#shoo. shoo. go to sleep somewhere

[gikairan]

Ah great, the seagulls are screeching at midnight now -n-

[narnian-neverlander]

One Night Stands Only [Jason Todd x GN!Reader]

Summary: It’s obvious Jason only has one night stands - right?

Genre: fluff, tiny bit of hurt/comfort

Word Count: 4,6k

Warnings: none

A/N: Came across the DC Valentine’s special again and… yeah. Decided to do sth about it 💁

If you use any of my works for AI I will hunt you down for sport 😬

“You were right, it’s a nice place.” Bernard nods appraisingly, glancing around the newly opened bookstore, little café situated right in the middle. It’s not a new concept by any means, but the high ceilings and big windows allow the little natural light Gotham has to brighten the entire place and the cozy couches and booths scattered between shelves make for a nice and different respite from what the city usually has to offer. Tim hums in approval as he glances over the menu again. “Yeah; quiet, comfy, good coffee selection. I should thank the person who recommended it.”

“And who was that?” Bernard asks over his shoulder before greeting the girl working the counter and placing their order. Tim’s brows immediately furrow. “It was… I heard about it from… Uhm…” The blonde chuckles as he steers his boyfriend towards a nearby table, eyes flicking towards a corner sofa. “You think it might’ve been your brother?” Tim snorts. “Which one?” He receives a gesture at something behind him as an answer and finds Jason sitting on one of the couches a little further back, book propped open in his lap and a few more stacked on the small, round table in front of him and Tim nods. “Okay, sure, that tracks.” Bernard watches over Tim’s shoulder a few moments longer, then a small smile forms on his face. “I mean, yeah, it is a nice place for a date.”

Tim’s head snaps back around so fast it’s comical, a disbelieving, almost scandalized ‘Date?!’ out of his mouth before he can stop it. Sure enough, someone else has joined his brother, just in the process of placing two cups on the table - or trying to anyways; an almost impossible task with the amount of books already occupying the small space. And while he might not be able to hear either of you, he wouldn’t be part of a family of world class detectives if he couldn’t read lips.

‘Okay, should I just get like, a whole teapot now? How long do you plan on being here?’

‘Eh, not long.’

‘Jay, even you can’t read five books at once.’

‘Watch me.’

A cocky grin and an eyebrow waggle, which earns him an eye roll from the mystery person, albeit attached to a fond smile, followed by a shooing motion to scoot further down the sofa and make space, to which he obliges immediately. Tucked into Jason’s side, his arm coming around your shoulders entirely too naturally as both of you go back to your books, seemingly all settled and content to simply be in the other’s presence like this.

Tim turns back to his boyfriend with brows drawn together, lips pressed into a thin line and fingers tapping his chin in thought - and Bernard knows exactly what that look means. “Tim, switch outta detective mode. Your brother has a date, so what?” But the gears are clearly already turning and not stopping anytime soon. “It’s just… Jason only has one night stands.” It’s a look somewhere between surprise, disbelief and even offense before the blonde speaks up again. “Isn’t that a bit presumptuous? You don’t know if—“ Tim vehemently shakes his head to interrupt him. “No, no, I mean that’s literally what he told me; what he tells anyone from the family who asks, as far as I’m aware.”

Bernard’s eyes move over to the couch again, simply observing for a few seconds before he shrugs. “Well, one night stands don’t exclude a date. Or maybe he’s changed his mind. People are allowed to do that, you know.” he says with an easy grin right as the little round sensor on their table starts vibrating, indicating their order is ready. He snatches the device up and stands, placing a hand on Tim’s shoulder, effectively gaining his attention. “Either way, I don’t think it’s anything for you to lose sleep over. Or any of your business, to be honest. If he is in a relationship and you don’t know, I’m sure he has his reasons.” He grabs the hand Tim has been busy biting the cuticles off of and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “Just let it go, detective.”

With that he’s gone to pick up their drinks, meanwhile Tim almost turns his head to look at the couple again, but ultimately decides against it, instead racking his brain for wether or not any of his other siblings ever mentioned Jason having a partner, but nothing comes to mind. Fingers drumming against the table, he’s one spiraling thought away from getting up and going over there to satisfy the annoying itch of curiosity, but then he watches Bernard walk back towards him, a coffee cup in each hand and a happy smile on his face, his own heart skipping a beat at the sight, and he realizes that his boyfriend’s right. It doesn’t matter right now, nor is it any of his business; if this is someone, important to Jason, he would tell them - in his own time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Okay I had my doubts, but that was pretty good.” Stephanie states as she stretches her arms over her head, following the crowds out of the theater into the big entrance hall. Cass grins and nods enthusiastically in agreement, while Babs only shrugs and hums in thought. “I mean, sure, it was good; solid storytelling, breathtaking visuals, but—“

“I still think the book’s better, though.”

They all know it’s exactly what the redhead was gonna say, but it doesn’t come from her. Even so, the voice is familiar and all three of their heads snap up almost in unison to look for the source.

A joyful laugh, from around the pillar a little ways in front of them, followed by, “That’s the most Jason thing you could’ve said, ya know.”

Now that voice isn’t familiar to any of them, neither is the person who appears in their field of view a second later, hands linked with someone still hidden by the pillar - not that it’s still much of a secret who it is.

“So? It’s still true.”

The soft grin on the stranger’s face morphs into something more mischievous. “Riiight. I’m sure you hated every second of this. That’s why I saw some tears during a scene or two.”

A squeak as the person gets yanked forward, disappearing from sight again; then laughs can be heard accompanied with, “It was dark, you didn’t see shit.”

The three girls exchange glances, all wide eyes and raised brows. Then they watch the couple walk out into the open of the entrance hall, towards the exit, one of Jason’s arm’s wrapped tightly around your shoulders as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

Cassandra is the first to shake off the stupor, a soft smile spreading across her face. “They’re cute together.” she signs. “Yeeeaaahhh…” Steph starts, staring at the doors the two had just left through. “Too cute. And definitely too familiar to just be a one night stand.” The wicked grin is a telltale sign of trouble and Barbara pinches the bridge of her nose because it doesn’t bode well for anybody.

“Just leave it alone, Steph.”

“Oh come on!” the blonde complains. “He’s the one who’s been telling us for ages that he doesn’t do relationships and now he’s out here all sweet and cozy and lovey dovey with someone? And you’re not the least bit curious? I say we investigate!”

Barbara levels her with a blank stare. “And you don’t think that might be the exact reason he doesn’t tell us anything?” Stephanie narrows her eyes at the redhead in suspicion. It’s unlike her, unlike Oracle, not to want all the details of a situation. “Did you already know?”

“Whatever gives you that idea?”

“Because you know everything. And wouldn’t you—“

Barbara doesn’t let her finish. “Would you want a date to be interrupted by your siblings just cause they feel like annoying you? Pestering you about your partner? Jason isn’t the most open, conversational person at the best of times; what do you think is gonna happen if he catches onto your little investigation?”

Steph is about to argue back that sure, while there’s some personal entertainment value involved, she just doesn’t like the idea of someone she cares about being with someone she doesn’t know. What if they’re not a good person? What if they end up hurting him? What if—

Her thoughts are interrupted by a hand on her shoulder and she turns to find herself looking straight into Cass’ dark eyes, her expression serious.

“They really like him, don’t meddle.” she signs.

That takes some of the wind out of Stephanie’s sails and she visibly deflates a bit. “You, uh… you could tell, huh?” The black haired girl nods eagerly and Steph runs a hand through her hair in contemplation. People are an open book to Cassandra, without her ever having to have exchanged a single word with them. If she says you’re fine, that you truly like Jason and have no bad intentions, then… then Steph could leave it alone with an easy conscience. For now, anyways.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Thank you for the assist, Master Richard, but I assure you, while welcome, it was not necessary.”

“It’s fine, Alfred.” Dick reassures while loading the last of the groceries into the back of the car. “I know you can handle the regular grocery shopping just fine, but it’s rare to have that many people at once at the manor; I’m glad to help out.”

The older man gives him a grateful smile in return, then plucks a piece of paper from inside his coat pocket and checks it over. “Oh dear, I do believe I’ve missed something.” he mumbles and hands the list over to Dick. “Master Richard, would you mind looking our current purchase over again, just in case? I’ll be right back.”

He watches Alfred hurry back towards the store, someone else exiting when he’s a few feet away from the entrance. A short exchange, quick thanks presumably, as the person holds the door open for him. Then you steer left, in his general direction and—

Hold on. He wasn’t here when him and Alfred got outta the store a few minutes ago.

The parking lot is situated lower than the actual store, some stairs to his right leading up to the higher level, so Dick takes a few steps backwards and cranes his neck back slightly, a leafless hedge partly blocking his view, but the tall, broad stature clad in a leather jacket and the black and white hair are a dead give away. He’s about to call out, surely his brother just didn’t spot him yet, but someone beats him to it.

“Okay, let’s go home.”

The person who’d just left the store. Most definitely talking to Jason. And you seem more than a little annoyed and exasperated.

Meanwhile his brother looks like he’s trying not to burst out laughing.

“What?” the mystery person barks, eyes narrowed at the tall man suspiciously.

“I know I did not just watch you whack an old lady over the head with a magazine cause she tried to take the steak from you.”

“It was the last one!” you complain and the tension bleeds from Dick’s shoulders as he realizes that this is in no way a serious altercation. “Besides, Constance had it coming, not the first time she tried to pull a stunt like that; she’s a fucking menace to everybody.”

Silence for a few long seconds. Then, “If you laugh right now, I swear to God I’m leaving you out on the street tonight, Todd.”

Jason snorts. “And then who’s gonna make the food you fought so hard to get? Sure as shit not you; last time I left you alone with the stove, I thought Firefly had broken into the apartment.”

Dick watches his brother’s conversation partner huff, arms crossed over your chest in defiance as you stare Jason down - until your shoulders sag in defeat and you break eye contact, because apparently, he’s right. “You’re lucky you’ve got other talents besides just being pretty, you know that?”

Jason takes the bags from you, met with only mild complaints, as he grins. “You think I’m pretty? Aw, thanks, babe.” You roll your eyes at that, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips either way. “Leave the corny flirting to Nightwing, it doesn’t suit you.” And Jason actually has the audacity to scrunch up his face in distaste. “Hey now. I was only teasing you; comparing me to him is a straight up insult, take it back.”

“Make me~” you taunt with a sing-song voice and a mirthful smirk, then take off full speed in the opposite direction, past the store, with Jason hot on your heels not a second later.

And Dick hasn’t seen his little brother wear a smile that big in such a long time, he almost forgets to be offended.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian isn’t sure why he’s even here. It’s not like this has any actual academic value for him.

That’s Chrysaora fuscescens.

Over there, Hippocampus hippocampus.

And that one’s Anguilla dieffenbachii.

He’s studied all these creatures and more before and even if he wouldn’t learn anything new about aquatic dwellers, his father had insisted on him going on this field trip. Something about a chance to ‘improve his social skills’.

Tt.

If that’s the mission he’d been given, he’d succeed. Even if he thought it utterly unnecessary. At least he could do it in the presence of one of the most beautiful creatures on the planet, the mighty—

“Shark! Jason, look, there it is!”

With the level of excitement, one would think it’s coming from a child, but no, it’s very much an adult, standing in front of the big glass tank, in the company of Todd of all people. Damian slows his steps to a halt, coming from one of the smaller side entrances that lead to the huge room, and simply observes from a safe distance.

“Uh huh, I see it. And I feel like now would be a good time to remind you that you have plenty of shark memorabilia and that we’ll simply be walking past the gift shop later.”

An inelegant snort, as the person side eyes him with amusement. “Would now be a good time to remind you that we both know that’s not happening?”

Jason pinches the bridge of his nose as he heaves a sigh, but Damian detects no true malice in it. He’s seen him truly irritated, angry - this is nothing of the sort. Fond exasperation, if anything.

“I know they’re nowhere near as dangerous as the media likes to make them out to be,” Jason starts, “but I’m still not sure how you can look at something decidedly dangerous, built for killing, and think it’s… cute.”

The look he receives in return is one Damian can’t quite identify and apparently neither can his brother.

“What?”

“Really? You can’t figure that out?” You cross your arms over your chest and cock your head to the side in thought. “Well, I think you should meet my boyfriend, then. Cause ya know, he’s pretty dangerous and rough around the edges, too, and I still think he’s cute.”

Jason mimics your stance as he responds. “Oh, do you now?”

You nod eagerly, grinning ear to ear. “Of course. When he gets up all groggy with a bed head cause he works late? Cute. When he pretends to get annoyed at his best friend cause he called him a silly nickname? Cute. When—“ That’s as far you get, interrupted by your own squeal, as Jason brings one arm around your shoulders to pull you in and smoosh your face against his chest, the other around your waist so you can’t escape. “Yeah, yeah, got it; I think I’ve heard enough about that guy now.”

Meanwhile you’ve managed to gain enough wiggle room to loop your arms around his neck and pull back to look up at him, lopsided, lovesick smile plastered all over your face. “Sorry, I can’t help it sometimes; I love him very much.” And it’s embarrassing, Damian thinks, how fast Jason breaks, all affectionate grin and soft eyes, just because someone is batting their lashes at him. “Well, he’d be a fool not to love you back.”

Damian turns away in disgust right as the couple is about to share a kiss and retreats down the hallway he came from. He’d never taken Todd for a particularly… honorable man, but courting someone he knows to be in a relationship with someone else? That’s a vile breach of trust that he won’t stand for. And, if he bothered to be honest with himself, not something he could actually see Todd engaging in. Despite his many flaws, he’s proven himself a loyal man often enough. But Damian can’t ignore what he heard with his own ears, that would be disregarding incriminating evidence, so he’ll need to have a talk with his father as soon as he gets home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re curled up on the couch book in hand when the front door all but flies open, your boyfriend hurrying inside and immediately locking the door behind him again. Before you even get a chance to greet him, he’s speeding through the rest of the apartment, making sure all the windows are shut tight and locked, too. You’ve put the book away, instead staring at him over the back of the couch with raised, quizzical brows when he comes back down the hallway into the living room, finally kicking off his boots at the entrance and hanging up his jacket. Then he beelines for the sofa, lifting up your legs to make room and plop himself down, settling your legs in his lap before he tips his head back and scrubs his hands over his face with a groan.

“Okay, Jay? I need you to talk to me; what kind of apocalypse should I be preparing for here?”

He doesn’t answer for a few long seconds, simply drops his hands from his face, his fingers coming to draw anxious patterns into your thighs instead. “Yeah, we’re totally busted. They know about you now.” And as miserable as he looks, as much as you know that spending time with his family is often draining and challenging for him, you can’t help the relieved laugh that bubbles up out of your throat, because with they way he’d just put your apartment on complete lockdown, you’d been expecting something - or someone - way worse.

Still chuckling, you grab one of his hands and squeeze. “Sweetheart, your family literally consists of detectives. In my opinion, we’re damn lucky to have even made it this long without them knowing.” He sighs, eyes still fixed on the ceiling. “I’m not convinced Babs didn’t know before tonight. That woman knows everything.” While you’ve only heard stories and seen some pictures of the redhead, you have absolutely no trouble believing that. “So what happened, anyways?”

He mulls it over for a moment. “Well, I think it started when Damian tried to have me disowned.” You almost choke on nothing but air, a sound somewhere between a snort, a cough and a laugh leaving you. “Okay, you’ve completely lost me, babe.”

“Honestly, I was mostly just surprised I’m even still in the will.” A not so gentle nudge of your foot, an annoyed whine of his name because sure, you’d play along for now. Let him get the jokes and sass out of his system and pretend that you don’t see that the lazy grin he gives you is forced. That you don’t feel one his feet tapping the floor anxiously. That you don’t notice the way his eyes keep flicking towards the window and the door, like he’s expecting them to be kicked down any second now. “Apparently Damian saw us at the aquarium together and somehow assumed I’m your, uh, your mistress? And thought it dishonorable enough to bring up disowning me because of it.” Admittedly, picturing that elicits a real laugh, one you try to hide, but the next part still comes out as more of a wheeze than anything else. “And he just… what? Brought that up casually over dinner?” Jason shrugs. “Basically. Tried to talk my way outta it, but turns out some of the others saw us together, too, and things just spiraled from there.” It’s quiet for only a moment, then you, very much still intent on helping him distract himself from whatever it is that’s truly eating at him, but mixed with just a tad of entertained curiosity now, hit him with, “Well, yeah, makes sense; you have been getting sloppy.” His head shoots up from the back of the couch so fast you’re afraid his neck might snap and he actually looks offended. “How exactly is this my fault?”

“Come on, Jay. First couple of months of this relationship you wouldn’t even leave the house with me. Now? Grocery shopping, the movies, café dates, the aquarium - we’re barely apart, so it really was only a matter of time till they figured it out.” Rolling his eyes, he slides further down his seat and pouts, fully aware that technically you are correct - doesn’t mean he has to like it. “Great, helpful as ever, darling. And what do you, in your infinite wisdom, suggest we do about this now?” You regard him in silence for a moment: how he fiddles with your fingers, the set of his jaw, the furrow in his brows, the way every muscle in his body seems tense.

“Hey…” you murmur gently, interlacing your fingers. “Why do we have to do anything about this? What are you so worried about? I promise not to bite them when I meet them. Unless you want me to.” Careful prodding, still interlaced with humor - to let him know he can talk to you about it, but only if he wants to. He huffs out a quiet laugh, giving your intertwined hands a squeeze. “You can be such a gremlin sometimes, do you know that?” Bringing a hand to your chest in mock offense, you grin at him. “Oh, you do not get to call me a gremlin when you’re the one who consistently feeds me after midnight and gets me plenty wet.” The following eye brow waggle from your side is what breaks him; a full blown, joyful laugh as he shifts, picking you up and depositing you on his lap sideways, his arms encircling your middle, some of the previous tension visibly leaving his face. “See, that’s the exact kinda shit I don’t need you saying around them, cause I’ll never live that down.” Humming in thought, you get comfortable in your new position, resting your head in the crook of his neck. “Sounds like a you problem, though.” It earns you a playful pinch to your sides that has you batting at his arms and hands to try and get him to stop; a fruitless effort of course, but he eventually settles his hands back on your hips. In turn, you place a hand on his chest, feeling for his heartbeat; most definitely too fast for simply fooling around with and teasing you. He’s not just worried, he’s scared, so you decide the time for games is over. “I’m being serious, though, what’s the matter? This isn’t anything you actually need to be concerned over, is it? It’s really not that big of a deal. So what if they know about me? So what if I eventually meet them now; not like it’s gonna change anything between us.” It’s small and if you didn’t know him as well you did, you probably would’ve missed it or written it off as irrelevant: the way he ever so slightly flinches at the last part.

Bingo.

But you don’t push, you know better. You let him get his thoughts in order, shifting restlessly beneath you while he does and let him answer in his own time.

“It’s stupid…”

“It’s not stupid if it’s bothering you.”

A sigh, then you feel him rest his cheek on the top of your head.

“I dunno. Being around you is always so… easy. Comforting. Being with them isn’t. It’s complicated and it’s messy and overall just exhausting, most of the time. It’s not all bad, just…” He shakes his head slightly, like he’s trying to get rid of an onslaught of memories; good or bad, you’re not entirely sure. “I guess I just don’t want them rubbing off on you, is all.” Pulling back to look at him, you find his eyes elsewhere, anywhere but you, desperate to avoid your scrutiny. “In other words, you’re worried your relationship with them, their opinions of you, are gonna affect mine, right?” He still can’t bring himself to look at you when he mumbles, “Basically…”

You shuffle about until you get your legs back under you, straddling him and cupping his face in your palms, running your thumbs along his cheek bones until he willingly brings his unnaturally green eyes back to yours and you feel like your heart might crack at the uncertainty you find there. “You’re forgetting that, aside from you, I’m probably the most stubborn person in this city; once I’ve made up my mind, it’s hard to change it. If anything, you should be worried about me not shutting the fuck up about how amazing and wonderful you are around them.” He scoffs and tries to turn his head out of your hold, but you refuse to let go and press a quick kiss to the tip of his nose instead, effectively stunning him into obedience. “Uh uh, you’re not going anywhere, I’m not finished yet. I’m on your side, okay? Even if it feels like nobody else is. I’m judging you based on my experiences with you, not theirs. And sure, not everything’s been great; you’re not perfect and neither am I, but that’s human. We live and we learn and we fuck up and then we try again. And I know you try, Jason. Every day, I know you’re trying. Trying to navigate a second life you never asked for. Trying to live in a body that never feels right, no matter how much time passes. Trying to mend the bonds with a family that more often than not still sees the ghost of a boy looking back at them, instead of the man you’ve become. Trying to make things better in this city, so that no one has to go through the same things you did. And nothing your family could say or do or show me is ever gonna change what I see with my own eyes.” He’s been silent this entire time, letting you speak, but you watched his shoulders slump, the tension that’s kept him wound up like a spring finally dissipating, and his own hands are now gently holding onto your wrists.

“And what do you see?”

It’s barely above a whisper, so quiet, you almost miss it despite how close you are.

You don’t have all the answers. You don’t actually know what meeting his family is gonna be like, how it might affect your relationship, but this? Oh, this you can answer just fine.

“A man who’s scarred and deeply flawed, but is still trying to do better, to be better. A man who wants to make up for the mistakes he did make, but sometimes nobody cares to listen. A man who, for all his efforts to appear ruthless, is still the most caring person I know. I see a man who, despite life never having been kind to him, retained a kind soul.”

And with the way he’s looking at you right now? Nothing but wonder and admiration and affection written all over his face? How could you not be sure about what you’re gonna say next? Sure that no one, absolutely no one, would ever be able to change your mind about him.

“I see the love of my life.”

[evilgwrl]

What abt 141xpregnant!reader (or not pregnant, ur choice, I dont mind!!) And someone gets into their house and reader is all alone so she calls the boys while they're out (somewhere idk)

can be angst or fluff <3

Thank you for this idea, I hope I did it justice for you anon <3

CW: Threats of violence (not against reader), break ins, fluff

You stared at yourself in the glossy reflection, soaked rag scented with the unmistakable smell of cleaning spray dabbing at the final fingerprint, a satisfied grin on your face. You hobbled to the kitchen, ankles slightly swollen as a hand rubbed against the plushness of your belly, a gentle kick answering you back.

You felt content. You were six months pregnant and surrounded by four incredibly devoted men (who were currently running all the errands you could no longer do). Gentle feet padded against the wooden floorboards, your back humming with a subtle ache as you groaned, your body flopping down against your comfiest pillow.

Wispy lashes fell over curled lids, the zip of a fan hushing you to sleep. You awoke to rustling, your window cracked open for fresh air.

“Stupid foxes,” you muttered, rolling towards the window to shoo the pesky creatures away from your vegetables. Your heart halted, however, face a pasty shade of terror as you watched a figure, much larger than a fox, break the glass to your back door, the stone floor of your patio humming against the shards of crystal.

Pesky fingers reached for your phone, a monotone strain coming from your throat as you phoned for Price, eyes now a glassy bowl of unshed tears.

“Hey love, you ok?” The normally comforting tone only spurred your anxiety as you choked out a sob, an instant call of your name blasting through the speakers of the phone.

