'm not. I don't want anyone to change what they ship or what they write, I only want them to stop being so smug and superior while willfully misinterpreting the canon and accusing others of the same and so much worse.

[monstermoviedean]

if you have a good vibe/kind thought to spare and could send it my way. i'd really appreciate it.

[the-way-astray]

alright everybody can we please stop tagging me/talking about me in the notes of pro keefe/sokeefe posts. i know strieefe has made it so that it's really funny to talk about how much i love him and how much i'm in denial when i say negative things about him under those posts (and that's all in good fun and not the problem), but we have to think about the fact that the ops are just trying to make a positive post and probably don't want a keefe hater in their notes /srs