“There’s someone inside the house,” you choked out, your voice a mere whisper as you huddled in the corner, fingers twisting the lock on your bedroom door.

“Call Gaz in the meantime; we’ll be home in 10 minutes.”

You were a whimpering mess, swollen body trembling in your ensuite as Gaz attempted to calm you down, telling you the police were on the way. There was a commotion downstairs, kitchenware clattering as you presumed, he was rummaging around. Timber creaked under a lead foot, stairs straining under the man's weight as he stomped upstairs.

“Kyle, he’s upstairs,” you trembled, your throat constricted with a coil of anxiety as your limbs tremored, a protective hand strung across the swell of your belly. The Sergeant’s voice brought you no comfort as you heard the door to the nursery swing open, the squeak of a baby toy rattling against the wood. Your gut was burning, tender hands clutching against the marble counter in a motion to hold yourself up, your knees locking up as you clattered to the floor.

Price’s hands were stained permanent ivory, his knuckles protruding from broken skin as he pulled down your street, head beams flickering at the cars before calloused tyres screeched down a turning lane, the bulky SUV swerving into the driveway. Simon had rummaged through the glovebox on the first ring of your call, massive frame bouldering out of the unparked car as his keys twitched in the door, the steady frame of Soap in toe.

Rough fingers wrapped around carbon steel, silent footsteps thrumming against wallpaper as you shifted in the bathroom, gentle sobs wracking through your body.

You were unaware of what was going on outside your bedroom, the faint sounds of a man’s voice, unrecognisable through the thickness of the walls only spurring anxiety shrill of terror through you.

You knew they would never let anything happen to you, but what if something happened to them in the process? Sure, they were trained for combat but that doesn’t make you invincible.

You clutched your stomach, humming to yourself in an attempt to calm down.

Simon was livid, they all were. The house you had built for them all years ago was now tainted. A place you should be safe in was no longer available.

Soap’s voice was sharp as he entered the nursery, enjoying the twisted satisfaction of watching the intruder still as the safety of the gun unlocked.

“You make a f’cking movement and I’ll put a bullet in ye head, ye hear me?”

There was a slow nod from the man as Ghost entered, slamming him against the wall with a crash, his hands tied behind his back as he lunged him down the stairs. There was a faint echo of sirens in the distance as you sheltered yourself, still unsure of what was happening.

There was a rattle against the door, a soft voice calling out to you.

“It’s just me, love. Open the door.”

The doorknob felt crumbly under your touch, fingers barely able to twist it. Price’s body was warm as he engulfed your shaking figure, wet cheeks staining his shirt in a soppy mess. Thick hands grabbed at the plush of your thighs, lifting you with ease into burly arms, the tickle of his moustache against your ears as he lolled a soft apology to you.

“Shouldn’t ‘ave left you alone dove, feel like I failed you.”

The captain’s heart was bleak, an ephemeral feeling of guilt worn on his shoulder before you nuzzled your face into the crook of his neck, soggy lips placing a feathery kiss upon the worn skin.

“It’s not your fault, John. Could’ve happened to anyone on our street.”

The night was slow, Gaz consoling the police as Soap and Price comforted you, tending to your every need as Ghost stood outside, dark eyes glaring into the back of the police van at the man. You assured them you were okay, delicate hands rubbing your belly as you cooed, your heart finally returning to its normal bpm.

Once the blaring of red and blue lights simmered to a halt, and Ghost had run out to get a replacement door (otherwise, he wouldn’t have slept from keeping guard all night), you could fully relax. Your body was flush against the comfort of your L-shaped couch and Simon’s calloused back, fingers running through the roots of your hair.

Your eyes succumbed to temporary slumber at the touch, scalp tingling from the simplicity of gentle tugs. You were carried to bed, arms balled at the soft cotton of Soap’s shirt you had stolen. You nestled quickly into the comfort of your bed, lashes flat against your cheeks.

They all watched you, hands folded as they watched the rise of your chest, a flutter of breath leaving your lips every time it fell.

“Beautiful, ain’t she?” Price mumbled, cerulean eyes lapping in the mere sight of you, a proud glow comforting him knowing you were theirs.

“Damn right,” Ghost grunted.

There was a creak against the floorboards as your eyes opened, your voice delicate with sleep, “Will you guys stay tonight? All of you? Please.”

“Shoot us in the head if we ever say no to anything you say,” Soap uttered, a gentle slap whacking around his head from Simon as Kyle leaned into the bed, heavy hands immediately wrapping around your swell belly.

The night ended with whispers of affirmation and one happy girl.

[not-neverland06]

𝚆𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙶𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚕

Pairing ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ Arthur Morgan x fem!reader

Next Part - Hell Hath No Fury Series

Summary: While the two of you might think whatever could have been is irreparable, one very meddling old man has other plans. Hosea sends Arthur and you on a hunting trip that ends with blood on your hands once more. Despite the mangled mess of it all, you still find yourself drawn to the hope of something more between you and Arthur.

Arthur stayed up most of the night, waiting for you and Charles to come stumbling back into camp. He expected drunken revelry, he thought he might have to corral you into bed. The same tedious tasks he went through with anyone who stayed out as late as you both did. He didn’t expect both of you to be stone-cold sober and in different clothes. He hadn’t paid too much attention to what Charles had been wearing, but he was certain that you had changed before you came back to camp. 

He can’t imagine what would have called for that or why you were both out so long. He’s not sure he likes the few explanations he can come up with. He’s got a nasty look on his face as he watches Charles lead you over to the ladies' tent. His hand hovers over your waist, nearly touching but not quite. His mouth is pressed to your ear, whispering a secret between the both of you. 

Arthur wasn’t jealous. That wouldn’t make any sense. The two of you barely knew each other. And he was still recovering from what was the entire mess with Mary. He didn’t think there was a part of him that was still capable of feeling like that. But he’s not comfortable with secrets in the camp, especially with newcomers. It just seems like bad luck. If you can’t trust the gang, who can you trust?

Charles nods his head in a farewell and heads back to his own tent. Arthur watches as you rub your tired eyes. Your shoulders go up to your ears, back hunching over itself, and you have the countenance of a woman worn down. He frowns, eyes narrowed in suspicion as you collapse onto the bedroll beside Mary-Beth. John clears his throat as he walks past Arthur, giving him an odd look when he sees how intensely he’s glaring at your sleeping form. Arthur frowns at Marston, shooing him off and closing the flaps of his tent. He hadn’t realized just how focused on you he had been. 

The others don’t share his suspicions. They only saw him making you cry earlier. In their minds, he’s probably no better than Micah. He hates that thought but he’s sure it’s not too far from the truth. Neither of them are good men, but Arthur would never hurt you. He would never willingly hurt any of the women. He’s only worried about you. 

He takes his hat off, tossing it beside the picture of Mary on his table. It knocks into the edge of the frame, sending it tumbling into the dirt. “Dammit,” Arthur mutters. He bends, scooping it off the grass and checking for any cracks in the glass. He lets out a heavy sigh and brushes the dirt off the grooves of the frame. 

Arthur pulls the picture back and stares down at it. Mary wasn’t smiling in this one. He’s sure he has another one of the two of them around somewhere. He knows they’re smiling in that one. But after a while, he stopped liking to see himself in pictures and she stopped looking so happy. Arthur slumps down onto his cot and rubs a weary hand over his face. Mary’s stern eyes glare at him from the worn photo. 

He can’t do this again. He can’t watch another bright woman lose their flame because they chose to love him. Loving him is always a mistake. First, it was his son and his mother, then it was Mary. He can’t ruin you too. He won’t be able to live with himself if it’s your life in his hands. 

Arthur places the picture back on the table. He flips the frame face-down so he doesn’t have to sleep feeling eyes on his back. He rolls over and stares up at the canvas roof of his home. He wishes he could see the stars through the fabric. His fingers itch to draw the night sky, just from memory. But he forces himself still, makes himself sleep. 

Arthur’s up before most of the camp, as he normally is. Dutch sits by his tent, reading, and just barely lifts his head in greeting before going back to his book. Pearson never seems to stop making that damn stew and Arthur doesn’t think it’s ever improved in taste. Mrs. Grimshaw isn’t even awake as he goes around camp. He can’t imagine why he’s surprised that you’re still sound asleep. 

He resents the little ache that festers in his stomach. It feels too much like disappointment. He can’t imagine what he would say to you were you awake. There’s no apologizing for yesterday. You’d made it clear how you feel about him and he should honor that. 

Besides, he knows he needs to keep away from you. He’d done both of you a favor by making it clear how much of a bastard he was so early on. He lets out a rough sigh and forces himself away from your tent. He’s sure he’s got something he can find to occupy his time with. 

Arthur’s cleaning his rifle when he hears her start huffing and puffing. Mrs. Grimshaw lingers by the edge of his tent, arms crossed and foot tapping faster than he can keep up with. “Thinks she’s so much better than the rest of us,” she grumbles under her breath. “Just because she married into money-”

“What are you talkin’ about?” Arthur demands, trying to suppress the amused smile on his face. He’s sure he doesn’t need her to see it, she’s already in a mood, might as well not have it turn on him. 

Mrs. Grimshaw throws her hands up in the air, whipping around and glaring at him like she’s been waiting for him to ask the entire time. “That,” she sucks in a sharp breath, clearly struggling to bite her tongue, “woman,” she finally spits out. “Mrs. Rowe,” Arthur straightens up at the mention of your name, eyeing her suspiciously. 

Mrs. Grimshaw ignores him and turns back towards you. He gets up as she starts walking towards the barrel of water by Charles's tent. “She thinks just because she’s a lady, she can laze around and let the rest of us work for her?” She grabs a bucket and drops it in the barrel. Arthur’s sure the only reason she manages to heft it back out is because the woman runs off pure spite. 

“We’ll see about that,” she snaps, marching towards you, arms poised to give you a cold awakening. Arthur chuckles a little, he follows behind her, prepared to stop her. But Charles steps out of his tent and catches on quickly to her plan. Before Arthur can intervene Charles is taking hold of Mrs. Grimshaw’s wrist and tugging her back. 

“Leave her alone,” he commands. 

“Excuse me? This is my camp-”

“I won’t repeat myself,” he tells her, taking the bucket out of her hand. “Let her rest.” Mrs. Grimshaw wants to say more, they can both see it written plainly on her face. But she also won’t argue with one of the men in camp. She just throws her arms in the air in defeat and storms off, still grumbling under her breath as she goes. 

Charles looks back at you and Arthur narrows his eyes at him. Something is tickling in the back of his mind, a thought that’s taking too long to form. The answer for this odd kinship between the two of you is somewhere inside his head but he’s too stupid to work it out. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Charles turns back towards Arthur with a questioning look and he nods towards you. “You got a thing for her or somethin’?” Arthur laughs but he knows Charles sees right through it. That insufferable look of his gives it away. 

“Do you?” Charles asks, crossing his arms and smirking at Arthur. Arthur glares at him and rolls his eyes. 

“‘Course not.” Charles doesn’t say anything. Something lurks between the two men, a tension only shared by Arthur. After a moment of silence, neither of them willing to give in, Charles surrenders. 

“You’re an idiot, Morgan,” he walks past him, patting his shoulder and laughing under his breath. Arthur wasn’t even sure the man was capable of smiling. But here he is, managing a laugh at Arthur’s expense. 

It feels like the day is passing by incredibly slow. He feels like he’s been in camp for hours and it’s not even noon yet. Everyone seems to be avoiding him, either for how he acted last night or because of the way he’s pacing like he’s a caged lion. 

He’s not sure what he’s been waiting for all day until he hears it, “Sorry, I hadn’t meant to sleep so long.” Arthur damn nearly takes out Pearson and that god-awful stew with how fast he whips around. 

You’re sitting up, rubbing at your face and trying to shield your eyes from the sun as Sadie stands over you. “Just don’t go botherin’ Mrs. Grimshaw, she’s after you.” Your face screws up and you let out a heavy sigh. 

“Dammit, why didn’t anyone wake me up?”

Sadie rolls her eyes with a huff and Arthur takes a step closer. “You’ve got a goddamn guard dog.” Arthur tenses up, thinking she’s talking about him for a moment. He’s gotten used to that comparison, especially when it comes to you. You had been pretty reliant on him for a while. Instead, she points to Charles. 

He’s trying not to hate the man but it’s getting hard. 

Charles sits on a nearby boulder, fastening together some arrows and watching everyone out of the sides of his eyes. Arthur looks back at you and sees you smiling at your guard dog. “Sorry, Sadie. I’ll do laundry tomorrow, how’s that?”

“Damn right,” she sniffs, nose pointed to the air and walks away. Shaking your head and closing the tent flaps, you come out a minute later in one of the outfits you must have bought last night. Arthur tries not to stare but it is odd to see one of the women in camp wearing pants. 

Arthur runs through everything he’s wanted to say to you as you move closer to him. He goes through every shitty apology and winces when he realizes what a fool he's going to sound like. It’s a stupid idea, to even try, but he just feels awful that you’d had to be on your own all day yesterday. You at the very least deserve a real explanation. 

He half expects you to pivot at the last minute, to head towards Charles and ignore him the rest of the time you’re with the gang. But you keep coming towards him, something clutched in your hand that he can’t quite see. 

You stop a few feet away from him, arms tucked behind your back and lips pressed into a thin line.  Arthur has an odd urge to close the distance. “Arthur,” you say his name tersely and he tries not to let his disappointment show. 

He might not want to be involved with you, but he likes you. You’re smart, smarter than him, and you’re funny. He wouldn’t hate being friendly with you. But he can tell, just from how you’re standing, that you’re not interested. “Yes, Mrs. Rowe?”

“Here,” you hold something out to him but he’s more focused on the fact that you didn’t even correct him on your name. He’s got no chance with you now, that’s for sure. You shake your hand impatiently and he finally bothers to look at what it is. 

It’s a bunch of crumpled bills, the same ones he gave you yesterday. Though, after your day of interrupted purchases it’s quite a bit lighter than it had been. “Dont-”

“Please,” you stop him before he tries to convince you to keep the money. You take a step forward and he matches you. You don’t look too concerned by the proximity so he risks another step. You lean forward, take his hand and gently coax his fingers open. Your hands are warmer, softer than his own. A life of having servants and maids has kept you away from the harshness of work like his. 

He doesn’t know if he appreciates the softness you provide or resents you for it. “I feel guilty. I shouldn’t have spent it so freely. Buying the horse was a foolish, impulsive purchase.” Your hand lingers on his a moment longer before you slowly pull away. 

Arthur shakes his head but he puts the money back in his satchel. He knows, from the way you’re looking at him, he’s got no chance of getting you to keep this. “Wasn’t impulsive,” he argues. “Those damn O’Driscolls,” the mention of their name causes you to wince and he sighs. “Those men,” he corrects, “took everything from you. And you needed the horse.”

“I suppose I did,” you concede but you don’t sound sure of yourself. Still, Arthur will consider it a win. You look like you’re ready for the conversation to end but Arthur isn’t sure he is. 

“You give her a name yet?”

Your brows furrow and you shake your head. “What do you mean?”

He laughs a little and nods towards the mare standing beside Diablo. She’s pretty big, not nearly as tall as his horse, but larger than some of the others in camp. “She’s gotta have a name. Can’t just go round callin’ her horse.”

You roll your eyes in indignation and Arthur shakes his head. He truly does not know why you hate horses so much. But considering it’s the only form of travel for a couple of hundred miles, he thinks it’s pretty ridiculous. “Can’t I?” You sound so much like a petulant child, he has to bite his tongue not to laugh. 

“Really don’t like ‘em huh?”

The hardened look on your face softens slightly and you smile. “That obvious?”

“Little bit,” you chuckle and Arthur grins. “Doesn’t have to be anything fancy,” he concedes. 

“Oh,” you toss your hands in the air, glancing around like someone might be holding up a sign with a name. “Fine,” you sigh, “how about Lady?”

“Lady?”

“Lady,” you growl the name out, glaring at him. “I’m not gonna come up with anything better than that.”

Arthur looks over at your mare and huffs out a laugh. She did look a little uppity. Nose in the air, looking away from the other horses hitched by her. She didn’t even seem to want to eat the same grass as the others. “Yeah, Lady works,” he chuckles, looking back over at you and trying to spot the similarities. 

It’s no secret you were used to a life of luxury. Sadie wasn’t a friend, she was a former employee. You’re used to wearing fine jewelry and finer clothes. This life, sleeping on the ground, shooting off bullets at anyone that pisses you off, isn’t made for you. You don’t seem like you should fit into this mold. 

But he’s never seen you complain about your chores around camp. And you might not be happy about it, but you’ve never tried to get anyone in the gang to turn away from their violent tendencies. You don’t stick out like a Lady forced into rags, you could well have been born into this life if it weren’t for that smooth skin of yours. He wonders why you seem to fit so well when so many others in your place have failed. 

“Right,” the easy banter fades into a tense silence. You cross your arms behind your back, taking a step away from him and refusing to meet his eye. “I’ve, um,” you trail off and Arthur takes a step towards you as you stumble away. “Thank you, again.” You turn, refusing to let him speak as you rush towards Mrs. Grimshaw. 

Arthur grimaces as she begins to lay into you, her voice carrying throughout the camp about not letting your former status get so far into your head. You’d rather take a whooping from her than have to talk to him any longer. 

Arthur takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair and glaring down at the mud under his boots. He’s never going to be able to bridge this distance. And he shouldn’t be trying to. You both know that nothing good can ever happen between you. There’s no point in torturing himself with something impossible. 

He shoves his hat back on and storms towards the horses. A few people glance his way, but for the most part, they know to ignore him when he gets like this. He takes Diablo’s reins and leads him toward the forest. He doesn’t have a destination in mind but he needs to see the stars tonight. He can’t be stuck in the canvas tent anymore, he’s been cooped up for too long. 

It’s been a week since you’ve killed your husband. A week since you fed his body to the hogs. And a week since you’ve talked to Arthur. You can’t meet his eye, too ashamed of what you’ve done. 

You’re sure the man has killed more men than you can count on both your hands. Yet, you’re still worried he’ll think less of you for what happened. Maybe it’s because you know how the others see you. Everyone else in camp thinks you’re soft. At least Sadie was a working woman before all this happened, she helped her husband keep up some rich employer's estate. And you were the rich employer. 

They think that you’re soft, and better off than they are. They also seem to think that you’re constantly looking down your nose at them. Every time Dutch says, “I know you’re not used to having to live like this, Mrs. Rowe,” you feel like the entire camp turns and glares. Or anytime Mrs. Grimshaw yells at you not to let your former status get to your head, she has to remind you you’re just as bad as the rest of them now. 

You don’t judge them for how they live. You know they do it out of necessity, some for pleasure. You don’t care. Outlaws have always been a part of this country and you’re not looking to fix that, but they don’t seem to understand you. All they see when they look at you is the same type of person who’s kept them down all their life.

You know that the second the rest of them find out what you’ve done, you’ll never hear the end of it. It’ll be held over your head for the rest of your time with the gang. And Arthur, you know he’ll stop looking at you like you’re something to be protected. 

You don’t know if you’d love it or hate it. You’d no longer be soft to him, wouldn’t be this pretty new thing to play with. You’d be like every other woman he’s surrounded by. And what does it matter? He’s already got a proper lady. 

You don’t know how you missed it before. You’ve seen the pictures he keeps at his bedside. But part of you had always hoped it was a sister, or as wicked as it sounds, a dead lover. You feel like a proper fool. There was never any way this infatuation of yours was going to go that would be healthy for either of you. 

You place your book to the side, something Mary-Beth had lent you that only makes your heart ache something fierce. You wished she had something other than romance. You hate reading about how happy they are at the end. It feels like a slap in the face to what your marriage had been and the thought of what you and Arthur might have been. 

You need something to keep your mind busy. You’re not confident enough to go on horseback alone. And no one in camp, except, of course, Arthur, is willing to take a woman out for a ride. They seem to think you’re all better off being cooped up here in camp. You don’t have any chores left. Much to Mrs. Grimshaw’s chagrin, she has nothing to hound you about today. 

Your eyes dart back to the book but the thought of suffering through another sappy scene makes you leap to your feet. You pace around camp for a few minutes, trying to find anyone who looks like they could entertain you. 

Tilly and Lenny are both playing Dominoes, but you’ve never been a fan of the game. It wouldn’t do anything but drive your mind further towards the outlaw you’re avoiding. You skirt around Dutch’s tent, not even wanting to attempt to speak with him. He’s been growing bored of Molly, and you’ve felt a little of his gaze drift towards you. You’d rather not tempt him further. 

You’re considering just attempting a ride on your own when you spot Charles moving away from Pearson’s table. He has new arrows in his hand and his bow is on his back. He’s moving towards his horse like a man on a mission and you finally see your opening. 

“Charles!” You shout, trying to catch him before he leaves. You draw a few eyes towards you but manage to ignore them for the most part. One pair feels particularly intense but you do your best not to meet it. 

He’s got one hand on Taima, slightly turned towards you as he waits for you to catch up. You slide to a stop in front of him, the sun glaring into your eyes over his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Going hunting,” he answers bluntly, shifting slightly so you’re less blinded by the bright light of the early morning. Well, that had been obvious. But you’d been hoping for something more inviting. 

“Mind if I come?” You ask, rocking on the heels of your feet impatiently. 

Charles doesn’t usually mind you hanging around him. You’re not sure if he likes it, but he certainly doesn’t object. He seems less sure now, though. His face pinches and he tilts his head, already preparing to say no. You feel whatever hope you’d had sink to your feet. It’s going to be another day of staring at a tree and hoping something interesting happens. 

“Charles!” Hosea calls his name before he can tell you no. You both turn towards the old man, furrowed brows on your faces. “Need your help with something today.” Charles sighs and shoots you a bothered look. You wince, mouthing an apology as he brushes past you. You’re sure if he hadn’t been held up by you he would already have been on his way. 

“I was going hunting. Pearson needs more meat for camp.” Charles argues as he comes up to the fire. Hosea shakes his head, taking a long sip of his coffee. Something curls at the edge of his lips that feels remarkably familiar to you. 

“Don’t bother. Arthur will go.” Arthur looks up from his journal, flipping it closed and frowning as Hosea volunteers him. “And he’ll take the lady with him.”

“No-”

“Why-”

You and Arthur both shoot each other sheepish looks, cutting each other’s objections off. You know why you’re saying no, but it doesn’t make his rejection sting any less. He wasn’t exactly slow to protest against time alone with you. 

Hosea holds his hands up, shooting both of you sharp glares. “I need Charles's help with some herbs,” Charles lets out a little huff but Hosea continues on. “Arthur’s our next best hunter and I do believe Mrs. Rowe needs to learn how to hunt. Are you saying that you don’t think she should know how to take care of herself, Arthur?”

Arthur’s jaw hinges and closes like a fish as he sets Hosea with a narrowed-eyed look. “Now, you know I ain’t sayin’ that. I’m just thinkin’ someone else can take her.”

You try not to let that hurt but it does. He has every reason to avoid you, you haven't exactly been welcoming. But it hurts to see how much you’ve messed this all up. “I don’t see any volunteers, Arthur.” Hosea pretends to search around camp but he just shakes his head and shrugs. “Going to have to be you. I think you both can handle some time alone. You’re adults aren’t you?”

You and Arthur share a look over Hosea’s head. One of shared suspicion that the old man has more than just simple hunting up his sleeve. You both grit out a reluctant, “Fine.”

Hosea smiles and takes Arthur’s map. “Wonderful, here, I’ve marked a spot on here for where you should go hunting.”

Arthur snatches it back and lets out a loud sigh. “Hosea, this is gonna take us two damn days.”

“Well then, I guess you best get riding.”

You know Arthur wants to laugh at you. You don’t blame him, you’re sure you look like a clown on top of Lady. She’s not working with you and you’re slipping and sliding along the saddle. You can’t get comfortable, constantly fidgeting and lifting yourself up and down. It’s making her twitchy.

You can see her flicking her tail in irritation every time you fidget. “Comfortable?” Arthur calls out. 

You look over at him and glare. He’s so wonderfully content on top of his perfect Diablo. “Just fine,” you grit out, trying not to be jealous of how much more his horse likes him than yours likes you. 

Lady seems to have been appropriately named. She’s got all the stuck-up makings of one. You shift again and she flicks her head, whinnying and nearly scaring you off her damn back. “You need to calm down,” Arthur instructs, riding a little closer. 

“I’m trying to get her to,” you argue, tone broaching the line between sharp and petulant. 

“Not the horse,” he chuckles and reaches over, covering your hands with one of his own. He forces you to look up at him and you’re caught wholly off guard by how close he is. You’re practically sharing breaths as he keeps up stride with you. 

“You need to calm down,” his voice is low in your ear, you can feel the rumble of it down your spine. “She can tell you don’t trust her,” he slowly releases your hands in favor of placing them on your back. “Just take a deep breath,” you have to fight the urge to close your eyes and lean into the warmth of his voice. “There you go, good girl,” your eyes shoot open but he’s talking to the horse now. 

You’re ashamed to say you’re jealous of the damn horse. 

He pulls Diablo back and nods towards Lady, “She won’t trust you if you don’t trust her.”

“How am I meant to?” You grouse, but she’s already calmed down a bit just from Arthur pacifying you. 

“Sometimes you just gotta open yourself up to something, even if it might hurt.”

You want to point out the irony of him telling you that but it doesn’t feel appropriate. “Thank you,” you mutter. You risk leaning forward slightly, running your hand through Lady’s soft mane. You think she makes something of an appreciative noise but you can’t be sure. 

He nods his head, humming an affirmative and keeping his eyes strictly on the scenery around you. You try to think of something else to say to him, but every train of thought leads to confessing your guilt about your husband. Forced to keep your mouth shut, you train your eyes forward and keep your attention on calming Lady. 

Above you, the sun peeks through the canopy of leaves, its golden light reflecting off the early morning dew. When you suck in a deep breath, you can still smell the rain in the air, remnants of the night before. Through columns and rows of light, the warmth of the sun manages to reach you. 

Ignoring the tension between you and Arthur, this is possibly one of the most peaceful mornings you’ve had since your home was turned over to the O’Driscolls. You can’t help but appreciate the beauty and the freedom of the world around you.

You're on your own horse, wearing pants, without a chaperone as you ride beside a man. You don’t have to sit here and fret over whether or not he’ll still want you if you speak out of turn. There’s no society to be shunned from here. It’s just you and nature. If you listen close enough you can hear mourning doves and the rustle of creatures in the underbrush beyond you. 

Lady keeps her steady trot, letting you leisurely take in all you can. You’re not sure how long you’ll stay with the gang. You don’t know how long before Dutch will decide you’re dead weight. But you know that life will never get any simpler than this. Anything you manage to find outside the gang will just be the same suffocating, dull monotony of your past life. 

You have to appreciate the beauty of moments like these while you still have them. 

“How are you likin’ it?” Arthur’s rough voice breaks the tranquility of the moment. You open your eyes from where you’d been absorbing the warmth of the sun and turn towards him. Your brows furrow in question and he smiles slightly, though it seems strained. “The life of an outlaw,” he clarifies, arms out as he gestures to the world around you. 

You laugh a little and shrug. “I don’t know. It’s a little more boring than I had expected,” except of course for you murdering your husband. 

He barks out a laugh and it makes a smile spread over your cheeks. He’s got a contagious laugh, you’ve discovered. It fills your stomach with a warmth that makes your legs tingle. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, I mean, for the most part, all you’re doing is sitting around camp. You just wait for something to happen.” You stretch your truth, teasing him a little to try and get another loud laugh out of him. 

Sadly, he only shakes his head with a little amused huff of breath. “Suppose it’s easy to think like that when we’re like this.”

“Hunting?”

He shakes his head and gazes off at something you can’t see in the distance. “On the run, laying low. We’re not exactly goin’ to run around robbin’ branks when we’re tryin’ to keep the law off our back.” His voice grows quieter, more sentimental, “Not when we’ve already lost too much.”

You feel something like shame clogging your throat and wish you’d never said anything at all. It was easy to forget just how much loss they’d all experienced. They didn’t wear it on their sleeves like others might. Just carried it with them in their heavy hearts. 

You’d noticed that Arthur, especially Arthur, tended to turn it all inwards. He blamed himself for any loss or death that occurred within the gang. He never actually blames the person who truly deserves it. You wish you could help him, but you can’t keep trying to fix broken things; you only end up cutting yourself in the process. 

“We’re gettin’ close,” he speaks before the silence can reach any further. His voice is a little rougher now, slightly closed off from you. He turns towards a thicker grove of trees and you try and nudge Lady to follow him. 

She keeps going straight and you tug a little harder on the reins. “Come on,” you mutter, trying to tilt her towards Arthur. You look over your shoulder and see he’s already hitched Diablo and is retrieving his bow from the saddle. “Oh, this is just embarrassing, you wicked beast.”

She knickers in discontent and you roll your eyes. Of course, out of all the horses you picked, it had to be the most stubborn one. You nudge your heel into her ribs and she comes to a complete stop. Her tail flicks with irritation and you throw your hands up in defeat. “I absolutely despise you-”

A sharp whistle rings through the air and cuts you off. Both you and Lady whip towards the noise. Arthur is leaning against a tree, fingers still hovering over his mouth. He pauses, making eye contact with Lady, and whistles again. 

You startle as she takes off in a trot. You grapple for the reins and glare down at her in confusion. “How in the world did you do that?” You call out as Lady approaches Arthur. He chuckles and reaches for the reins in your hand. You give them over willingly, not wanting to try and reason with the stubborn bastard any longer. 

“Got years of wranglin’ these things under my belt. You’ll get there one day.” He comes back around to your side of the saddle and holds his hands out for you. 

“I’m not sure I want to,” you grouse as you slip your hands in his. He eases you off of Lady’s saddle and helps you gently onto the soft grass below. 

Arthur pulls out his map and turns towards the clearing a little way before you. You hear the rushing of water in the distance and figure this is where the deer come for a reprieve from the day. You don’t have to imagine how exhausting it is to always be running from predators. You know what it’s like living your life by taking soft steps and trying to make sure you’re never seen. You’d never go back to that if you had the choice. 

“The place Hosea wanted me to look at isn’t too far out. Couple minutes walk, probably.”

Arthur starts off without looking back and you frown at him. “Hey,” you call out, “shouldn’t I have a bow, too?”

Arthur’s brow quirks up and he’s silent for a moment before he barks out a loud laugh. You roll your eyes and let out a heavy sigh. He’s got a big grin on his face that’s making it hard to actually be mad, but you’re trying. 

“You ever shot a bow before?”

You tuck your tongue in your cheek and frown. You’ve used rifles and pistols plenty of times. Of course, then you had really just been shooting at bottles. But you can’t say you’ve ever experienced a bow. You’re slow to answer, “No.”

“How ‘bout we see how you do today? I’d rather not have you shoot my damn eye out.”

He starts walking back towards you and you practically stomp your foot. “Oh, Arthur, that’s ridiculous-”

He cups your elbow in his hand and forces you forward. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve seen it happen. It ain’t pretty.” You can’t find it in yourself to argue anymore. You’re too caught off guard by how tender he’d sounded when he’d called you that. 

Sweetheart. You wonder if he ever calls Mary that.

The thought leaves a sour taste on your tongue. You jerk your arm out of his hold and do your best to ignore the surprised look he sends you. He should be more careful how he acts around you, especially if he’s got a woman of his own. 

You and Arthur drift into another tense silence, one of your own creation, yet again. You follow along whatever path Hosea’s created on his map and let your mind drift away. You try not to linger on any passing thoughts. Instead, you want to focus on the world around you. 

You take in the sounds of bird song and try to memorize the melody. You never want to lose this feeling of being so wholly encapsulated by the world around you. Walking along quietly behind Arthur feels like you’ve become just another slinking animal in the forest. 

A sound breaks through your thoughts of nothing. Something like the wet squelch of blood. It reminds you of how your husband’s brain had sounded under your boot. You come to a stop that goes unnoticed by Arthur. He continues ahead but you’re stuck in a memory. 

There’s a low growl like the click of your gun’s hammer as you’d pulled it back. A fierce bark rings through the treetops like a gunshot. You whip around to face the sound and find nothing but the bright green of the forest. 

As though pulled forward by a rope, you find yourself walking without thought. You step carefully over roots and push through brambles. You follow a red trail dotting along the leaves on the ground until you manage to push your way into a small clearing.

The trees are thinner here. They carry less leaves and occupy less space. They give you just enough room to see what has drawn you forward like a siren’s call. 

A wolf dangles from another wolf’s bloody maw. She’s panting, eyes practically red with bloodlust as she crunches down on the neck of the wolf beneath her. There’s a pathetic whimper, quickly followed by the low gurgle of death. The second wolf hangs limply from her jaws and you’re reminded even more of your marriage. 

But you’re not the bleeding, weak, shadow of a creature on the ground. You’ve turned into the hunter, the defiler. You won’t ever let yourself be cowed by someone weaker than you are. You’ve forced yourself into the role of an animal, blood on your maw and righteous fury in your eye. 

The wolf hasn’t noticed you yet, but you feel as though you’ve seen this animal before. A shadow pacing before your home’s door. The howl outside the camp in the dead of night. She’s haunted you for so long and has only allowed you this one glimpse now. Why?

Something clamps down on your shoulder, heavy, hard, and calloused. It takes everything in you to tamp the scream in your throat down. “What the hell were you thinkin’? Could you stop runnin’ off all the damn time?”

Arthur glares down at you. He hasn’t seen the wolf yet, he’s only just found you. Your eyes widen and you turn slightly towards her. His brows furrow in confusion but he follows your gaze and you watch as his face pales. His hand immediately drifts to the revolver on your hip but you lunge forward, stopping him before he can fully grab it. 

“What’re you doin’?”

“Stop,” you plead, voice heavy with emotions he’ll never truly understand. “Don’t.”

His eyes dart between you and the wolf. You can see the battle waging within him. He doesn’t want to upset you but he can’t risk turning his back and having the wolf on him. You squeeze his hand, eyes big and pleading as you stare up at him. Finally, he relents with a sigh, grip going lax on the handle of the revolver. 

You let out a breath of relief and he takes your hand in his, tugging you back a little. The wolf doesn’t feast on her kind, she just stands over him, lips curled back and ears pinned. You keep your eyes firmly on her as Arthur guides you both out of the clearing.

Once you’re safely out of earshot, Arthur starts grumbling under his breath. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he says vaguely. You frown and catch up with him, shrugging your shoulders in confusion. “There’s plenty of prey in the area,” he clarifies. “It shouldn’t be killin’ its own.”

You look over your shoulder, as though you might see the wolf again, but she doesn’t come back. “Maybe she had to,” you muse. “Maybe he had it coming.”

You don’t miss the odd look Arthur gives you and you don’t blame him. You don’t quite understand yourself sometimes. But you do know you were meant to see that. Whether as a reminder of your sin or a confirmation you did the right thing, you don’t know.

You’re crouched behind a fallen tree as Arthur shows you how to properly nock an arrow. A herd of deer graze along the grass only a few feet ahead. Arthur’s got his sights set on the biggest one and you can already feel your stomach squirming at the thought of watching the beast hit the ground. 

You’d just seen a wolf ripping another wolf to shreds, but the thought of a buck dying makes you nauseous. You need to get your priorities straight. 

Arthur lifts the bow and pulls the string back. He’s facing away from the herd for now, still trying to get you to understand the basics. “Alright, you want your arm level, one finger above the arrow,” he wiggled one of his fingers on the string and you smiled slightly, “two below.” He brought the bow back down and shrugged. “Ain’t too hard, you’ll have to get used to the effort of keeping the string back. Beyond that, point and shoot.”

You roll your eyes with a scoff, “Really? It’s that easy?”

“Well,” he smiles slightly and shakes his head. “Nah, it’ ain’t that easy. You gotta consider the wind, how far the arrow needs to travel, and you gotta be steady.” He pauses and runs his tongue over his lips, struggling for words. You tilt your head in question, letting him find them. “You haven’t been steady in a while, sweetheart.”

There’s that name again. You’d be pleased if it weren’t for what he just said. “Steady?”

“Calm,” he clarifies. “You can’t even ride your horse.”

“I don’t like horses,” you try and defend yourself but it sounds weak, even to you. 

“You and I both know it’s not just that.” He moves a little closer. He leans over you, blue eyes imploring you to just tell the truth. You want to, every part of you is screaming just to give in, but you can’t. 

“Arthur, not now, please,” you’re practically begging. You can’t meet his eye any longer, looking at the ground instead and praying he just drops it. 

He lingers behind you for a moment longer before letting out a low breath. “Alright, fine. We’ll just hunt. I mean it, though, eventually you’ll just have to let go of whatever it is that’s buggin’ you.”

That won’t be happening anytime soon, but there’s no point in telling him that. Instead, you turn back to the herd of deer. It’s thinned slightly, a few of them having run towards the fields beyond. But the big one remains, antlers decorated with moss as he cranes his lithe neck for a drink in the river. 

Arthur passes you the bow and you shoot him a concerned look. “Just give it a try, like I showed you.” When you don’t move, he wraps his palms around yours and forces the bow and arrow into your hands. He lifts them, leveling your arm with your chin and pulling it back until the string is just by your ear. “Come on, you’ve got it,” the whispered instructions should have you melting into him but you can’t. You can’t bring yourself to loose the arrow. 

Your arms drop to your sides and you shake your head. “I can’t,” you utter, sounding completely defeated. “I can’t shoot.”

Arthur mistakes your reluctance for insecurity and smiles slightly. He slips behind you, his chest pressed against your back, and lifts your hands again. “‘Course you can,” he encourages. “I’ll help you.”

Once more, he guides you into the right position. Except, this time, he doesn’t let go. He keeps his palms firmly wrapped around your fists and guides you until your aim is just right. He waits for the breeze to stop blowing, forcing you to keep your tight grip even as your bicep begins to tremble with strain. 

“Hold on,” he mutters, eyes narrowed as he focuses on the buck. Your heart kicks up a beat the longer you watch it move. As much as you’d like to relax into Arthur’s warmth, you can’t. You’re watching this animal move and live its life. And you’re about to kill it like it’s nothing. What right do you have to claim it’s blood?

“There,” Arthur lets you go before you can stop him. Your hands naturally follow his guidance and the arrow whistles through the air. The deer notices it too late. You can hear the thud as it embeds into his neck. It lets out a loud, dying, bleat that alerts the rest of the herd of danger. They jump around for a moment before racing off. 

Your arms sink to your sides and Arthur squeezes your shoulders. “There ya go! Told you, you could do it!” He grins down at you, waiting for you to celebrate along with him. You can’t, all you hear is that awful noise the animal had let out as you killed it. 

Arthur pauses, finally seeing the downtrodden expression on your face. “Hey,” he cuts himself off as the first tear falls. You can’t help it. It’s like a dam has burst with that deer’s death. You crumple into yourself, hands rubbing your eyes raw as you try and stem the tears. “Dammit,” he hisses, “how do I keep doin’ this?”

You laugh wetly at that, sniffling as you wipe your nose against your sleeve. “It’s not you,” you promise him. 

“Then what’s wrong?” His voice has lost any tenderness it once held. It’s rough, and commanding, as he tries to force some answers out of you. You don’t blame him for being upset. He’s right, you really aren’t steady right now. 

“I can’t-”

He cuts you off with a rough shake of his head. His hands find their way on your shoulders and he forces you to turn towards him. You try and slip out of his grip but he grabs your chin and ticks your face up. “Look, I know you and Charles are hidin’ somethin’. I may be a fool but I’m not blind. I’ve also never seen someone cry so hard over a damn deer. You gotta give me somethin’ here.”

You can’t tell him the truth, you know that much. Besides, you’d be implicating Charles in your crime as well. You don’t need to drag him down along with you. But Arthur seems so desperate. You know, deep down, that all he wants is to help, to finally get you to stop crying. And you suppose you owe him something after breaking down on him so many times. 

“I did something,” you whisper, staring down at your hands and for a moment seeing blood on them. “Something awful, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be forgiven for it.”

Arthur’s brows furrow and he rubs the back of his neck. “Forgiven by who?”

You shouldn’t be surprised that he didn’t ask what you did. You know he’s used to all sorts of awful things in his life. You suppose he probably thinks your definition of awful is simply killing a deer- not the man you’d promised the rest of your life to. 

“I don’t know,” you shrug and attempt to collect yourself. “God. Myself. I feel like I’m tainted,” you clench your hands shut and take in a shuddering breath. “Like I’ll never be able to cleanse myself of this.”

Arthur’s silent for a while and you worry that you’ve lost him. There’s a shuffle of feet and you force yourself to finally look up. 

Arthur's eyes soften with concern, but his face is still tainted with a slight suspicion. “Look, I don’t know what happened and I won’t pry. But you’re a good person. I haven’t known you very long,” he amends, a little sheepishly. “But I know you well enough to see just how kind you are. There’s a lot of good inside of you. A lot more than what’s left in me or any of the rest of the gang.”

You sniffle, wiping away a stray tear, and offer him a shaky smile. “You sell yourself too short, Arthur Morgan. You’re a good man, one of the finer ones I’ve met, that’s for sure.”

You swear you almost see a blush on his cheeks as he looks away. “Ah, I wouldn’t go that far. Can’t seem to stop makin’ you cry, anyway.” You laugh a little at that and he finally looks at you again. He gets to his feet and holds his hand out, “Come on, it’ll be dark soon, we gotta get a move on.”

You nod, slipping your hand in his and letting him help you to your feet. He doesn’t let go of you right away, instead, he lets you lean on him as he leads you forward. You appreciate his strength and, as selfish as it is, you relish in the feeling of his body against yours as you walk together. 

You try not to think of his lady or your husband or even the dead buck ahead of you. Instead, you hold onto Arthur’s words. If he believes there’s good left, then maybe there is. 

Arthur told you the ride back would be too long and that you probably wouldn’t do well with Lady at night. You’re sure he’s right but part of you thinks he’s just not ready to be back at camp yet. You can’t blame him, you’re not either. 

It’s nice to get away from the noises of others. Surrounded by the tranquility of nature is the sort of calming environment you need right now. You hadn’t realized just how frayed your nerves had been until you broke down on Arthur for the second time. 

Arthur finally gets the tent set up and comes to sit beside you on the ground. You throw another branch onto the fire and watch as the sparks float up towards the stars. You don’t know why the thought of his woman flits into your mind again. It could be because of how close you both are or simply because she’s lingered in your thoughts since you discovered her. 

You find yourself prying into a man you’re sure would be happier left alone. “How do you think your lady would feel about you sitting so close to me?” You try to give him a teasing smile but you know it only seems strained. 

Arthur’s face drops before it pinches quickly in confusion. He lets out a very ungraceful, “Huh?” And you can’t help but snort slightly in laughter. “The hell are you talkin’ ‘bout woman?” He demands, turning towards the fire and tossing some more sticks on it. 

“The woman in Valentine,” you clarify, still laughing a little. “Oh, I’m sure you remember abandoning me in town for her,” you remind him airily. He lets out a heavy sigh but you keep on. “Doubt she’d appreciate us being so close.”

“No,” he rubs the back of his neck and gives you a sardonic smile. “She wouldn’t, but it don’t matter much now. We haven’t been together for a while.”

“Oh,” you keep your face schooled but there’s a little bit of giddiness bubbling in your gut. But that doesn’t make any sense. “Why would you leave me in town alone to go be with her all day  if you’re not together?”

“I-” he starts and stops himself a few times before giving you a defeated shrug. “Suppose I owe her. I dragged her down into this life, tainted her with my love, I guess I owe her a few favors.”

“Tainted her?” You scoff and wave him off. “I doubt a day goes by where she doesn’t count herself lucky to have been loved by you.”

His face takes on that familiar flush you saw earlier. It could easily be dismissed as heat from the fire but you know better. He’s not used to such blatant honesty, especially not when it compliments him. “Really?” He scoffs and shakes his head. You roll your eyes, already knowing what he’s going to say. 

“I doubt it,” he drawls, rubbing the back of his neck with a stubborn refusal to meet your gaze. You know it’s only because he wouldn’t be able to handle the truth staring back at him. “What about you then, what about your husband?” He easily deflects, throwing you for a curve as you rip your eyes off him. 

You focus on the flames of the fire until it makes your eyes burn. You know he doesn’t know anything about the truth, but you still have to be careful about what you accidentally let slip. “Oh,” you let out a short dismissive chuckle. “Neither of us were lucky. Certainly not me.”

“Why not?” Arthur sounds genuinely curious, not the sort of patronizing inquisitiveness you’ve heard from others in camp. You realize that you’ve not talked about your marriage much. You’ve done your damn best to keep it off the minds of everyone in camp. Starting a new life means not constantly dredging up the old one. But you suppose you owe Arthur just a little bit of honesty. 

“He never loved me the way a man is supposed to love his wife. I count myself lucky to have gotten away from him.”

“He wasn’t kind to you?” Arthur asks, but you both know the answer. 

You finally let your gaze drift off the fire and shake your head. “Not in any aspect of the word. The only part of our marriage that was real was the papers. And now he’s lost and so are they.” You suck in a deep breath and force a smile, turning to face him once more. “I’m finally a free woman.”

Arthur meets your eyes with a startling intensity. There’s something pinched on his face, a thought that’s just taking too long to form. You see the internal battle with himself as he debates whether or not to open his mouth. Your fingers dig into the softened material of your pants, fidgeting as you wait restlessly for his question. 

“Would you ever want that again?” He asks slowly. “Not marriage, but to be with someone like that.”

You look off to the edge of the clearing you’re camping in. The trees provide you both with a thick cover, the tips of them nearly reaching the stars. You’re used to a clear view like this from your home in the mountains. But you never realized just how much you were missing being locked up in that house. There are so many things you thought you’d never have the chance for, so many new opportunities to make. 

“I used to think to myself that if I ever got away from him, I would never be involved with a man ever again.” You wonder if you make up the way his shoulders stiffen slightly. “I had thought they were all just as cruel, just as useless as he was.” His gaze rips away from you and he stares pointedly towards the wildflowers in front of you. You let out a breathy laugh and lean back on your hands, shrugging. “I’m starting to think I might have been wrong.”

Arthur turns towards you and you wonder if you’re imagining the hope in his gaze. Is it just a projection of your own wishes, or is it the truth? “What about you?” You deflect, not willing to hold the weight of the conversation anymore. 

“With the right person. With someone who understood that this is just who I am.” Someone who won’t try to change him, you finish his unspoken thought and nod your head. He hesitates for a moment on his next question. “You think you’ll ever find the right man?” You feel your cheeks pull up unwittingly. Your fingers drift across the grass, just barely brushing against his. He doesn’t pull away from you or frown at the touch. Instead, you feel the warmth of his palm covering your hand. “I think I might be starting too.”

Next Part

end. — I do not own the characters or the game Red Dead Redemption 1/2, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2025. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Hell Hath No Fury Taglist: @buckysblondie @littlebirdgot @heloixe @summerdazed @committingcrimes-2047

@m1stea

[dearly-somber]

hyunga’s sleeping | l.mh

-> pairing. idol!minho x non-idol!reader (f)

-> genre. Established relationship, domestic fluff.

-> rating. 13+

-> w/c. 1101

-> warnings. None!

-> a/n. This was fueled by pure, unadulterated Minho & Soon-Doong-Dori (SDD) brainrot.

-> skz ficlets, oneshots and series m.list

-> started. Feb. 23rd, 2024 @ 16:51

-> fin. Fri., Mar. 1st, 2024 @ 19:40

-> edited. Sat. Mar. 2nd, 2024 @ 15:40

-> divider credit. @plum98, @saradika-graphics

“Eomoni!”

“Y/N, darling, come in!”

Minho’s mom wraps her arms around your shoulders, pulling you inside with a big smile on her face. She waves you off as you slip out of your shoes and into a pair of bright pink Hello Kitty slippers Minho bought for you as a joke years ago, forcefully prying the bag of goodies you bought on your way here from your fingers.

“I hope I’m not intruding—?”

“Hush!” Mrs. Lee chides with a smile, “Stop worrying so much.” Her hand hovers by the small of your back, guiding you up the last step into the living room.

“Is Minho here? He said he was coming home today…”

“Yes, he’s here. He’s in his room.” Minho’s mom sets the plastic bag on the counter, and you naturally go to help her unpack what you bought, shelving things like you live here.

“I—hello, abeonim.” You bow at Mr. Lee, closing your eyes contentedly when he comes around the counter to give you a fatherly side-hug that squishes you against him.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, ruffling your hair as he lets you go in favor of helping his wife unpack.

You shrug, walking around to the other side of the counter. “Thought I’d pop in to say hi. I missed the kittens very much.”

Mr. Lee laughs, shaking his head at you. “Of course, the kittens.” He wiggles his eyebrows teasingly.

You can’t help the grin tugging at your mouth, clearing your throat to speak. “Speaking of, where are the babies? I haven’t seen any of them since I got here.”

“Last time I checked they were all with Minho in his room,” his mom says, putting away the bottle of red wine you bought for dinner later tonight.

“Great! I can kill two birds with one stone.” You wiggle your eyebrows.

She snickers at you, shooing you away with a fond smile. “Go say hi and then come sit with us—we found a documentary we thought you’d like.”

“Okay, eomoni.” You smile at her and hope your pure love and adoration for her isn’t written too clearly on your face, afraid she might tease you. You walk with light steps in the direction of Minho’s room, unable to wipe the smile off your face.

“Minho-ssi,” you sing-song, rounding the corner with a light and airy step-a-step you’re pretty sure you saw somewhere in Thunderous’s choreography.

Mreow?

“Doong-Doong-ah?” Your lips jut out in a surprised pout, looking down at the talkative orange tabby with a tiny furrow in your brow. Following the lump of white sheets behind him, you finally make out Minho’s all-black clad body hidden under all the fluff.

You smile.

“Is hyunga sleeping?” you whisper, walking over on the tips of your toes before crouching in front of Doongie, scratching behind his ears with a soft smile. He mrews, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans his head into your hand. To your right, Dori hugs what you think is a bottle of lotion between his white socked-paws, his tail flicking with each nibble he delivers to the hard plastic.

You let your hand wander over Dori’s side and chide him with a half-hearted hiss when he clamps his teeth around your knuckles, shaking it off with a smile when he pauses a second before giving your hand a couple of licks.

You give his side one last pat before walking around Minho’s feet, only noticing Soonie as he’s cuddling into your boyfriend’s duveted stomach.

You can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips, crouching next to the sleeping cats to card your fingers through Soonie’s fur, feeling a familiar sense of pride swell in your chest at his appreciative purr.

And then you’re looking up at Lee Minho, your body tingling all over at the serenity on your sleeping beauty’s face, unable to help but reach out and let your hand run over his hair; a little frizzy at the ends but otherwise straight; he must not have been sleeping for very long.

You drag your hand over Minho’s head with an inexplicable softness constricting your throat, wishing you could lean down and kiss him without running the risk of waking him up.

You jump a little when Minho lets out an adorable grunt as he slowly pries his eyes open.

“Jagi?” he mumbles.

“Did I wake you?” you coo, combing your fingers through his fringe.

“Mmm.”

You chuckle, letting the pads of your fingers brush over his forehead, over his eyelids. “Ever the truthman.”

“Truthman?” he grumbles, bringing a hand up to loosely hold your wrist between his fingers.

“When did you get home?” You let your hand wander over his cheek.

“A few hours ago…”

“From practice?”

He guides the palm of your hand against his lips. “Mmm...”

He kisses your hand, turning onto his back (much to Soonie’s dismay) and throwing the duvet around his hips before tugging on your arm with surprising strength.

You yelp, practically falling on top of him. He lets out a back-of-the-throat kind of giggle that sends tingles down your arms, using his hands on your hips to shift you higher up his abdomen.

Minho lets out a satisfied hum-sigh against the top of your head, his fingers massaging the skin at your waist before hooking his fingers under the waistband of your trousers, letting the elastic keep his hands in place.

“Baby,” you say, softly—knowing his parents are waiting for you downstairs but feeling so tempted to sink into his warmth and stay there until the end of days.

“No,” he huffs, nuzzling your temple. “Lay with me for a bit.”

You can’t help but laugh, subtly shaking your head. Of course he knows. “Okay, but only for a minute. Your mom invited me downstairs to watch a—“

“Shh, jagi, I’m trying to sleep.”

———

“Y/N, sweetheart, we’re—“

Mrs. Lee stops in her tracks, right outside Minho’s room. The sight she comes across brings an immediate smile to her face, and she can’t help but take her phone out and snap a picture to give to her son later:

Minho, his arms wrapped around you as you lay on top of him, legs intertwined. And surrounding you, Soonie, Doongie and Dori; the youngest of the trio laying by his hyung’s head. Doongie lays by your feet, and Soonie sleeps just off to the side, his legs stretched out in front of him.

As she sits back down with her husband, Mrs. Lee can’t help but think: she can’t wait for the day Minho asks for her mother’s ring.

[writingonwings]

Nightmares - B.R.

✵ Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

✵ Summary: Bob had been exceptionally good at keeping his nightmares on the down-low. But a particularly bad night can throw the entire tower into chaos.

✵ Warnings: Oh boy, I got carried away. Angst, substance abuse, unhealthy use of alcohol, domestic and child abuse, violence, terror, recurring nightmares (trauma-related), symptoms of ptsd and anxiety, this is pretty heavy stuff. A little fluff at the end to tie it up in a nice bow.

✵ Word count: 6.3k

✵ Notes: Thank you so so much for all the love on my first Bob piece. I adore him and can't wait to write more

The lights flickered once and then twice, leaving you temporarily blinded in the dark living room. It wasn’t the first time that night.

The malfunctions started not long after everyone had retreated to their rooms, just a very quick off and on. You didn’t think much of it at first, falling asleep under the assumption it was just an electrical issue. But by the latest hours of the night, it had become much worse. 

You woke to a slow rumble in the building that seemed rooted from the frame itself. A hand reached out for your lamp and flipped the switch, only to be met with static flashes of light as it struggled to turn on. Startled, you pulled your hand back and reached for your phone instead, pressing the flashlight. That, thankfully, switched on with no issues.

Looking around, nothing about your room looked out of place. Everything the dim little light landed on was exactly where you left it when you went to bed.

Another flicker from your lamp and you were convinced to continue investigating. Silently, you slid out of your warm bed and stepped onto the cold floor below it. The shiver that followed was extremely unpleasant, so you took your blanket with you and wrapped it tightly around your shoulders. 

You worked your way around your bed, setting a hand on the window beside you. Everything was still again. So you waited there and let the silence ring in your ears. Just as you were ready to return to your bed, the glass rattled, shooing your hand away with the movement. Something was definitely wrong.

With a flashlight in one hand and your blanket bunched up in the other, you crossed the room to the door. Your blanket hand managed to free up just enough space to take hold of the door knob, but you had to wait for it to stop shaking before opening it.

Outside your room, it was just as dark, the only light source coming from way down the hallway somewhere in the living room. But that wasn’t reliable, considering it danced back and forth between on and off. 

You took a careful step out, met with nothing but silence. It wasn’t surprising that no one else had woken up. You were by far the lightest sleeper, rivaled only by Yelena. It was a skill learned during your adolescence. Even the slightest disruptions could deprive you of precious hours of rest. It was a blessing and a curse.

Slowly, with any sign of sleep now erased from your body, you crept down the hall towards the living room. There were a thousand things you could find there, knowing who lived here and the twisted people they have history with. 

Your mind ran through the scenarios, jumping straight to the worst. But once you stepped out into the open space, you found none of it to be true. Everything looked fine, apart from the flickering lamp and occasional vibrating walls.

An exhale was realesed from your lungs, although it was premature to celebrate. What was going on then? This had to be more than just an electrical problem. 

Before you could even finish the thought, there were footsteps behind you. Off of pure instinct alone, you whipped around, blanket falling to the floor as you reached for your waist. The usual concealed weapon was not there.

“Woah,” Yelena let out subconsciously, lifting her hands in surrender. You sighed, dropping your very unarmed hands to your sides. It wasn’t like you to be caught so unprepared. Under different circumstances, you were sure she would lecture you about it.

“Sorry, Lena.” That was all you said. No further explanation was needed, not with her. She understood the little things you did. The way you functioned. She knew because she functioned the same way.

“No, I’m sorry,” She approached you, retrieving your blanket from the floor and repositioning it around your body. “I should have known better than to sneak up on you.”

You gave her a half-hearted breath of a laugh, distracted again by the sudden swaying of the lights hung over the kitchen. Both of your heads snapped in that direction, running on the same instincts. “You don’t happen to know anything about this, do you?” She just frowned in response.

“No, I was hoping you did,” Her eyes travelled across the room, scanning for anything out of place like you did moments before her arrival. “Anyone else awake?”

“Not so far. We sleep the lightest.” With each flicker of the lights, your grip tightened around the balled-up fabric in your hands. 

“Let’s try and keep it that way for now.” She suggested, her hands sliding up to cross over her chest. The whole room seemed to shake, much worse this time. It caught you off guard, and you reached a hand out to stabilize yourself on whatever furniture was closest to you.

Your eyes widened at the quake. The brief thought that you were currently several stories in the air crossed your mind, but you shook it away. Panic wouldn’t save anyone. “That might not be possible.” You said simply, regaining your composure. After the rumbling ceased, you were able to release a breath. “Something’s wrong.” Yelena nodded slowly, mind drifting for a solution, same as yours.

“I’m going downstairs. Maybe I can figure out what's going on.” She announced, already stepping away from you.

“Want me to go with you? I mean, we don’t know what’s down there.” You already knew her answer when you asked. It would be smarter to have someone here to avoid widespread panic from the others if they woke up and found two of you missing.

“I’ll be just fine.” Without stopping or even turning back towards you, she lifted her shirt a little and revealed a gun concealed there. It was just like Yelena to be more prepared than you. “Tell me if anything happens.” Just like that, she was heading down in the elevator and you were left in the silent room again, everything around you still inconsistently malfunctioning.

With nothing else to do but wait, you sank onto the couch, mind racing and body tensing with each passing minute. You thought of everyone in their beds, blissfully unaware of the steadily growing situation. If it got much worse, you’d be waking them up soon anyway.

What you didn’t know is that this had nothing to do with the building’s integrity. Down the hall and behind a closed door, the source of all this lay in his bed, tossing and turning in a restless sleep. 

Bob was stuck in his mind, locked in some terrible nightmare. It wasn’t like he didn’t have nightmares before, he did. In fact, it was a lot more often than he cared to admit. 

They were recurring, almost every night now. How he managed to keep them so well hidden was a mystery, but he held onto it as long as he could get away with. The last thing he wanted was to spread his terror to anyone else living with him. Especially you.

But this one was different.

He was pulled through shadows and engulfed head to toe in this awful darkness. It was the same stuff he had spread over the entire city of New York many weeks ago. Since then, he managed to trap it inside his head, force it to torture him, and only him. It was getting heavy to bear, but he refused to let it touch anyone else again.

So each night, he faced it. He let it take him on several trips through his mind, revisiting a handful of the worst moments in his life every time he was there.

Each new part of his mind resurfaced excruciating memories, all the bad ones and only the bad ones. But enduring it promised your safety and the rest of the team’s. So instead of running, he greeted it. Every single night.

Normally, these memories were cloudy, all shrouded by a layer of shadow. It blocked his view just enough that he could look away from it. Sometimes he could even escape them for a time, hiding in a little room far away from the terrible things that always lay just outside.

But tonight wasn’t like any nightmare he had before. It felt like he wasn’t dreaming at all, but walking somewhere inside his mind, completely conscious. He was ripped from his little safe space and drug through memory after memory.

Bob stood on a sidewalk, still wearing the clothes he slept in. The breeze, the sound of cars hurrying by, it all felt so real. It would be easy to convince him it was, if it wasn’t for the sound of a door flying open and slamming into the wall. It was the same slam he heard every time he was here. Don’t look. Don’t give in. He told himself. No matter how much he resisted, the void demanded his attention.

He spun around to watch himself stumble out of a building, completely incoherent to the rest of the world. It didn’t matter how many times he saw it, he couldn’t help but feel a pang of regret in his chest. This Bob in front of him, the one who took several misplaced steps out onto the sidewalk, did this to himself. He did this to himself.

Bob’s eyes followed the figure, recalling everything he was feeling then. The entire world was spinning, which was clear now as he seemed to lean slightly to one side. A muffled sound came from the building, making the figure’s head snap to the side. That gave him a clear look at his face, his eyes.

His pupils were blown so wide, there was hardly any blue left. He looked wild, barely human anymore. Bob couldn’t help but mimic the way he gripped at his chest, remembering the pain that was there.

He was quiet at first, just breathing raggedly and mumbling sharply to himself. But then came the yelling; screaming from inside the door. This Bob started screaming too. It was a terrible, agonizing sound, just as animalistic as he looked. Something across the street joined in, and soon it was coming from everywhere. It all grew louder and distorted until eventually Bob was screaming too.

He clamped his hands over his ears, willing the awful noises away. But it was a pathetic defense against it. It all continued to grow as he watched himself half-step, half-fall into the road. Only when the deafening car horn and dreaded crash were mixed in did everything go quiet. 

Bob’s trembling hands fell from his ears as darkness swallowed him again.

He was dropped in the middle of a kitchen. It wasn’t just any kitchen, it was his. A version of Bob, half his size, sat at the table. He looked so small there. Each time he came back here, he seemed to look younger. Now he was hovering around nine to ten.

It was deceivingly calm.

Bob’s eyes moved slowly between the three figures. Little Bob and his mother sat at the table, while his dad leaned over the counter, occupied with something he couldn’t quite make out from where he stood.

His older memories still haunted him, and likely always would. But everything in them started to look weird, fuzzy in places; the corner of the table, the light fixture hanging above their heads, it was hard to see clearly at times. He blamed it on how long it had been. The exact details were starting to get cloudy.

There were words, too. But they were difficult to hear, like everything was underwater. There was a time— not long ago— when he could recall each syllable spoken here. But in the last few weeks, especially, they had started to die away. It was a good thing. At least, that’s what Bob told himself.

The muffled noise came from his mother and then stopped abruptly. She had said the wrong thing. Every muscle in his body tensed, anticipating what he’d so often seen come next.

His father whipped around in a manner that suggested he wasn’t all there. In his hands was a dark bottle, partially empty. He gripped the glass so tightly, Bob thought it might shatter under the pressure. But it hadn’t before, and it wouldn’t this time.

The words that followed fell out of his mouth slowly and slurred. He couldn’t help but wonder if he remembered it worse than it actually was. It was hard to tell now that everything was fading.

The figure of his father was blurry. Well, all except for his face. That was something he would never forget. He moved towards the table in harsh, unsteady steps. Every hair on the back of Bob’s neck raised, but there was nothing he could do but stand there and watch.

There was yelling now, but the words were drowned in water. He didn’t need them, really. He knew what they were saying just fine after hearing it so many times.

An icy, sharp fear crawled up his spine and gripped his chest. You’d think the feeling wouldn’t be so strong after the several hundredth time watching this same moment, but each time it sank its teeth into his heart and threatened to stop it.

Bob wanted to move— lunge forward to his mother’s defense. In the real world, he could. He did. But here, that wasn’t an option. He couldn’t protect her then, and he couldn’t protect her now. It was agonizing how helpless he felt, limbs frozen in place by some force that wasn’t his own will. He always struggled against it, but always came up unsuccessful.

She looked so small in that chair, hunched over defensively, using any words she could to settle the room. But they all knew it was too late.

Then came that earth-shattering blow. At the time, it was worse than any he’d ever seen before. Bob squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t matter. The rules of the real world didn’t apply here. And that meant closing your eyes didn’t mean you couldn’t see.

The kid at the table jumped backward instinctively, eyes wide in shock. Even then, it took maybe a fraction of a second for him to return forward to her, running to her protection.

Bob tried to yell— scream at him to stop, but it wasn’t any use. No sound came out of his mouth. Even if he could reach the kid, he wouldn’t stand and watch. He never did.

Then there was the pain. He could feel everything on his fragile skin just as he did when he was the child standing there. It felt so real, he was startled when there weren’t any marks on his body. On his body. This young version of him was not dreaming like he was.

The sight was sickening. It made him shake violently, the contents of his stomach threatening to spill. Not that he could vomit, even if he wanted to— here in his mind he could do nothing. He was stuck there, held by the force he’d never seen with his eyes. So instead, he did the next best thing and cried.

The screaming started, same as in the street. It was loud and high-pitched, clearly from a child. More joined in from unexplainable places, distorting in a nightmarish way. He pressed his hands over his ears and wept, crumpling to the floor as the voices spun around his head.

“Stop! Please!” He begged through tears. The two little words were nothing more than a strangled cry.

Suddenly, everything went silent. The shadows had shown him mercy. His hands hit cold tile floor, and he knew where he was. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know. 

Bob allowed himself a moment before moving on. He wept. He wept until he couldn’t anymore. Even when the tears stopped, he was hesitant to move. But his void wasn’t patient.

His eyes opened by something out of his control, and he was face to face with a black, shadowy figure. His shadowy figure. It was always here in the lab. This was its birthplace. And now that it was confined to his mind, this is where it chose to stay. Behind it, Bob got a little glimpse of the nightmare it guarded.

It wasn’t a memory exactly, just a frozen picture in time. Bob saw himself on the operating table, strapped down by many restraints. Tubes and wires and all manner of medical things— both identifiable and bizarre things he’d never seen— stuck out of him. Beyond those, looking at his face, he almost seemed peaceful. It was a drug-induced sleep, but it was also dreamless, nightmare-less. It was like the calm before the storm.

He knew why the void preferred this place. This was the exact moment he was created.

Bob turned away, hid it from his view by placing the figure between him and it. Finally, he acknowledged it. “I-I won’t let you d-do this to me anymore.” He whimpered. The threat wasn’t very convincing when he was kneeling on the floor, holding himself tightly to keep from falling apart.

There was a long moment of silence, just the darkness staring down at him. And then he spoke in a voice that he had no right to use. “You could save them, but you can’t save yourself.”

And then he was gone, leaving Bob to absorb the words. You can’t save yourself. How helpless he felt here, curled on the hard floor, wet with his own tears. He really couldn’t save himself. Not in the waking world, and not here.

Everything he felt here, he felt out there. His real body was overheated, soaked in sweat, and damp from so many tears. When he woke, it felt like he’d just been pulled into another memory. There was panic. Hands flew out to grip the bedsheets. But the feeling of the fabric against his skin was real, not the blurry, dreamlike version. He quickly realized he was back in his own bed, and he wept again, allowing himself to fall apart in the privacy of his room.

The tower finally went still. A few minutes before the end, it had begun to rumble, same as an earthquake would. You considered that as a possibility, but ruled it out as it progressed. Steel frames trembled, worse and worse as the seconds passed. 

You backed into a wall, searching for something to brace yourself on. Everything swayed, back and forth and back and forth. It made you dizzy and tricked you into believing the very floor would give way if you didn’t find something to hold onto. Every light in the building began to flicker over and over and over again. Even when you closed your eyes, you saw the flashes stabbing through your lids.

The chaos sent you into a silent panic, but there was nothing to be done but sit there and brace yourself for whatever would come of this. Your mind went to Yelena, imagining her in a similar position several stories below you.

It continued on, everything shaking or sliding or flashing. And then suddenly, it hit the climax. A huge, thundering crack filled the building. You gasped in surprise, clamping a hand over your mouth.

Everything made of glass shattered: windows, light bulbs, cups, plates. Anything that could break, did. It exposed the space to the night outside the windows— what was left of them. You could just hear the sounds of the city, far below.

And then it all quieted. The wave of violence passed as quickly as it started and left you in complete darkness— even your flashlight was lost or broken in the mix. Eyes wide, you waited there, using the wall against your back as your only defense.

Minutes later, just as you started to hear your heart beating in your ears, a dim light appeared. You could barely see it from there, since your eyes were so adjusted to the dark.

Suddenly, that light was beside you.

The gasp you let out was much louder than it meant to be, and instantly, there were two hands clamped around your arms, one cold and hard against your skin.

“Hey, hey, easy.” The voice was soothing, and after the initial shock, you relaxed quickly.

“Bucky,” You acknowledged, trying to catch your breath and restart your heart. Upon further examination, you found he held a small, thick glow stick— one of the many emergency tools you all had stored in your rooms. How he found it in the dark, you didn’t know.

“What happened?” He questioned, still holding onto your shoulders. “Did you see anything?” You opened your mouth to reply— not that he would have seen it— but you were interrupted.

“What the hell?” John. His footsteps sounded close enough that you could assume he was in the room. This was followed quickly by Ava and then Alexei, who both announced their arrival in their own ways.

“Does anyone know what’s going on?” You questioned, brave enough to move a few feet with your hand on the wall. 

“No.” Ava’s voice. She sounded just as confused as the rest of you. “I just woke up and watched my damn windows break.”

“Earthquake?” Bucky suggested. You knew he didn’t really consider that a possibility, but there was a significant lack of other explanations.

“An earthquake isn’t going to destroy everything in the tower.” John pointed out. It was an obvious but good point. Now that your eyes had adjusted, you could just barely make out jagged shapes where the wall of windows should have been across the space. There was even a cool breeze that made its way in, making you wish you hadn’t left your blanket on the couch.

There was silence as everyone took in the situation. Then a heavy accent came from your left. “Where’s Yelena?” Alexei questioned, and heads began to turn as they realized she wasn’t there.

A few more steps along the wall, in the direction you remembered the elevator to be. “She went downstairs a while ago to see what’s going on.” You explained, a hand stayed firmly against the wall as you approached it, glass crunching under your feet in spots. Somehow, you found the button, and even though it was clear it wouldn’t work, you pressed it anyway. Nothing. “Clearly, she wasn’t able to use the elevator to come back up.”

As if just saying her name had summoned her, she came out of a door all the way across the room. The staircase, really only used if there was an emergency. But you guessed this would qualify as one.

In her hand was a battery-operated lantern. Who knows where she found it down there? The sudden light made you squint, but it was a welcome change from stumbling blindly in the dark. 

Bucky was closer than you were and beat you to your question. “Did you find anything?” He asked. Your shoulders dropped a little when she shook her head.

“No, nothing,” She sounded out of breath from the climb, setting the lamp down on the table beside her and resting her hand there. Her chest rose and fell with her heavy breathing. “But it’s a mess down there, the whole tower’s shut down.”

Everyone just stood there, not really sure what to do. Bucky was the one to step up after a minute of this. “We need to split up,” He started. The lamp Yelena provided cast white light on each of your faces. “Something’s clearly wrong, and we can’t just sit here, cornered with no information.”

“Wait-” John looked up at us, turning to you first. “Where’s Bob?”

Bob. It all hit you at once, so hard that it felt stupid you didn’t put the pieces together sooner. You’d seen him interrupt the tower’s function before; just a flicker of a lamp here or the sliding of books off a shelf there. It was always unintentional. But you never considered he could cause something this big. A sharp pang of guilt swelled in your chest. How was he not the first person you thought of?

You clearly showed the realization on your face, because there were several confused expressions. Ignoring them, you crossed the room toward the still very dark hallway that led to the bedrooms. But you didn’t have to go very far. There he was, hunched over as he took wary steps toward you. He appeared so much smaller than his size. “Bob?”

He froze at the sound of your voice, glancing upward. You could just make out his eyes in what little light made it around the corner. The sight broke your heart. They were red and glassy, filled with tears that threatened to spill over. His cheeks were damp and shone from the glow, hair wild from tossing and turning all night, and arms folded over his torso protectively. He looked worse than you’d ever seen him as he stood there, clutching the fabric of his shirt over his chest.

“Bob…” You repeated as gently as you could. This broke him. Anything he had managed to bottle back up was released. First, it was just a cracked whimper that escaped, but it continued to flood out of him until he sobbed, dropping to his knees. His entire body trembled, just the same as the building did.

It took longer than you meant to react. You were just caught off guard. The last time you saw him like this was weeks ago when the shadow covered half of New York. But even then, this was different. He shook and wept openly with such a deep dread that it begun to fill you as well.

There were no words that could help him here, so you did the only other thing you knew. In the silence, with nothing audible but Bob’s cries, you moved forward. Each step was light as a feather, as if you were approaching something small and wounded, not wanting to frighten it further.

Once you reached him, his body shifted, but he didn’t dare look up at you. It was difficult for him to allow you to see this pain, but it was far too late to try and hide it. A hand went out to his forehead, fingers brushing away damp strands of hair that stuck to his face. The effect this had on him was instantaneous. Soon, the violent sobs began to slow down.

Still no words. You let yourself sink down in front of him, your hand falling to the side of his lowered head. He refused to lift it, so instead, you slid one arm and then both around his shoulders, pulling him to you.

His body tensed upon contact, hesitating at first, and then he gave in. He wouldn’t be able to fight you. And even if he could, he didn’t want to.

Accepting the comfort you offered, Bob let his head fall into the curve of your neck, sharing the tear stains with your skin as well. It took some coaxing on your end, but after a moment, he was willing to trade the fabric of his shirt for the fabric of yours, freeing up space to lean into you as his arms fell loosely around your body.

Never before had he been so vulnerable with anyone but himself, but he trusted you and trusted the touch that caressed him. It was a responsibility you felt the weight of.

Tears continued to fall, but the rate had begun to decrease, just barely. Your hands moved up and down his back, as lightly as you could manage. Immediately, you felt how much he wanted to relax into it. to fight his sorrow. 

He shook beneath you, trembling in a way you had never felt him do before. Saddness clawed at your chest and burned your throat. “You’re here, Bob.” Just a whisper. It was all you dared to do. “You’re here with me. You’re safe now.”

One tear fell from the corner of your eye, carried by gravity across your skin until it mixed in with his. He had calmed to just a quiet whimpering, a sound that tore your heart right down the middle.

Bob clung to you as if you were the only thing in the world bringing him back here. The longer you thought about it, the more you realized this was likely true. “I���m here.” You added one more time. It was the first breath he took for several minutes, his body loosening from the exhale.

You and the rest of your team gave him as much time as he needed there. You didn’t turn to look, but it was safe to assume they were experiencing similar feelings to yours. It just meant something a little different to them.

After what felt like several minutes, Bob quieted enough to speak. “I’m sorry,” The words came out in such a choked sound, you couldn’t help but tighten your grip around his body. “I didn’t mean to. I-I couldn’t control it.”

“It’s okay, Bob.” You assured, voice hushed. “We’re all safe, and windows are easily fixed.” This seemed to help a little, but he still blamed himself for all the damage caused. At least it was enough to convince him to sit up and look at you. His eyes held so much sadness and so much pain, the broken pieces of your heart felt like they were just stomped on. Your brows pulled together as he tried to read your face.

It took a long time, but you convinced him to follow you to the couch, in exchange for you staying there with him. This was a deal you’d take any day. So that’s where the next half hour was spent, Bob curled up beside you and the rest of the team pacing, debating whether or not to go downstairs and assist or stay and wait it out. The latter won out when the lack of an elevator was brought back to attention.

Forever passed, but eventually the emergency lights flickered on, the majority of the glass was swept up, and it was deemed there was nothing to do but get some rest. Nobody was coming to repair the damage at three in the morning.

So slowly, each of you peeled off into your bedrooms, likely to have a restless rest of the night. You were the last to leave, Bob still clinging to you. “Come on,” You whispered, taking his hand and intertwining your fingers with his. When you lifted yourself off the couch, it felt like all warmth had seeped from your body.

He gazed up at you with such round, tearful eyes, it was all you could do not to take him back into your arms. There was a visible shudder that went through him, his blood turning to ice at just the thought of returning to his terrible dream world and facing what lay waiting there. 

“I-I don’t want to go back there alone.” Bob tried not to sound too panicked, but it was near-impossible. It felt like his void was right beside him, perched quietly beneath the dim lights. It waited for you to disappear, to leave him defenseless there. Because it couldn’t reach him until he was vulnerable to it, and he never would be while under your shield of protection.

And you were going nowhere. While you were with him, the shadow would never lay a hand on your precious Bob. It couldn’t. So it continued to wait, to lurk in the background and just observe.

“You’re not going anywhere alone.” You assured him as you brought him to his feet. The words coaxed most of the anxiety right out of his body, and his muscles felt functioning again. 

The entire way from the couch to the hallway, your hand was locked in his, always having some sort of contact with him. In Bob’s other arm was your blanket, balled up to keep it away from the ground.

He hesitated as you reached for your door knob. He’d never slept in your room before. It seemed like a silly thing to be worried about now, but he asked anyway. “A-are you sure?” 

The question made you pause. Not because you weren’t sure, but because after everything that happened, he was still worried about your comfort. You turned back to him, your free hand moving to squeeze the side of his arm. “Bob, I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

It seemed enough to convince him, so you slid the door open. Inside, the room was dimly lit by the backup lights. Under its glow, you could see the damage was unexplainably minimal. Other than a small crack in the window, everything remained untouched. It didn’t make sense, considering the immense damage to every other room in the building.

You walked through the room, confirming that nothing was out of place. “How… How is nothing broken?” The question was more for yourself, but Bob had an answer.

“I-I can’t really explain it,” He started, holding your blanket a little tighter. “Nothing in here will ever be touched because you’re here. It’s the only t-thing I can control. I can keep it away from you.”

You stood for a minute and let the words sink in. Even subconsciously, he had found a way to protect you from something he couldn’t even protect himself from.

Something inside you buckled upon hearing this, and your eyes slowly filled with tears. It made sense, now that it was put into words. Even when you were swallowed by the shadow many weeks ago, there was something there, separating you from your most awful memories. Only now did you realize it was Bob the entire time.

“Bob,” You couldn’t manage much more than his name. How were you supposed to respond to something like that? It was conflicting. You should be touched by this, but touched really wasn’t a strong enough word. And the consideration that he held your well-being far above his own when he was so tormented was something difficult to swallow.

He didn’t really have anything to say either, so he just opened his arms, inviting you to him. You walked straight into them and buried your face in his chest. He was warm and comforting, the beat of his heart filling your ears. The moment you were there, he had his arms around you, folding you into the little space up against his body. A little guilt nudged you when your roles switched and he was the one comforting you, but he didn’t seem to mind. His hand went to your hair, smoothing it down in soft, gentle strokes.

“You mean a lot to me.” He spoke suddenly, in a voice so sure, it was surprising. You freed your head enough to look up at him. His eyes were strong and steady, different than you’d ever seen them before. You didn’t know the full extent of it, but just being with you was giving him everything he needed.

Once again, you were left wordless. There was nothing you could say that wouldn’t take away from the weight of his words, so you used your actions to speak.

Your head buried back into his chest, soaking up the warmth of his body. And then suddenly, a pair of lips pressed into the top of your head. That was something he’d never done before. The touch was so delicate it made you melt further into him, which you guessed was the desired reaction by the tightening of his arms.

After a long time there, only when your lack of sleep caught up to you, did you dare to move.

“You need rest.” Just a whisper from you as you took his hand again and led him to your bed. You felt his hesitation and reassured him. You would reassure him a hundred times if that’s what he needed.

Finally, he seemed to accept this and crawled into bed with you. Once he received one more ok, he tucked himself in close, enclosing you in his arms and, in turn, his protection. He held you like this as if there was some threat nearby he needed to keep you from.

This was the first time you felt him relax that night, all muscles melting down into the bed. “Thank you,” He told you as you ran your fingers comfortingly across his back; a thing you learned was his favorite, even if he wouldn't tell you.

“I’ll always be here, Bob.” You told him, feeling his breathing begin to slow. “Always.” He burrowed closer to you at your words. It gave him the bravery he needed to go back and face the world inside his head.

Warm, buried in blankets, and allowed the whole night to be this close with you. It’s more than he could have asked for. It seemed too good to be true, but the steady beat of your heart against his ear reminded him it was. 

Eventually, he felt himself give in to sleep. But before he was completely gone, he caught the whisper of your words, likely uttered after you thought he couldn’t hear. “You mean everything to me.”

With that, he was sent off into sleep. And for the first time in as long as he could remember, he had dreams. Real dreams. Dreams of you and all the joy, longing, and comfort you bring him.

It turns out the void was right. He couldn’t save himself. But now he realized he was never meant to. He had Yelena and Bucky and the rest of the team, but most of all, he had you. It was always you. You were the one who saved him from his mind and drove the shadows away from him. Because of you, for the very first time, he felt truly safe.

The nightmares began fade away. There would be more, of course. There always were. But now they couldn’t reach him so easily.

And you were always going to be there to keep it that way.

✵ Find my masterlist here

[flixpii]

Never Not Yours (ii)

part two

| fem!reader x remmick

word count : 15.2k

link to part one

A/N : Reading part one before part two is mandatory to understand.

synopsis : located in part one !

warnings (MDNI 18+) : blood/blood drinking, vampirism & supernatural themes, themes of loss & abandonment, unprotected sex (p in v), spit, fingering, soft dom remmick, praising, semi-riding?, trauma responses/dissociation, death/grief, i’m obsessed with iwtv and it shows

----

When you wake, it isn’t with a start.

It’s slower than that. Like drifting to the surface of a lake you didn’t know you’d sunk into.

Your eyes blink open to the soft spill of light bleeding through the curtains—hazy and warm, the kind of gold that only comes at the very start of morning. You rub your eyes with the heel of your palm, but the heaviness doesn’t leave right away. It clings to your ribs, your shoulders, your mouth.

Then—

A small whine. Faint, but growing.

You rise.

Feet cold against the wood as they carry you to the guest room, body still moving in that in-between state where sleep hasn’t quite let go of you yet. But when you step into the room, she’s already there.

Your sister.

She’s got your niece tucked against her shoulder, bouncing her gently with the kind of ease that makes you feel like a child again yourself. Her hand rubs the baby’s back in slow, patient circles, and your niece is already quieter, eyelids fluttering like she’s deciding whether she’s done crying or not.

“Good morning,” your sister says, turning her head. Her smile is small but warm, the kind that only sisters can offer without saying anything more. “Thanks for watchin’ her.”

You nod, voice still lost somewhere in your chest. But she doesn’t mind the silence—you can tell. She never did.

It doesn’t take long to gather everything. The bag with the bottles, the little blanket your niece never lets go of. Your sister hums as she works, adjusting the baby in her arms with practiced grace. And then, just before the door, she turns and places a kiss on your cheek—loud, wet, too wet—and you grimace instinctively.

“Ugh, get outta here,” you mutter, shooing her with a lazy flick of your hand.

She only laughs, full-bodied and familiar. “I’ll see you next week—don’t forget Mama’s birthday, or she’ll drag you over by the ear.”

Then she’s gone.

The door shuts.

The house settles.

And you are left in it—quiet, still, holding the ghost of her warmth in the hallway air.

The rest of the day drips forward like honey—thick and slow and mocking. The hours crawl, every minute stretching long and mean, like time itself is playing with you.

You try to busy your hands—folding laundry, washing a few dishes left from yesterday, wiping the counter that didn’t need it. But the weight behind your eyes lingers, and you find yourself glancing at the clock more than once, counting down to when you can lie back down.

To when you can close your eyes and see him again.

Even if it’s only a dream.

By the time the moon is high in the sky and casting its pale light across your floorboards, you’re finally heading to bed. The day has dragged every ounce of energy from your bones, but sleep still feels like something you’ll have to chase—not something that’ll come easy.

As you pass the front door, your steps slow.

You don’t mean to stop. But you do.

Right there, right in front of the door.

Your eyes land on it like they have a hundred times before—like they did the night he left, and every night since. And for a split second, just a flicker, you stare at it like it might open on its own.

You shake your head, lips pressing into a bitter smile as you mutter under your breath, “He’s not out there.”

You curse yourself for hoping.

The link between you had dulled—muted, like someone had drawn a curtain over it—but you still felt something now and then. Or maybe you just wanted to.

You start to turn toward your bedroom, foot already pivoting on the floor.

Knock.

You freeze.

The sound comes again.

Knock. Knock.

Your breath catches low in your throat, limbs locking into place as your heart—your very human heart—thrums against your ribs. You don’t even need to walk to the door. You already know.

Remmick.

You’d know that knock anywhere—slow, steady, like he’s never unsure of whether you’ll answer. Like he’s not asking to come in. Just letting you know he’s there.

Just like before.

You don’t move.

The knock fades into silence, and the silence stretches—long and thick like the air before a summer storm. Your breath stays lodged somewhere deep in your chest, like your body’s too unsure to exhale, like letting go of even that would be too much.

Still, you don’t move. Don’t answer.

The stillness creeps across the room, brushing over your skin and curling around your ankles, your wrists, the back of your neck. You swear the moonlight grows colder through the glass. Every shadow along the hallway wall feels like it’s leaning toward the door, waiting too.

And then—

His voice.

Soft. Low. Threaded with something quieter than regret, but heavier than apology.

“Can we talk?”

It’s muffled by the door, but it reaches you—wraps around your ribs like it always did. Like a pull.

Your brows furrow. Not from confusion. Not even from anger.

But from something deeper.

Because he’s knocking. And asking.

And that’s what catches you most.

He could come in. You know that.

You’d invited him in years ago—one soft-voiced, firelit evening, back when you didn’t know what it would mean. That invitation still lingered, invisible but unrevoked. If he really wanted to, he could step inside without asking. Walk through that door and into your life again like he never left it scattered.

But he doesn’t.

He waits.

Outside.

Quiet.

You stand there, bare feet cold against the floor, arms tucked tight around yourself like you’re trying to hold every piece of you in. You glance at the door again. You imagine him just behind it, hands in his pockets like he always did when he didn’t know what to do with them, coat pulled close around him like it could shield him from more than just weather.

You don't speak.

Not yet.

You’re not ready to make it easy. Not when it had been so hard.

And so you wait too, rooted to the spot—heart a soft tremor, breath shallow.

The silence between you grows heavy again.

But he doesn’t knock this time. He just waits.

The seconds stretch. Then a minute. Then maybe more.

You can’t tell anymore—time’s slipped sideways the way it always does when he’s near but not quite with you. Your eyes are fixed on the door, unblinking, like you’re waiting for it to vanish or open or burn.

His voice sounds again. Quieter this time. Rougher.

“Please… just talk to me.”

It’s not a demand. Not even a question, really.

It’s the sound of someone who’s been chasing a thought too long in his own head. Someone who used to never need to ask for your words, because they always came freely.

You inhale slowly, air passing through your teeth in a low hiss as your jaw tenses. You shift your weight, eyes dropping to the seam where the door meets the floor. His shadow flickers beneath it, unmoving but present.

When you finally answer, your voice isn’t cold—but it’s not warm either. It’s even. Still. Measured.

“I thought we already did.”

The words fall like stone—soft, but final. You don’t need to say more. You could, but you don’t.

Because you know he remembers. Two years ago. In this very spot.

That was a mistake.

You hadn’t heard from him since.

Your arms fold over your chest like instinct, like protection. And though your voice had come out steady, your throat feels tight now. Not with new pain, but with all the old ones left to fester too long in silence.

Outside, you hear nothing. Not a breath. Not a rustle of fabric. Not even him shifting.

Just more stillness.

But you know he’s there.

You stand still a moment longer, your heartbeat pulsing in your throat like it wants to climb out and reach for something that might still hurt.

Then— One foot steps forward.

Then the other.

Your breath catches in your chest again, not from fear, but from the ache that’s begun to spread just beneath your ribs. It always starts there when he’s near—like something bruised waking up again.

Your bare feet are nearly silent against the floor as you cross the space between you and the door. Every step feels louder than it should, though no sound echoes in the house except the soft creak of the wood under you. The moonlight reaches through the front window and brushes faintly over your skin, pale and silver like a ghost’s touch.

When you reach the door, you hesitate again.

And then—quietly, cautiously—you lift your hand.

Your palm presses flat against the wood.

It’s cool.

You don’t say a word. You don’t need to.

Because your touch is the first thing you’ve offered him in two years.

A simple gesture. A quiet contact. But it speaks. I’m listening.

The silence holds again. Longer this time. He doesn’t rush into it. Doesn’t pounce on the moment like you half expected he would. Maybe he’s just as surprised by it as you are.

And then—finally—

His voice again, but lower. Unsteady. A little rough at the edges, like he’s unraveling as he goes.

“I don’t expect forgiveness.”

He lets that hang.

Your fingers curl slightly against the door.

“I shouldn’t’ve left like I did. I just… I didn’t know how to be near you without wanting something I didn’t think I deserved.”

You can hear it in his voice—the effort. The fight to hold himself together. The weight of everything he’s not saying, pressing into the cracks.

He exhales once, slow and hard.

“I think about that night. Every goddamn day.”

Still, you don’t speak.

But your hand stays there, steady. Present.

He sighs again, quieter now. Not out of frustration. Out of guilt. 

Out of grief.

You stay still, hand against the wood, listening.

There’s something in the way the silence stretches now—not strained like before, but slow. Considered. Like he’s sorting through a thousand thoughts just to find one worth speaking aloud.

You don’t rush him. You never have. Not really. Even when it felt like you were pushing, all you ever wanted was the truth.

And now, after all this time, he’s trying to give it.

“I went north,” he says, finally.

His voice is quieter than before, like he’s not sure it matters. Like he half expects you to pull your hand away at any moment.

“Way up past the river, past the hills no one bothers naming anymore.”

You keep listening, eyes closed now.

“There’s a woman there… maybe a couple of them. Old ones. Real old.” A pause. “They remember things most folks forgot on purpose.”

His breath hitches slightly. Not dramatic. Just human.

“They knew about the kind of blood I carry. About how it… sticks to grief. How it holds on.”

You frown softly, not moving, but your hand presses just a little firmer into the wood, fingertips spread like you're trying to feel him through the barrier.

“I asked about them,” he says, voice low now. “My family. What was left of ‘em. If anything could bring 'em back.”

The word them lands heavy between you both, and for a moment, the silence tries to fold itself back around his throat.

“I thought if I found the right ones—learned the right things—I could fix it. Undo the curse. Or at least find a way to reach them again. But everything they told me… it came with a cost.”

Another pause. Deeper this time. Like he’s swallowing more than words.

“And I kept askin’ myself, what’s it worth?” He laughs once, but it’s hollow. “What’s it cost to keep wanting something dead to come back… when someone living wanted to stay?”

Your hand trembles.

“I thought if I stayed away long enough, you’d hate me. And if you hated me, you’d stop waitin’.”

There’s a rawness to his words now. A ragged, near-breaking edge he never let you hear before.

“But I never stopped waitin’ for you.”

A beat.

“I came back because… I couldn’t carry it anymore. The grief. The guilt. The silence.”

Your hand stays against the door.

Still not ready to open it.

But you don’t pull away either.

The silence presses soft between you again, but you don’t move.

You feel it—him—closer now. Not just through the wood or the faint echo of his voice in your chest, but deeper. Like his presence has slipped back into the hollow your heart made for him and settled there, breathing slowly.

And then—

“I used to sing,” he says.

You blink. You didn’t expect that.

“Back then… back when I still had a heartbeat. When I still had callouses on my fingers from playin’ every night.” A faint laugh. “Didn’t matter where—fields, riverbanks, dirt-floored kitchens. My people used to say I could pull grief from the bones of a man with a tune.”

He pauses. Not because he’s lost in thought. Because it hurts to say it.

“But when I lost them… when I became what I am—I couldn’t do it no more. I’d pick up the fiddle or hum a note and it’d come out hollow. Empty.” His voice cracks, just slightly. “You can’t sing grief if you’ve become it.”

Your hand curls against the wood, fingers dragging gently down the grain.

He’s still on the other side. You can feel the shape of him shifting closer.

“I tried, darlin’. I tried to find a way back into it… back into who I was. But that man is dead. Has been for a long time.”

You swallow hard, breath held like it might fall apart if you let it go.

“And then I met you.”

The words are quiet. 

“And suddenly, I remembered what it felt like. Not to be human—but to want to be. To ache for it. To crave all those stupid, beautiful things I can’t have.”

You feel it then—his presence pressed just beyond the door, a stillness that isn’t empty anymore, but full of something unbearably tender.

“I hated it sometimes. Hated you for it, in my worst moments. Not because you did anything wrong—but because you reminded me of me. The me I lost.”

His voice is softer now, like if he says it any louder it’ll crumble between you both.

“But it wasn’t your fault. It never was. And I’m sorry I let you believe it might’ve been.”

Another breath.

Then:

“You were special.”

Your breath catches.

“You are special.”

The words don’t falter.

“And meeting you? Loving you?” He leans his forehead against the door now, you can feel the weight of it, even if you can’t see him. “It wasn’t a mistake. It was the first thing that ever felt like grace.”

The silence between you aches.

And then he finishes, voice low, rough, but steady:

“I’d burn in the sun a thousand times if it meant meeting you in every lifetime.”

Silence falls again.

Not empty.

Not cold.

But full—brimming with everything that’s never been said, everything that was said too late, and everything they both held in for far too long.

You don’t say a word.

Not yet.

Your hand is still on the door, the wood warm now beneath your palm from where he’s leaning on the other side. You can almost feel the curve of his brow against it, the slow, uneven breaths he’s trying so hard to steady.

The hallway is still.

You can hear the wind brushing soft through the trees outside.

And then—

“…Say somethin’,” he whispers, almost too low to catch.

There’s no demand in it.

Just hope. Raw and quiet. The kind that trembles at the edge of ruin.

You stay still for a moment longer, lashes low, heart thudding in the hollows where his voice touched. And then—without speaking—you turn the knob, slow and careful, like the moment might vanish if you moved too fast.

The door creaks open an inch.

Then another.

And another.

Until there he is.

Standing just outside in the soft silver of moonlight, his coat dusted with it like ash. And, even though you saw him the previous night, it’s as if you’re seeing him again now. His hair is a little messier than you remembered. His shoulders sag as though they’ve been carrying grief by the armful. And his eyes—God, his eyes—they find yours like they never stopped looking.

The look he gives you is almost awed.

He doesn’t step forward.

He just stands there, breathing in the sight of you like it’s the first moment he’s felt alive in centuries.

You stand there, the door open between you, air moving slow as honey through the space. His eyes don’t leave yours. Not once. And it almost breaks you—how familiar he still is. How ruined.

You part your lips, but nothing comes out. Not yet.

So much lives in your chest—grief, longing, rage, love—all tangled together like threads knotted too tight to unravel in one breath.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the doorknob. You inhale. Exhale. He waits.

And then, softly, your voice begins—scratchy, like it's being pulled from somewhere deep, unused.

“I used to… stand at this door,” you say, eyes not leaving his. “Almost every night.”

His expression doesn’t change, but his chest rises like the breath costs him something.

“I’d stare out past the porch, past the trees. Wondering if you’d come back. Wondering if you even could.”

The ache that lives in the curve of your words makes his throat work. But still, he says nothing.

“I thought maybe I made you up.” Your laugh is small and wet, trembling at the end. “That maybe I dreamed you and none of it happened. That I was crazy.”

He shifts like he wants to speak, but you lift a hand—not to stop him, but to steady yourself.

“I hated you,” you say, and the words crack, not from anger, but from how hard they were to hold in. “I hated you for leaving. For making me feel like it was all in my head. For saying I wasn’t enough.”

Remmick flinches at that. His shoulders draw in slightly, eyes darkening with quiet pain.

“But more than that…” your breath trembles. “I hated how much I still loved you through it.”

The silence that follows is thick and fragile—like a held breath.

He stares at you with a grief so human it undoes something in your chest. His lips part, but no sound comes at first. Just a look—one that says I know. I know. I know.

And then, gently, he speaks—like every word has to step carefully through the broken glass between you.

“I never stopped thinkin’ about you.”

The way he says it isn’t dramatic. It’s not pretty or poised. It’s a confession scraped raw.

“I never stopped feeling it,” he adds. “Even when I tried to forget. Even when I told myself I had to.”

His voice wavers then. Breaks like something inside him gave out just a little.

You don’t move. You can’t.

And neither does he.

You just stand there in the hollow space between distance and closeness, the quiet pulsing around you like a heartbeat only the two of you can hear.

The air between you tightens, saturated with everything left unsaid—every night you dreamt of him, every hour he walked with your voice in his head like a hymn he couldn’t silence.

The wind stirs faintly around you both. A soft rustle in the trees. A far-off howl of a nightbird. But neither of you move.

You’re both too afraid to.

His eyes glint beneath the porch light—darker now, as if holding too many thoughts behind them. He shifts slightly on his feet, not stepping forward, but the motion alone makes your throat ache.

“I didn’t know how to come back,” he admits, voice low and hoarse. “I thought maybe… maybe too much time passed. Maybe you’d moved on. Maybe you hated me.”

Your gaze lowers to the space between your bare feet and the porch planks, your voice dry with disbelief. “You think you’re that forgettable?”

There’s no humor in it—until there is.

A laugh bubbles out of you—choked, messy, and broken around the edges. It falls from your mouth in a staggered breath, sharp with irony and soaked in tears that haven’t quite fallen yet.

“God,” you laugh, swiping quickly beneath your eye. “You think I’d just… get over you? Like I could go down to the general store and pick up a new man who growls at my neck and broods in my rocking chair?”

You hiccup softly, caught between crying and laughing.

Remmick’s head bows slightly. His shoulders hunch like the sound of your laugh wraps around his ribs too tightly, like it hurts and heals all at once.

He glances down at his boots, the barest shake of his head giving him away.

And then—just faintly—his mouth curls into a small, crooked smile. Not a smug one. Not confident. Just… soft.

Like the sound of you laughing—even through tears—was the one thing he thought he’d never hear again.

His smile lingers only a second before it falls into something more serious—his gaze rising to meet yours again, like he’s bracing for the weight of what he’s about to say.

“I didn’t think you’d still want me,” he says, and it’s so quiet you almost miss it.

Your breath catches.

“I thought maybe… I’d ruined it for good.” He lifts his eyes fully now, and the rawness in them strikes you still. “And maybe I did. But I’ve spent two years with nothin’ but ghosts and silence, wishin’ it was this instead. You. That porch light. Your voice.”

He lets out a soft breath, his hands clenched at his sides like he’s forcing himself to stay still. “I know I don’t deserve to ask. But if you’ll let me in… just for a little while… I won’t take it for granted.”

You don’t respond right away.

You just look at him.

And he looks right back.

A long, stretching silence builds between you, but it doesn’t buckle. It holds. Carries the weight of two years. Of every word spoken and unspoken. Every ache. Every night spent with your backs turned to the world, thinking of each other.

Then—slowly, silently—you step back.

Just once.

Just enough.

The motion says more than words could.

It’s not forgiveness. Not entirely. But it’s something. Something warm and breaking open and tired of hurting.

Remmick doesn’t rush.

He steps forward carefully, crossing the threshold like he’s afraid the moment might vanish if he moves too fast.

The door closes with a soft, final click.

The sound feels louder than it is. Like it seals something in.

Neither of you speak as the quiet settles around the room, sinking into the walls, into the floor, into the soft shuffle of his boots on worn wood.

You stand just a few feet away, your arms folded loosely over your stomach—less for protection, more for the ache of holding something in for too long.

Remmick’s eyes are still on you. Not hungrily. Not pleading. Just... watching.

He takes a slow step forward, and then another. Until the space between you is close enough for your breath to meet his in the stillness.

His hands rise—hesitant, trembling slightly at the fingertips. He doesn’t touch you right away. They hover in the air, open, as if he’s scared the motion alone might send you shattering.

His voice doesn’t come. Only the unspoken ask in his gaze.

Your breath hitches softly. You look at his hands—those familiar hands—and then at him.

And then you lift your own.

Without a word, you cup his hands in yours and press them gently to your cheeks.

A breath leaves his chest. Not sharp. Not heavy. Just… relieved.

Like in that one touch, the part of him that’s been screaming for years finally goes quiet.

His palms cradle your face fully now, thumbs brushing faintly beneath your eyes, catching the faint traces of earlier tears. His skin is still cool, but not unkind. Familiar in a way no one else’s ever was.

He leans in just a little. Not for a kiss. Just to be closer.

His thumbs brush slowly over your cheeks, like he’s not sure if he’s trying to wipe away old tears or memorize where they once were. He doesn't rush a word, doesn’t even try to fill the silence. It’s heavy between you, but not unbearable. Not anymore.

His forehead dips until it’s nearly touching yours, breath warm and even. You can feel the tremble in his fingers where they rest against your skin. The kind of tremble that doesn’t come from weakness—but from restraint. 

“I didn’t think I’d ever get this close to you again,” he whispers, voice rough around the edges like gravel softened by rain. “Didn’t think I’d be allowed to.”

Your eyes close briefly, as if to steady something inside you. Your hands tighten just slightly over his.

“But you are,” you say softly, not quite steady. “You are now.”

The silence that follows isn’t sharp or awkward. It’s full. Full of ache and years and everything unspoken between the lines of your lives.

Remmick swallows hard, like he’s trying to move something impossible down his throat. His voice breaks a little when he speaks again. “I thought pushing you away was the only way to keep you safe. From me. From what I’ve become.”

You draw in a breath, your hands releasing his long enough to slide down and rest lightly at his wrists.

“You didn’t just push me away,” you say. “You tore something out of me and walked off with it.”

His eyes search yours. Regret sits heavy in them, but it’s not the kind of regret that fades—it’s the kind that lives in a man. That builds inside him.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know, and I’ve carried it every day since.”

You study him. The lines in his face. The weight in his shoulders. The way his mouth presses into something tight, like it’s holding back everything he hasn’t said yet.

“You don’t get to come back and say it like it’s simple,” you murmur. “You don’t get to touch me like this if it’s going to be goodbye again.”

His hands tremble again, and this time he doesn’t try to hide it. He lowers them from your face and presses your hands between his palms, holding them like a prayer he doesn’t believe in—but needs anyway.

“I don’t want goodbye,” he says, barely more than breath. “I want what I ruined. I want to fix what I broke.”

You stare at him for a long time. You can feel the truth of him thrumming beneath his skin, even without a pulse. It’s there in his eyes, his voice, the way his fingers hold you like you’re made of something devine.

But it’s not that easy. You both know it.

So you ask, barely louder than the breath between you:

“What does that even look like, Remmick?”

He doesn't answer right away.

Instead, he presses his forehead gently to yours and exhales like he’s still figuring it out himself. Like saying it aloud might collapse whatever fragile hope he’s found just by standing here with you.

“I don’t know yet,” he admits. “But I’ll spend every night I’ve got tryin’ to find out. If you’ll let me.”

Your throat tightens.

And for a moment, you don’t speak. You just breathe.

You slowly lower your hands from his. He doesn’t let go—his fingers linger, tracing lightly down the backs of yours until they rest still again. And then, without a word, you lean in. Closer. Letting the air between you disappear until your arms slip around him, wrapping tight around his waist.

He exhales sharply—something between relief and disbelief—as your cheek presses to his chest.

You melt into the hug like it’s the first warmth you’ve felt in years. Like he’s something solid in a world that’s been shifting beneath your feet.

His arms come around you in return, tentative at first, then tighter. Strong. Holding you as though he knows you could slip away again.

And just as you begin to close your eyes, nestling into the curve of his neck, a soft crinkle sounds—barely audible, but there.

Your brows pinch. You lean back just enough to speak, voice muffled with affection.

“…Was that your bus ticket?”

It’s the most fragile kind of joke. But it cuts through the weight like a knife made of light. You lift your head, and your eyes find his.

He’s smiling.

Barely, but it’s there—small, crooked, and real. The kind of smile that makes your throat ache.

He reaches into the inside pocket of his coat without a word. There’s a faint rustle as he pulls something out. A folded piece of paper, edges fraying from time and wear. He holds it between his fingers for a second too long, as if it hurts to give it up.

Then he presses it into your hand.

You glance at him, then down, and slowly begin to unfold the paper. The creases part like seams worn by memory, and when it opens, your breath stutters in your throat.

It’s your sketch.

The sun.

Drawn in charcoal and smudged by your own fingers years ago. The same piece you had given him before he left, hoping it would be enough to remind him of what he couldn’t see anymore. Of what you saw in him.

“I kept it,” he says softly. “Even when I tried to forget you—I couldn’t throw it away.”

Your fingers tighten gently around the page, eyes tracing the lines like they’re alive.

“I thought you’d left it behind,” you whisper, not even realizing how much that thought had haunted you.

He shakes his head, slow.

“It’s the only thing that kept me together.”

The paper trembles slightly in your hand. You look up at him, and for a moment, neither of you speak.

———————

The months had passed slowly—like syrup in winter, thick and reluctant—but they passed all the same. And with time, you and Remmick began the quiet, careful work of relearning each other.

Not because the love ever faded. No, that had remained, stubborn as ever—woven into your bones like threads of old sunlight.

But loving and living are two different things.

You weren’t relearning how to feel. You were relearning how to exist beside one another without flinching at ghosts. How to breathe in the same room without wondering when the next ache would crack open between you.

There are still moments of distance. Still nights when his silence stretches long, and you find him sitting on the porch staring at the moon like it’s taunting him.

Still days when your chest tightens with the memory of him walking away—your hands aching with the muscle memory of reaching for someone who wouldn’t stay.

But more and more, there are twilight hours where he watches you from the shadows of the room, brushing your hair back once the sun has finally dipped, just to see the way you soften in sleep.

Evenings where he lets himself laugh, really laugh, like he hasn’t in a long time.

Moments where you both sit in shared quiet, not because you’re afraid to speak, but because you don’t have to.

The sharp edges are dulling.

And in their place, something softer begins to bloom. Not new love, but rooted love. The kind that has weathered storms and still dares to grow.

The hearth crackles—barely.

Flickers of orange light dance across the walls like shy ghosts, faltering with every gust of wind that slips through the cracks in the old house. Remmick crouches before it, jaw tight, his brows knit together in focused frustration. A few dry logs sit piled beside him, and a single flame sputters in protest beneath the kindling he’s rearranged for the third time now.

You’re curled up on the couch beneath a woven blanket, cheek pressed against the back cushion, watching him with the kind of quiet amusement only earned after years of knowing someone. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, the hem of his shirt untucked slightly from where he’s shifted too much.

“Come on,” he mutters, leaning in to blow gently at the ember. The smoke curls upward in a sulky twist, and when it doesn’t catch, he curses under his breath—soft, but unmistakably annoyed.

You bite your lip, the corners of your mouth twitching with held-back laughter.

“Need help?” you ask, feigning innocence as your fingers toy with the fringe of the blanket.

“I don’t need help,” he grumbles, poking at the logs again like the problem lies in their arrangement and not in the fact that he’s always had the patience of a storm.

“You’ve been fighting that fire for thirty minutes.”

“Feels longer.”

“It looks worse.”

He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes narrowed. The shadows cast by the hearthlight make his face look more hollow than usual, but you catch the glint of amusement there too—barely veiled beneath his frustration.

“You wanna come do it?”

“Nope,” you answer, already smiling. “It’s more fun watching you lose.”

He scoffs and sits back on his heels, wiping his hands on the thighs of his pants. The fire sputters again, then settles into a faint glow—just enough to make the room look warmer than it is.

You reach for the extra blanket on the armrest and unfold it in your lap, then pat the cushion beside you.

“Leave it,” you say gently. “Come sit. We’ll survive one cold night.”

He hesitates, but something in your voice—your quiet, teasing invitation—pulls him in. He stands, dusts his hands, and makes his way to you. When he sits, the couch dips under his weight, and without asking, you tuck the blanket around both of you.

He shifts close, shoulder brushing yours, then lets his arm settle behind you. You lean into him easily, like it’s muscle memory now. Like your body always knew how to find his.

The fire behind the glass dims again.

But here, wrapped in warmth not made by flame, it doesn’t seem to matter at all.

The warmth of the blankets doesn’t match the kind that passes between you. His arm is snug around your shoulders, your hand resting lightly against his chest where you can feel the stillness beneath his shirt—no heartbeat, no thrum. Just the steady rise and fall of breath, borrowed for your sake. The only sound in the room is the occasional crackle from the hearth and the wind brushing against the windowpanes.

Remmick’s head dips down slowly.

You feel his breath before you feel the kiss—soft, deliberate—placed right at the crown of your head. He lingers there a moment, nose brushing against your hair as he breathes you in. You feel the faintest smile against your scalp.

“It’s gotten longer,” he murmurs, voice quiet and thoughtful.

Your eyes flutter closed for a moment, comfort washing over you. But then you hear the next words, softer still, tucked into the moment like something too heavy to name.

“I think I’ve found people.”

You stir gently, lifting your head from where it’s rested against him to glance up, eyes narrowing faintly in question.

“What kind of people?”

He hesitates. You feel it first in the slight shift of his body, like he’s weighing the truth on his tongue. When he speaks, his voice is low, edged with something like reverence.

“The Choctaw Natives,” he says slowly. “They helped us—the Irish during the famine. Gave what they had when they had nothing.”

You blink, unsure where this thread is leading. “Remmick…” you prompt, brows pulling together. “What are you talking about?”

He sits up a little more, hand sliding from your shoulder to your back. His eyes flit away for the briefest moment before they find yours again, steady this time, like the truth’s finally ready to surface.

“There are some… storytellers. Firekeepers,” he begins. “Just like the filí. Like what I used to be. They can pierce the veil, same way I did with the harp… with song, with rhythm. They don’t speak to the dead, not like séances or grave witches—but they open the space. For a moment. Just enough to bring something forward.”

Your name leaves his lips as if he's trying to anchor you with it—quiet and unsure.

You watch him closely, shoulders tense, trying to read the shape of his hope.

“Remmick…” you murmur again, voice trailing, a hesitant tilt to your tone.

“I could find them,” he says, more to the air between you than directly to you. “I could find someone. Someone who could help me cross over… just for a moment. Long enough to find them. To speak to them.”

There’s a long pause, and then you look away.

“Are you leaving again?” you ask it without venom, but the fear that laces your voice is palpable.

He stiffens. For a second he doesn’t answer.

Then his hand comes up, slow and deliberate, fingertips brushing your jaw as he gently turns your face back toward him. You let him.

“I’m not leaving you again,” he says, firm and low, the vow more like a breath than a promise.

You search his eyes, letting yourself get lost in them for just a second before the ache inside you rises again.

“Do you even know where they are?” you ask, not quite accusatory—just tired. Wanting the truth.

He sighs, the kind of sound that sounds like surrender.

“Mississippi.”

Your eyebrows lift before the word tumbles out of your mouth, quiet but disbelieving. “Mississippi?”

He nods, lips pressed together, watching your expression like it might shift the ground beneath him.

You sit there in silence, the flicker of the dying hearth casting shadows across both of your faces.

“Mississippi,” you repeat again, slower this time. “You want to go all the way out there chasing a ghost?”

His jaw shifts at that, but he doesn’t answer. You lean back a little, just enough to put some space between you—not too much, but enough to let the weight of your words settle.

“And what if it’s just a story?” you ask, voice soft but tinged with sharpness. “What if there’s nothing there?”

His gaze hardens slightly, and you know that look—it’s the one he wears when he’s trying not to say something too raw.

“I have to try,” he says simply.

You shake your head, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “And leave everything behind again? Just for a maybe?”

His lips part like he wants to explain it, soften it somehow, but instead he says, “It’s not about leaving. You know it’s not.”

“No? Because it sure as hell feels like it,” you bite back, though your voice trembles at the end. “You say you’re not leaving, but you’re already talking about ‘finding them’ like I’m not even part of it.”

He doesn’t move. He just watches you—lets the words land. You think you see something flicker in his eyes, but he blinks and it’s gone.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and it’s not dismissive. It’s not even a retreat. It’s genuine. But it doesn’t make the ache go away.

You look down at your hands in your lap, fingers curling into the edge of the blanket.

“I just…” you start, but your voice fails you. You try again, quieter this time. “I wish I could’ve given that to you.”

The silence that follows is different. Not cold. Not distant. Just full—dense with everything unspoken.

You feel the couch shift as he moves, his hand reaching for yours but pausing in midair.

“You’ve given me more than anyone ever has,” he says, voice low, nearly a whisper. “Don’t twist yourself up thinking you haven’t.”

You meet his gaze again, and your heart cracks just a little more. Because in all the years you’ve known him—through grief, through loss, through blood and silence and time—it’s that look right there that always undoes you. The way he looks at you like you’re already enough, even when he’s breaking apart inside.

You reach out and take his hand in yours. He exhales, slow and relieved, and the argument—if you can even call it that—melts away like fog.

You settle back against him without a word, the argument thinning into silence like dust in warm lamplight. His arm curls around you again, drawing you close until your back is pressed to his chest, the steady rise and fall of your breath the only rhythm between you.

The fire has dulled to a glow, no longer crackling, but humming low—like it's listening too.

Your head finds that familiar place just beneath his chin, and he lowers it instinctively, lips brushing the crown of your head as he exhales through his nose. It’s a quiet sound, but full of thought. Maybe guilt. Maybe gratitude. Maybe just the weight of everything that’s passed between you.

Outside, the wind rustles through the trees, and you can just make out the faint creak of the porch as it shifts with the cold. But in here, wrapped in the circle of his arms, you feel no chill. Just the beat of the moment stretching longer, deeper.

He pulls the blanket up a bit higher around your shoulders. His fingers find the ends of your hair and toys with them absently.

“I thought of this,” he murmurs softly, “on nights when it grew to be too much to be away from you. The quiet. The warmth.”

You don’t answer. You just press your hand over his arm and squeeze.

The weight of the months—the years—feels lighter here, in this small corner of time where nothing is asked of you but to rest.

And so, you do.

The night deepens.

The fire sighs.

And you both stay like that, not speaking, not needing to, letting the silence do what words never could.

———————

The nights are warmer now. 

The moon spills across the floor in a pale wash, catching the edge of the couch in a soft silver hue. It dances across your skin when you lean forward again, brushing your mouth over his—slow, deep, aching.

His hands tighten around your waist like he’s grounding himself with your body alone. His fingers flex where they rest against the curve of you, not desperate, but adoring. Like holding you still helps him breathe.

You whisper his name back, breath catching as you feel the hard line of him beneath you, feel the tremble in his thighs as your hips roll forward again. His head falls back once more, exposing the column of his throat in the moonlight, and you can't help but follow it with your lips, dragging a kiss down the slope of his jaw to the point just below his ear.

A low sound rumbles in his chest, something between a moan and a sigh—your favorite kind of sound. The kind that says he feels everything you’re giving.

"You're not real," he murmurs, dazed and drunk on you. “Sometimes I swear I dreamed you up.”

You smile against his neck, teeth barely grazing the skin there before you press a kiss in apology. His hands rise, slow and warm, until one cups the back of your neck, fingers rubbing at the flesh as you sit up just enough to meet his eyes again.

"You're real enough for the both of us," you whisper back.

The room is quiet, save for your breaths and the quiet creak of the couch beneath your movement. The air smells faintly of smoke and skin, and the tension between your bodies hums—not rushed, not sharp, but steady, a low, intimate burn.

His eyes trace the shape of your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. Like even after everything, you’re still his only anchor.

And beneath the glow of the moonlight, as you rock against him with the kind of slow, intentional rhythm that’s more about closeness than climax, it feels like time folds in on itself—like the past and present blur at the edges until nothing exists but this.

When his hips rise to meet yours, the friction is just right—hot, slow, unrelenting. A breathless moan tumbles from your lips before you can catch it, your fingers curling tightly around his wrist, grounding yourself as the pleasure pulses through you.

“Remmick…” you whisper, like his name is a lifeline. Like it’s the only thing holding you steady as the world narrows to the way he touches you, the way his body answers yours like instinct.

His other hand moves with purpose, gliding beneath the hem of your nightgown, the tips of his fingers barely grazing the soft warmth of your skin as he travels higher—leaving behind a path of heat. You shiver when he finally reaches the place where your thigh curves into your hip, his palm settling there with a quiet kind of adoration, like he's worshipped this moment in thought a thousand times.

The breath between you thickens, and before either of you can say a word, his head lifts and his mouth finds yours again.

This kiss is different.

It’s deeper. Slower. Less like a hunger and more like a need. He kisses you like he’s remembering the shape of your lips. Like he’s trying to taste all the months he’d been without you, all the quiet nights where the thought of your voice was the only thing that kept him sane.

Your hand comes up to his cheek, your thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw as you melt into the kiss. Your body moves of its own accord, hips rolling again in tandem with his, like you’ve both been waiting for this rhythm—for this closeness—to return for far too long.

His breath stutters as his lips break from yours only to kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw. You feel his whisper against your skin, barely more than a breath.

“I missed you everywhere.”

The kiss deepens as your fingers slide from his cheek to the back of his neck, threading through his hair like you’ve done a hundred times before—like it’s the only way to tether yourself to this moment. His hand curls more firmly at your hip, anchoring you there, and you feel the subtle tremble in his grip, the restraint threaded through his every movement.

Your nightgown shifts higher as he touches you—his palm now smoothing across the small of your back, then lower, molding you closer to him. The warmth of him seeps through the thin cotton barrier between you, and the way his hips roll up into yours—steady, slow, deliberate—draws a soft, desperate whimper from the back of your throat.

Your mouth breaks from his just long enough to gasp in air. His lips don’t stray far. They trail down—featherlight kisses at first—along your jaw, your neck, the slope of your shoulder. Each one lingers like a promise. His fangs don’t graze you this time. He’s careful, too careful, as if he knows any slip of control might unravel him completely.

You can feel it—how tightly he’s holding the reins.

And that knowing only makes your body burn hotter.

His voice comes next, low and rough against your collarbone.

“Say it again,” he whispers, breath fanning across your skin. “Say my name.”

“Remmick…” you breathe, barely audible, your fingers flexing in his hair.

A sound rumbles deep in his chest, nearly a growl but tempered with something softer—need, the ache of loving someone too deeply to rush it.

He pulls back to look at you then, hands gripping your waist, thumbs brushing just beneath your ribs. His eyes are dark, glinting with something primal, but there’s nothing threatening in the way he watches you—only awe. Like he can’t believe you’re real. Like every time he touches you, he expects you to vanish.

The air between you charges, heavy with want. With trust.

And then he moves.

Not fast. Not rough. Just enough.

He shifts his hips again, and this time, you feel the full pressure of him through the fabric. It punches a soft moan from your lips and has your head tilting forward to rest against his. His hands slide higher, ghosting the sides of your ribs until his thumbs graze the underside of your breasts, and your back arches instinctively into him.

“Please…” you murmur, unsure what you’re begging for—more friction, more touch, more of him.

His mouth finds yours again, but it’s different now.

Open. Consuming. A kiss that steals breath, that makes your stomach flip and your pulse thrum wildly under your skin.

And still, somehow, it feels gentle.

Like he’s trying to memorize this version of you—needy and giving and soft beneath the moonlight.

Your breath catches the moment his hand slips lower, fingers trailing along the curve of your inner thigh—slow, unhurried. The way he touches you is like he's learning you all over again, even though he already knows every inch, every tremble, every sound you make when you're this close to falling apart.

His forehead rests against yours, breath mingling with your own as his fingertips graze the sensitive skin, circling the heat there without rushing, without taking. Just touching. Just being.

You whimper softly, hips shifting, and your thighs part just a little more to guide him in. Your hand, still clinging to his wrist, tightens like you're trying to steady yourself in the weight of his presence.

His lips hover near your cheek, brushing kisses that aren't quite kisses—soft and gentle. “You’re so warm,” he murmurs, voice barely a breath, as if he’s awed every time by how alive you are. “So alive.”

His fingers stroke gently, still outside your underwear, the slow rhythm of his touch coaxing your body to melt even more against his. He presses a kiss to your temple as your chest begins to rise and fall faster.

“Remmick,” you whisper again, voice thick with want and something more tender beneath it—trust, love, the ache of holding him this close.

You feel him swallow, feel his restraint in the way his jaw clenches beneath your hand where it rests on his neck.

He shifts under you just slightly, angling closer, his other hand splayed wide at your lower back, anchoring you to him like he doesn’t want you to drift away.

And you won’t.

You press your face into the crook of his neck, sighing shakily against his skin, as his fingers finally slide beneath the edge of the cotton, brushing the bare heat of you in full.

Your whole body stills—tense, trembling, anticipating.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

You feel it in his hands.

In the way he touches you like you’re something to be held, not broken.

In the way he waits for the small gasp that escapes your lips when he finally moves—slow, aching strokes that make your hips twitch and your thighs clench around his wrist.

He presses his mouth to your hair and breathes you in, as if grounding himself in the scent of you.

Your moan slips out before you can catch it—soft and open, breathy against his neck—as his finger slowly sinks into you.

He moves with care, like he’s not just touching your body, but something deeper. His other hand steadies at your waist, thumb gently rubbing small circles there as if to soothe you through the growing tension low in your belly.

You shudder against him, fingers tightening in his hair, and he lets out a low sound—almost a groan, almost a prayer.

“Just like that,” he whispers, voice thick with feeling, not lust alone, but something older, heavier—something that’s lived in him. “You’re perfect, just like this.”

He curls his finger inside you, just once, testing the give of you, the way your body reacts to him. The way your hips press down, chasing more, like instinct.

Your forehead leans into his, noses brushing, and the air between your mouths grows hotter, wetter. You feel his breath stutter, and then his lips ghost over yours without quite kissing you, as if he wants to watch your face as he moves inside you—wants to see what you feel.

Another moan rises up, deeper this time, as he begins a slow rhythm—unhurried, just enough to draw you into that familiar ache, the one that lingers right between comfort and desperation.

Your thighs tense slightly around his hand, your chest rising and falling as your free hand slides up his chest, over the strong line of his collarbone, gripping his shoulder to anchor yourself.

“I missed you like this,” he murmurs, lips brushing the corner of your mouth.

The heat spreads through you like rising water—slow at first, then all-consuming. It starts where he touches you, where he presses inside with steady, deliberate care, and flows outward, blooming across your chest, your throat, your cheeks.

Your breath stutters as your hips move with his hand, seeking more, no longer shy in your want. A soft whimper slips from your mouth, and when you feel his forehead press to yours again, you know he heard it. You feel him savor it.

You’d never gone this far before.

Every time you'd come close—every time you were spread over him, breathless and trembling, right on the edge—he’d always stop. Pull away, kiss your shoulder with apology laced between his lips. His hands would tremble. His voice would crack with restraint. You’d feel it in the air around him: the fear. The desperation not to break something he loved too much to lose.

But now… now he doesn’t stop.

His hand stays steady at your hip while his other keeps working you open, slow and sure, drawing those soft sounds from your lips like music. His thumb brushes lightly against you, sending sparks up your spine. Your body jerks slightly, then arches into him, and the way his eyes track every shift of your expression—it makes you feel known. 

He watches you like he’s starved for the sight of you.

And when your mouth falls open, a gasp catching on your tongue, his own lips part, a quiet sound breaking free from his chest that sounds almost like your name—ragged and hoarse.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with restraint. “You want me to stop?”

You don’t answer right away. You just press your forehead harder to his, lips brushing. Then, barely louder than a breath:

“No.”

That one word unravels something in him. You feel it.

His hand tightens at your waist, grounding you as he curls his finger again—slightly deeper, slightly firmer—pulling another moan from your throat that makes your legs tremble around him. Your nails drag softly along the back of his neck, and he shudders, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as if to anchor himself.

He’s still afraid. You can feel it beneath the surface—how careful he’s being, how each movement is deliberate. But it doesn’t stop him.

Because for once, he lets himself believe he won’t ruin you.

And you, wrapped around him like this, letting him in without hesitation, feel something warm crack open inside you. Not just desire—though it’s there, heady and pulsing—but trust. The kind that breaks you open. The kind that feels like falling and knowing you’ll be caught.

His lips find yours again, and this time, the kiss is deeper—needier.

His breath stirs against your cheek as his finger stills for the briefest moment, and then—

He pushes in a second finger.

The stretch is slow, careful, but the heat coils low in your belly all the same—tighter, deeper now. Your lips part on a sigh that brushes against his neck as you drop your head onto his shoulder, mouth barely grazing his skin.

Your body shudders, not from cold, but from the weight of sensation—the pressure of him inside you, the warmth of his hand holding you steady, the way your thighs tighten around his hips. He’s so still, letting you feel everything. Letting you adjust. Letting you lead.

And so you do.

You roll your hips—slow, deliberate, seeking friction, chasing the pleasure blooming inside of you. The movement drags a soft moan from your throat, one you try to stifle into his shirt but fail.

Remmick groans low in his chest, and the sound vibrates against your cheek where it rests. You feel the tension in his body—how he holds himself together only by a fraying thread.

But his fingers… they don’t stop. They begin to move again, slow at first, in time with your hips, drawing a slick rhythm between you. Every stroke sends sparks fluttering beneath your skin, makes your toes curl, your fingers clutch gently at the fabric over his chest.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “So perfect for me.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

You barely register the movement—just the shift of his wrist, the soft glide of his palm adjusting. But then his thumb finds it.

That aching bundle of nerves already so swollen with want, so tender from the slow friction building between your thighs—and when he presses down, light at first, you jolt.

A cry escapes your mouth before you can swallow it, high and breathless, your body arching against his with a force that surprises even you. His name falls from your lips like a gasp, tangled in the heat of your breath, and your fingers tighten in his shirt as if it’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

“Remmick—”

He groans at the sound, deep and guttural, like your voice strikes something inside him he can’t quite name. His fingers don’t stop. He draws slow, deliberate circles with his thumb, coaxing your body to open further for him, slick and ready and warm beneath his hand.

You’re trembling now, thighs trying to close around his wrist, overwhelmed by the pressure building and building, the steady drag of his fingers inside you, the wet sounds of it, the way his other hand slides up your back to hold you closer, grounding you.

Your head drops against his shoulder again, but this time it’s not soft. It’s heavy. Boneless.

You can’t keep still. Your hips roll in slow, desperate motions, riding the rhythm of his hand. Chasing it. Needing it.

“You feel that?” he whispers, voice thick with awe and heat, “How you’re falling apart for me?”

A whimper bubbles up in your throat and his mouth is on your temple again, lips moving between kisses and quiet curses.

“I wish you could see yourself.”

You feel like you’re on the edge of something—like the ground is gone beneath you, and the only thing keeping you from falling is him, his hand, his mouth, the low murmur of your name as he worships you with every breath.

The movement of his fingers slows, easing to a near stop, and it’s enough to make your lashes flutter open. You blink through the haze of pleasure, chest rising with shallow breaths. Your lips part to question why—but before you can speak, he leans in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“Do you want to go further?”

The words are soft, barely above a whisper, but the weight of them sends heat curling up your spine like flame licking up dry wood. His breath is warm against your skin, and for a second, your body stills—caught between instinct and desire. But then you nod, once, and it trembles.

“Yes,” you breathe, the word thin but certain.

A quiet sound leaves him—one where he’s barely keeping himself grounded. Gently, he shifts you, and your body moves with his, pliant and trusting, as he reaches down to undo the buckle of his pants.

You watch, wide-eyed and breathless, your thighs still clamped around his as he slides the leather strap free, the metal catch letting out a muted clink. Every second feels like an hour—thick with anticipation, your heart thudding in your throat like a drum that won’t still.

He frees himself slowly, drawing himself out with practiced ease, and when you finally see him—hard, flushed, thick—you suck in a breath. The tip gleams in the low light, glistening with anticipation, twitching slightly as his hand slides down the length, firm and sure. Your stomach tightens at the sight, the ache between your legs deepening into something more raw.

Your legs stay folded around his hips, bare and trembling, the heat of you just inches from where he waits. His eyes meet yours again—those dark, endless eyes, rimmed with control and something deeper still.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and this time, his voice is more fragile. 

You hesitate, only for a heartbeat. Not because of fear. But because of the gravity of the moment. Because this—this—is something you’ll never be able to come back from. Something final in its tenderness.

But then, quietly, you say it.

“Yes.”

His mouth brushes your cheek, a kiss that’s almost too gentle to be real. Then he murmurs against your skin, “You’ll have to lift yourself, love.”

The words send another rush of heat spiraling beneath your skin. You nod, even as your hands tremble slightly when they press to his shoulders for balance.

He keeps you steady, his palm warm on your waist. Then it dips—slides beneath your nightgown, fingers brushing the crease of your hip as he hooks the fabric of your panties to the side. You can feel how careful he’s being, even as his hand lingers, thumb tracing soft patterns into your skin as if soothing you through the intimacy.

Your eyes hold each other’s—his expression unreadable but soft.

Then, with a breath held between you both, you begin to sink down.

He’s warm, the tip of him parting you slowly—painfully slow—your body stretching to take him in. There’s pressure, more than you expected, and a fluttering gasp falls from your lips as your eyes threaten to flutter shut.

His fingers press into your waist—steadying you, grounding you.

“You’re doing perfect,” he murmurs, voice cracking as he watches you inch down onto him, breath stuttering from the effort it takes not to thrust up into the heat of you.

You moan softly, your thighs trembling as you continue lowering yourself, inch by aching inch, until he’s fully seated inside you.

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

Only the sound of shared breath. The soft creak of the couch beneath you. The sound of two people tethered, slolwy giving in to something they’ve both longed for.

You stay still for a moment, settling into the stretch of him, your breath catching in your throat as your body adjusts to the sheer size of him inside you. It’s overwhelming—not painful, just impossibly full. The kind of fullness that feels like it reaches somewhere deeper than the physical. Your hands tighten slightly on his shoulders, your eyes locked on his as you breathe through it, slow and steady.

His jaw tightens as he groans, low and guttural, the sound dragging from deep in his chest. His hands remain at your waist, steady but not guiding, as if anchoring himself to you. The faint friction of your panties still bunched to one side rubs against him, and he shudders from the sensation—the subtle pressure of fabric where your bodies meet making the moment even more unbearable in its intimacy.

His eyes never leave yours.

You lean forward, mouth catching his in a kiss that’s messy and unrestrained, need taking over. It’s not careful—nothing about it is gentle now. His tongue brushes yours and you sigh into him, lips parting wider as the heat spreads between your thighs and up your spine. When you pull back, a thin string of spit clings between you, stretching until it snaps, and he looks up at you with something close to awe.

Your hands brace against his shoulders. You pause, gaze dropping to his lips, then meeting his eyes again—seeking that silent permission. The nod comes, subtle but sure, and you draw in a breath that trembles through your chest.

Slowly, your thighs begin to rise, muscles pulling taut as you lift yourself until only the thick head of him remains inside. Then you ease back down, a soft whimper slipping from your lips at the feel of him sliding back into place—deep and aching and good.

His head tips back against the cushion, mouth falling open in a soundless groan, and you can feel his fingers flex against your hips, not controlling—just feeling.

You lift again. And sink.

And already, your breath comes faster. His eyes flutter for a moment before snapping back to yours, like he can’t bear to look anywhere else but at you—at the way your mouth falls open, at the way you take him in with trembling thighs and flushed cheeks.

You keep moving, slow and steady, a rhythm that grows with each pass. The air is thick between you, heavy with the scent of heat and skin and the electric charge of finally giving in.

Your moans echo soft and desperate through the room, swallowed by the thick air that clings heavy with heat and wanting. Each sound that slips from your lips stirs something deeper in him—makes his grip on your waist tighten like he’s afraid of losing the rhythm, or losing himself altogether.

Your hips move with a fluid kind of hunger, bouncing with a rhythm that’s both instinct and invitation. The soft slap of skin meeting skin fills the quiet between your breaths, between the wet, broken sounds of your pleasure.

He groans, sharp and strained, his jaw clenched as his fingers dig harder into the flesh of your waist. He’s holding himself back, you can feel it in the way his thighs tense beneath you, in the way his body threatens to snap forward every time you sink down on him.

And when your breath cracks apart—when your voice slips out on a pleading gasp, raw and full of need—“Please… more…”

He breaks.

A low curse stumbles from his mouth as he grips you tighter, grounding himself in the shape of your body. Then, without warning, he thrusts up to meet you—deep and fast, sending a shudder straight through your spine. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut, hands grasping at his shoulders to keep yourself from slipping.

He keeps going, matching your pace until there’s no space between the two of you—just thrust after thrust, your body catching him like a wave each time he rises.

The living room is full now—full of heat, of breathless cries and low moans, of the sound of skin and desperation meeting in perfect time. 

His name leaves your mouth again, and it sounds like a prayer and a warning both. He answers it with another thrust, harder this time, his mouth falling open as he watches you above him, the way you fall apart just for him.

And he thinks—if there was anything holy in this world, it’s you like this.

The moment escalates, tension rising with every breathless beat between your bodies. You’re both moving faster now, more desperately, as if the need has become too much to contain—like something ancient and hungry has broken loose inside of you both.

Moans pour from your lips without restraint, mixing with his—low, rough sounds that rumble from deep in his chest. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, gripping hard, needing something to anchor you as the world narrows to just this—his body inside yours, your bodies pressed close, the rhythm of it all spiraling out of your control.

Suddenly, Remmick pulls you down flush to his chest, locking you in his arms. The shift knocks the air from your lungs and you gasp, your face buried in the curve of his neck as he thrusts up into you harder, deeper. His breath is hot and ragged in your ear, panting with the effort it takes to hold back even as he crumbles beneath you.

You whimper as the heat coils tighter in your core, and he groans your name—half prayer, half plea—as his movements grow more erratic. His arms tighten around your waist like he’s trying to pull you inside him, like he needs you closer than skin can allow.

“I—fuck, I can’t,” he pants, voice rough and unraveling. “I need you. I need—”

He cuts himself off with another hard thrust, and your mouth falls open, the moan that escapes you trembling with the force of it all. You’re both clinging to one another now, barely holding together as the pleasure threatens to rip you both apart.

You call out his name, breathless and broken on your tongue, the sound soft but sharp as it cuts through the heavy air between you. Your head lolls against his shoulder, lips parted, eyes fluttering as you tremble in his arms.

The moment your voice wraps around his name like that—like a plea, like a praise—his hips stutter beneath you.

A groan tears from his chest, rough and guttural, and he grips you tighter, like the sound alone unraveled something primal in him. His pace quickens, hips snapping up in sharp, desperate thrusts, each one sending another wave of pleasure crashing through you.

His breath is hot where it ghosts over your skin, mouth pressed to your neck as he inhales you like he’s drowning and you’re the only air left in the world.

“I love you—fuck—” he chokes out, voice cracking under the weight of it. “I love you.”

The confession breaks through him like it’s been waiting for this moment, buried deep, and now there’s no stopping it. He presses his nose to your neck, breathing you in as if your scent is what’s holding him together, grounding him as he comes undone inside you.

The tip of his cock kisses your cervix with each thrust, and it sends stars bursting behind your eyes—blinding, breathtaking. Your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes at first, just the ragged pull of breath as your body struggles to keep up with the pace he’s set.

Your walls begin to flutter around him, clenching instinctively, and he groans deep in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as his mouth latches onto your neck. He presses wet, open-mouthed kisses there—sloppy, frantic—tongue dragging across the sensitive skin like he’s losing himself in the taste of you.

Your body tenses in his arms, thighs quivering as the heat coils in your belly and then erupts, hard and fast. It crashes through you like a storm, a white-hot wave of pleasure that rips a cry from your throat. You clench tight around him, pulsing, trembling, and he groans again—louder this time—his rhythm faltering under the force of your orgasm.

Still, he moves, thrusting through the aftershocks, chasing his own edge now with barely restrained desperation. His hands grip you harder, holding you in place, grounding himself in the feel of you around him. And then, with one final thrust, deep and deliberate, he stills.

A breath catches in his throat as he buries himself to the hilt, body shuddering as he spills inside you. You feel the warm pulse of him as your walls milk every last drop, pulling him deeper, keeping him close even as your muscles slowly begin to soften from the high.

You’re both breathless, clinging to one another as the last waves roll through.

You’re breathing heavily, chest rising and falling against his as the aftershocks ripple faintly beneath your skin. Your head remains pressed to his shoulder, listening to nothing but the hush of the night and the faint slowing of your breath. His arms are still around you—gentle now, steady—and for a while, neither of you move.

When you finally pull back, his face is still nestled into your throat, lips trailing lazy, gentle kisses along the curve of your neck, as though he doesn’t want to leave the warmth of you.

“Come with me…” he murmurs, the words barely more than a breath, soft and tentative against your skin.

Your eyebrows pull together in a slow furrow, still dazed. 

“To Mississippi.”

Your breath catches. The name lands in the space between you like a vow, like a pull. You blink, a beat of silence stretching, and then you nod, the motion slow but sure.

“Okay… yeah,” you whisper, your voice a warm breath against his cheek, your body still pressed to his, both of you clinging to the fragile stillness.

“Yeah?” he asks again, his lips brushing your collarbone, and something about his voice sounds almost childlike in its need—like he’s afraid he imagined your answer.

You bring your hand down to his face, gently easing him back from your neck so you can see him. And when your eyes meet his, the world stills.

His eyes glow faintly crimson in the low light, rimmed with something that looks like restraint, like hunger he’s buried deep. And still, there’s softness in them. Longing. Fear. Love.

Your breath hitches, but you don’t look away.

“Yeah,” you say again, steady this time.

Then you lean in, brushing your lips to his. The kiss is slower now—less desperate, more anchored—like a promise sealed between parted mouths. You can feel the edge of his fangs, just barely, where he’s trying to keep them at bay, trying to be gentle for you.

When you pull back, your gaze lingers on his face. Your fingers lift, brushing his bottom lip, pausing on the faint curve of his fang. Your eyes soften, but your voice is strong.

“If God ain’t make you…” you murmur, breath ghosting against him, “then whoever—whatever—did, created something beautiful.”

Remmick stills. You feel the way his chest tightens beneath your hand, the way his eyes search yours as if looking for the catch, the joke, the condition. But you give him none.

“Remmick,” you say, voice a little firmer now. “You ain’t a devil… you’re mine.”

Something flickers deep in his eyes, some dam that cracks and spills open with your words. His hand slides up your back, pulling you tighter to him like he needs you to tether him to this moment. His lips find yours again.

You return the kiss with equal fervor, your arms wrapping around his shoulders, clinging to the comfort of him, to the closeness that feels like home. The world narrows to the feel of his mouth on yours, his body beneath your hands, the way he breathes your name like it’s something sacred.

When he parts from the kiss, his eyes roam over your face, and something in you opens. Your lips part with the truth you’ve held on your tongue for far too long.

“I love you.”

The words are barely out before his mouth finds your neck—hot and urgent. He kisses the space just above your pulse point, and instinctively, you tilt your head, baring your throat to him. You trust him. You’ve always trusted him.

But then—something shifts.

His arms tighten, holding you firm, too firm. His mouth parts against your skin.

“Remmick…?”

You breathe his name softly, a question.

He doesn’t answer.

And before you can draw in another breath, his fangs pierce your skin—deep, unhesitating, hungry.

A sharp, searing pain explodes down your neck, and your mouth opens in a cry that barely has time to form. Your hands clutch at his shoulders, trying to push him back, but he pulls you tighter. His body trembles, breaths short and frantic as he drinks from you in greedy mouthfuls, each swallow pulling more of you into him.

You feel the warmth of your own blood running down your skin, a thick trail following the curve of your throat.

Your heart pounds wildly, but it’s beginning to stutter, the rhythm irregular as the blood loss sets in.

“Remmick—” You try again, weaker this time.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even flinch at the sound of your voice.

His eyes are clenched shut, lost in the haze of hunger and ecstasy, one hand still cradling the back of your head like he’s trying to comfort you while devouring you whole.

Your body is going cold. Your fingertips are tingling.

You try to hold onto him, to dig your fingers into his shirt—anything to get through—but your strength is slipping fast. Your arm trembles. Then your hand falls away from his shoulder, limp.

Your eyes flutter, your vision fading at the edges.

And just before everything goes dark, the last thing you feel is the heat of his mouth on your throat and the way his name wants to leave your lips… but never does.

Remmick continues to drink from you, groaning low in his throat as your essence fills every part of him—thick, hot, overwhelming. It blankets his mind, soaked into the sinew of his being, an ecstasy laced with your scent, your taste, your memories. He hasn’t even realized how tightly he held you until the shift in your body’s weight makes him still.

When he finally pulls back, it’s slow—reluctant, almost dazed. Blood spills from his mouth in thick pools, smearing down his chin and soaking into the collar of his shirt. It clings to your nightgown in dark patches, still warm.

His fangs glisten under the silver eye of the moonlight bleeding in through the curtain, his eyes—once wine-dark—now glowing an impossibly deep shade of red, fevered and wild.

But when his gaze drops to you cradled in his arms, everything inside him falls quiet.

His breath comes out wet, chest heaving slightly with the aftermath. He blinks once. Twice.

“Sweetheart?”

His voice, thick and hoarse, wavers. He tilts your head gently in his hand to look at you—but when he lets go, your head lolls back against him, limp.

“Hey…” he whispers, voice cracking as dread creeps in.

He brings a shaking hand to your cheek, the pads of his fingers smeared with blood as he cups your face. You don’t move.

“Come on—hey, look at me,” he says, louder this time, urgency climbing in his chest. He taps your cheek lightly, then again, harder. “Open your eyes.”

Still nothing.

His heart—that quiet ghost in his chest—twists with a phantom pain as he lowers you gently onto the couch, hands trembling as he adjusts you. He fixes himself with one quick motion, then lifts your head to rest on his lap, brushing your hair from your blood-slicked neck.

“No, no—no no no no no—” he mutters, eyes wild now, desperate.

Without hesitation, he lifts his wrist to his mouth and bites down hard, tearing through the flesh in one savage rip. Blood pours freely, dark and thick, running down his arm. He presses the bleeding wrist to your mouth, angling your face, his other hand gripping your chin, urging you to drink.

“Please,” he chokes, rocking slightly. “Please, just drink—just drink, please—”

More of his blood spills into your mouth, but your lips don't move. Your throat doesn’t work to swallow. The red trickles down your chin instead.

“No—” the word shatters out of him.

He lets out a broken sound, low and wet, something guttural and full of despair, and he pulls you closer to him, arms wrapping tightly around your limp form. He bends over you, forehead pressed to yours as he tries to hold your soul in your body with the weight of his grief alone.

“Come back to me,” he whispers. “Please, come back to me…”

He lifts his hand to your cheek again, wiping gently beneath your eye where a streak of blood had fallen from his own.

A sob tears through Remmick’s throat—sharp, ragged, and violent as it bursts into the stillness of the room. It breaks from him like something deep and primal has split wide open, raw and aching as it echoes against the walls.

“No—no, no, please—” he gasps, your name tumbling from his lips like a lifeline he’s losing grip on. His arms wrap around you tighter, pulling you so close it’s like he’s trying to merge your body with his own, as if he can keep you alive by sheer force of will. His hands tremble where they press against your back, fingers splayed, desperate to feel movement—anything.

He rocks you gently, the motion instinctual, helpless. Your body moves limply in his arms, warm only from the remnants of your blood still wet between you. His chest heaves with uneven breaths, and then his head tilts back, eyes wide and wild, searching the ceiling as though a god might be waiting above the cracked wood to answer.

“Please—God, please,” he begs, the words breaking apart in his throat. “I’ll do anything, anything—just don’t take her. Don’t take her from me. I didn’t mean—” The words crumble mid-sentence, overtaken by another wave of sobs.

He clutches you harder, one arm locked around your back, the other hand cradling your head against his chest. His bloodstained fingers smear red through your hair as he rocks you. “She didn’t deserve this,” he whispers. “Not her. Please…”

His eyes scan your face—your lashes still, lips parted slightly, blood drying at the edge of your mouth. His thumb brushes the corner of your lips, trembling as he whispers your name again. Like a prayer. Like a curse.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, pressing his forehead against yours, his voice shaking with every word. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to—I didn’t want—please come back. Please.”

He kisses your cheek, your brow, the sticky line of blood in your hair, and breathes you in like it might anchor him. Like you might stir, if he just gets close enough.

Then, quieter now—softer than the fire still crackling in the hearth—he whispers against your skin:

“Please don’t leave me…”

Remmick clutches you tighter, as if the force of his arms might breathe life back into your body. His grip turns desperate, bruising, trembling with an agony he can’t hold in anymore. And then—

He screams.

It rips from his throat, raw and shattering, echoing through the walls like something dying. Not at you, not at the heavens, not at the world—just a scream of pure grief, of guilt so vast it devours everything else. A sound pulled from centuries of buried pain, now cracked open wide and spilling out all at once.

His head tilts back and he screams again, louder, his voice breaking as it tears at his throat. It’s ragged and guttural, full of every ounce of regret, every moment he could have stopped himself but didn’t. It’s a scream of failure, of helplessness, of losing the only good thing he’s ever truly touched.

“Why—!” he cries out, but there’s no answer. There’s no one left to blame but himself.

His arms wrap tighter around you, almost panicked, as if you’ll vanish entirely if he loosens even a little. Blood—yours, his—stains both of you, soaking through clothes, sticking to skin. He presses his face to the curve of your shoulder, muffling another cry as he sobs into you.

“I’m sorry,” he rasps again, over and over, like a chant, a punishment. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

But the silence that answers is unbearable.

And still, he holds you.

The room is quiet now—hauntingly so. Outside, the faint calls of owls echo in the trees beyond the house, and the hearth, barely alive, offers one last crackle before its flame dies completely. The light flickering on Remmick’s face fades into stillness, shadowed in grief.

He sits there, unmoving, your body curled in his lap like you’re only sleeping.

His thumb strokes your cheek in small, ceaseless motions—over and over, as if the rhythm might bring you back. His other hand cradles the back of your head with a gentleness that doesn’t match the crimson staining his fingers. His eyes, rimmed red and shining with the aftermath of blood-tinged tears, stay locked on your face. You’re still warm. Still soft.

But you’re not breathing.

He stares at you for what feels like an eternity, until finally, his gaze drops to your chest. The little cross necklace you always wore rests against your skin, stained dark with blood—his blood, your blood. The contrast of it is jarring: faith and death, resting side by side.

His lips part as he whispers your name again. It’s quiet. Like a question. Like a hope.

But silence meets him again.

His brow twitches, just once, the barest ripple of emotion betraying the stillness of his face. And then it washes over him all at once—the dread. That instinctual pull deep in his bones. The sun is coming. It’s close. He can feel it stirring in the air, just below the horizon.

His body wants to run.

But he doesn’t move.

He can’t. He can’t leave you here.

The thought alone is a blade against the inside of his ribs. You told him you’d go with him. That you’d follow him into anything. And now, he can’t take you with him. Not really. Not like this.

He lifts a hand to his mouth, smearing away the blood drying along his chin and lips. His shoulders tremble as he lets out a breath that catches halfway through.

“And I thought I was the one who always broke promises,” he mutters.

It’s a pathetic attempt at humor. Dry. Bitter. Dead on arrival—just like everything else now.

His eyes drift to the window. The sky outside is softening into the palest shade of blue. Not yet morning, but close. Too close.

He moves at last, slowly standing with you in his arms. Your upper body is cradled against him, limp and silent, while your legs drag lightly across the floorboards. He walks like a man underwater, like every motion is a war with himself.

When he reaches your room, he pushes the door open and crosses the threshold. He lowers you gently to the floor in the corner and lingers there, fingers brushing the strands of hair from your face.

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs.

His voice cracks, but he pretends it doesn’t. Pretends you’re going to answer.

He turns and leaves the room. The bathroom faucet squeaks. Water runs. A towel is soaked.

When he returns, he shuts the bedroom door and pulls the blinds tight until not a single sliver of light breaks through.

Then he kneels beside you and begins to clean you.

He works slowly. Tenderly. His face is stone—unreadable—but his hands are reverent. He wipes the blood from your neck with care. Lifts your hand and cleans each finger like they’re sacred. Not a single part of you is ignored. It’s an act of devotion. Of worship.

And when you are clean, he leans back against the wall and gathers you into his arms, pressing your body to his chest. He breathes you in, as if memory alone can hold you here.

“You can’t go to heaven dirty,” he whispers, voice thick but quiet.

—

“Who?”

Your voice is sharper than you meant it to be, cutting the air between you. But something about him unsettles you—his stillness, the way he stares not at you, but through you.

The night hangs heavy, sticky with summer air and strange tension. He stands just beyond your porch railing like he doesn’t quite belong in the world anymore. His figure is gaunt in the moonlight, pale and stretched, the shadows deep beneath his eyes—like a man caught between two places, unable to decide where he belongs.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he glances over his shoulder, slow and deliberate, like he expects someone to materialize behind him. You follow his gaze, but the street is empty.

“Someone very dear to me,” he finally says, voice so soft it feels like it’s already fading. “She’s waitin’ on me now. Probably tellin’ me to let go and to stop bein’ so damn stubborn.”

He laughs. Quiet. Low. And wrong. There’s no joy in it—just a tired echo of something that once was.

You frown, your brow knitting. “Oh.”

It slips out before you can stop it—breathless, unintentionally gentle. You mentally scold yourself for the softness in your tone.

He tilts his head slightly, examining you with a look you can’t read. Like he’s comparing your face to someone else’s in his mind. Like your features are almost—but not quite—right.

Then he nods. Slowly. Almost to himself.

The silence stretches, drawn thin like a thread.

“You just gonna stand there?” you ask, leaning on your broom handle, trying to anchor yourself to something real.

He blinks, as if he forgot where he was. “Sorry about that.”

He shifts his hands into his pockets, and just before his coat covers it, something flashes gold near his wrist. Your eyes catch on it, quick.

“Didn’t take you as the type to wear jewelry,” you murmur, nodding toward his arm.

He glances down, then pulls his hand free. The sleeve rises as he adjusts it, revealing a necklace wound tightly around his wrist like a lifeline.

At the end of the chain is a small, tarnished cross.

“It was hers.”

The words land like a stone in your chest.

Your hand tightens around the broom. Something in the air changes. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out for a second.

“Sorry about that,” you say finally, quieter this time.

He shakes his head gently. “It wasn’t your fault,” he murmurs. “It was mine.”

That tightness returns—behind your eyes, in your chest. You glance back at the front door, needing distance but not wanting to make it seem like you’re afraid. Not of him, just… of what he’s carrying.

“…Maybe you should get goin’.”

He stares at you a moment longer, long enough to feel like he might say more. But then he nods again, slow and hollow.

“I understand.”

He turns and begins to walk the way he came, footsteps silent on the dirt road.

You exhale sharply, like your body had been holding onto breath without telling you. The porch suddenly feels like it’s tilting, reality shifting back into place.

“Get in the house!”

Your father’s voice cuts through the night like thunder, making you jump.

“I’m coming!” you call out, voice hoarse.

You cast one last look behind you—but he’s already gone, swallowed by the night. Just like a ghost.

You drag yourself inside, broom and all, and close the door behind you. But the weight of that little gold cross lingers. And you don’t know why, but part of you feels like you just met the saddest man in the world—

A man still haunted by love. 

————

A/N : reader’s death was inspired by charlie’s death in iwtv 🥲

i didn't explicitly state that present reader is a reincarnation. honestly, take what you will

[songmingisthighs]

[12.33] poly!golden retriever!yunho × black lab!mingi × reader

⇀ where your pup boyfriends are just so... them...

⇁ @khjcs LOOK WHAT YOU DID AMY and @starlitmark I MADE IT QIEBDJDND

genre : hybrid!au, poly!au

wc : 1.1k

warning : none

Usually you'd spend the weekend just lounging around, being lazy with your two overgrown pups of boyfriends but unfortunately you had errands to run because work took up the majority of your time on the weekdays so all appointments had to be pushed to Saturday and Sunday.

Though your boyfriends are golden retriever and black labrador hybrids, you were the one who woke up first at the sound of your alarm. But as you moved to turn your alarm off, an arm snaked around your waist and a face was nuzzled into your stomach affectionately.

"What are you doing?" Yunho grumbled as he tightened his grip around your body. You cursed at yourself silently for not being careful when you reached over Yunho to get to your phone. "Sorry Yuyu, go back to sleep," you hushed him, patting his head gently to lull him back to sleep which seem to work because his eyes fluttered his eyes close and his grip around you loosen. With Yunho back asleep, you carefully get out of the bed but still managing to accidentally nudge Mingi's leg slightly, causing his ears to twitch and head shot up in alert. He said nothing as he blinked confusedly at you but after some time of you and he just staring at each other in silence, his eyes drooped and he fell back asleep. With that, you were able to escape and take a shower.

It didn't take long for you to shower but when you opened the bathroom door, you nearly shrieked and slipped when you were greeted with the sight of your boyfriends in the hallway. Yunho was sat with his back on the wall and Mingi had his head on Yunho's lap, fast asleep while Yunho's eyes opened at the sound of you coming out of the bathroom.

"What are you two doing here? You should be in bed," you pouted, crouching down in front of the two to cup Yunho's face in your hands. He smiled and shook his head, "I wanna see you before you leave," then Yunho looked down momentarily at Mingi, "He said he doesn't like the cold bed," and you chuckled at that because it was so incredibly a Mingi thing to say. But still, your boyfriends needed more rest because of their own jobs and you would prefer to see them well rested. So you stood up and motioned for Yunho to grab your hands so you could pull him up and with the movement, Mingi slowly stood up and pressed his face onto your shoulder, having to bend his body due to the height difference and the fact that he was barely conscious. "Back to bed," he mumbled, tugging you along to your shared bedroom only to hear you chuckle and felt you shaking your head, "No baby, you go back to sleep with Yunho, I have somewhere to go to," you patted him on the back as you waved Yunho close to your huddle. Yunho happily wrapped his arms around you and Mingi and you couldn't help but giggle when you got a peek of their wagging tails. "I'll be back sometime later so you boys get some rest, don't forget to eat, be good, and I'll see you soon, okay?"

Once you saw them nod at your words (Yunho with understanding and Mingi with sadness), you gave them both long kisses on their heads and shooed them back into your shared room, patting their butts affectionately before leaving the apartment once they were settled and you were fully ready to go.

The whole time you were gone doing your errands, you couldn't help but kept a look into your home CCTV from time to time, curious at what the boys were doing. At 10:27, Yunho emerged from the room and immediately planted his butt on the couch, trying to regain some consciousness. At 10:43, Mingi joined Yunho in the living room but instead of sitting on the couch, he spread his blanket and plopped a pillow that looked suspiciously a lot like yours and laid in the middle of it. Then at 11:38, you saw that Yunho and Mingi were lying side by side in the little blanket nest that looked a bit messier than before, talking about what they were going to do until you come back home. At 12:49, you looked into the living room CCTV only to find your boyfriends missing but as you moved the camera, you saw Yunho heating up the leftovers from last night and just as you were about to look for Mingi, his face popped up in the whole frame, almost causing you to drop your phone and scream in public. "I KNOW YOU'RE THERE LOOKING AT US (Y/N) COME BACK HOME, COME BACK HOME NOW PLEASE I WANT YOU HOME, I NEED YOU HOME," he yelled into the camera before getting pushed aside by Yunho who grinned happily at the camera, "Don't mind him baby! You go do your stuff, okay? I miss you! I love you! We're gonna have lunch soon!" It was a good thing that you got a camera that allows you to talk into it because you could see the food he was heating on the stove was starting to smoke and both of your boyfriends were still too focused with the camera. "Yunho, baby! The food!" Thankfully, Yunho zoomed to tend to the food and Mingi got distracted by the chaos so you were able to leave them be.

Your errands ended at around 2 pm and by 2.31, you were already walking back into the apartment.

"I'm home!" You called out as you took off your shoes and by the time your shoe was neatly stored, you heard heavy pads of feet getting louder before you were suddenly pulled into a warm embrace and spun around. Though you were busy squealing and giggling, you were still able to identify that it was Yunho who had greeted you first.

"You're back! You're home!" He said happily as he placed you down and began peppering your face with kisses. If all the affection and skinship didn't make you giddy, surely seeing his tail wagging nonstop with such power that you thought it was going to create a tornado.

Upon letting you go, Yunho stuck by your side quietly, tailing after you as you grab a drink from the fridge, helping you grab a mug and just let you have your time before settling down with you on the couch. As soon as your ass hit the cushion and you finished taking a gulp, Yunho pulled you into his arms and nuzzled your cheek with his.

"I'm so glad you're back now," he sighed happily, like the lovesick... well, puppy he is. You chuckled and patted his fluffy hair in return of his very adorable confession, "I'm glad to be home too, Yuyu. I sae you heating up lunch so I assume you and Mingi had eaten?" He nodded, still not letting go of you, "So what have you two been doing?" "Gaming mostly. Actually, Mingi is-"

As if on cue, your other boyfriend came out of the room designated for his and Yunho's gaming and other nerd things (that you lowkey took pride of as well), grumbling and stomping until he flopped down on the floor with his face on the ground. He looked adorable with his flopped ears and limp tail, seemingly trying to become one with the hardwood floor in his despair.

"I miss (y/n), I miss (y/n), I miss (y/n), I miss (y/n), I miss (y/n), I miss (y/n), GOD, I miss (y/n)," he babbled to himself, not realizing that you had came home. You tried suppressing your laughter while Yunho raised an eyebrow at him, "What are you talking about?" Mingi huffed as he proceeded to lift his upper body from the floor, adjusting his own body position to glare at Yunho only to realize that you were sitting on the couch, looking at him with such fond eyes. "(Y/N)!" he screeched before practically leaping into your arms, carelessly throwing his body on you and Yunho who got kneed in the stomach. His scolds towards Mingi fell on deaf ears because despite being nagged that he should have been more careful, Mingi was too busy trying to fit himself in your lap while smothering you with kisses as he told you time and time again how much he missed you.

Never would you have ever known that being suffocated to death with affection was better than, well, anything else. And you have your two excitable boyfriends to thank.

network :

@cultofdionysusnet @sandsofire @kflixnet @pirateeznet

taglist :

@kodzukein @phenomenalgirl9 @skzatzloveismonsterous @memorymonster @surveilenceysystem @dreamlesswonder86 @maddiebabyxoxo @imababywolf @do-you-actually-care @marievllr-abg @ilsedingsx @wasteitonserendipity @bbymatz @noonaishere @honeyhwaaa @ateezourstars @yoonjunshi @yoongiigolden @camillelafaye @charreddonuts @kpopnightingale @starryunho @atinct @mirror-juliet @hyuckilstan @jayb17 @kpoplover718 @haatohwa @x-bluee @erinaimeexx @blackb3ll @mingiholic @angelicyeo @vampcharxter @meowmeowminnie @marvelous-llama @kawennote09 @hongjoong-lovebot @stopeatread @spooo00oky @jwnghyuns @asjkdk @shinotani

[ambernotember]

Bobby’s kids, part 2

(part 1)

“Harry!” Hen called over the loft balcony in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to pick Buck up,” he called back, spinning the Jeep keys around his finger.

“I thought you were at your study group,” Buck said, appearing behind Hen.

“We wrapped up a little early,” Harry said. “Thought I’d save you from ubering home.”

“Thanks, man. Wanna come up and grab something to eat?”

“Is it your food?”

“Muffins,” Buck told him. “The lemon blueberry.”

“Sick,” Harry said, speeding up the stairs.

“I’m confused,” Chimney said, Hen and Eddie nodding in agreement behind him.

“Harry’s staying with me for a little bit,” Buck said. “Athena’s staying with May and her apartment’s not that big.”

Harry headed for the muffin tray on the kitchen island and took one for himself, pulling the wrapper off and taking a giant bite.

“No offense, but — why you, Buck?” Hen asked. “Harry, you have family here.”

They both shrugged. “May decided and dropped me off,” Harry said around a mouthful of muffin.

“You mind stopping at the hardware store on the way home?” Buck asked. “I need to get a new gasket for the tap.”

“Ah, the joys of home ownership,” Harry teased. “It’ll cost you another muffin.”

“May wasn’t lying when she called you a garbage disposal,” Buck grumbled. He looked at Hen and Eddie. “Are Denny and Chris like this yet?”

“Home ownership? You own your place? I thought you were renting?” Chim interrupted.

Buck looked at Chim and then glanced away. “Uh, yeah, I own now.”

“How?” Chimney pressed. “Maddie and I had to ask your parents for help.”

“Uh,” Buck hesitated.

“Bobby,” Harry said. “He left the three of us money.”

The rest of the 118 looked between the two of them, expressions varying between shock and confusion.

“They didn’t know about that?” Harry asked Buck, now working on his second muffin.

“Well, they do now,” Buck sighed. “Bobby split the money he'd saved for his kids’ education between May, Harry, and me. I didn’t know about the money until Athena told me.”

“So you bought a house with it?” Hen asked.

Buck shoved his hands in his pockets and shrugged awkwardly. “Breaking a lease and getting kicked out of a sublet in the same year doesn’t really make you appealing to landlords. Had to live somewhere.”

Eddie at least had the decency to look apologetic at that statement.

“So, how long is this 'little bit’ that Harry’s staying with you for?” Chimney asked.

It was Harry’s turn to shrug. “It’s been seven weeks. Mom hasn’t found a place she likes yet.”

“Athena can be … particular,” Hen said.

Harry snorted. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Hey, why haven’t we seen your new place yet?” Chimney asked.

Buck shrugged again. “Things have been… you know. Didn’t seem like the right time.”

“So you’re just crashing on the couch?” Eddie focused on Harry again.

“No, I’m in the guest room.”

“You have a guest room?” The rest of the team looked surprised.

Buck felt defensive. “I mean, I wasn’t going to live in a loft with no walls forever. If I was buying something, why not buy something that has room for other people? Like, say, my niece and nephew who will one day be old enough to sleep over?”

“At least none of you were there for the great paint debate of 2025, figuring out the kids’ rooms colours was not easy,” Harry said, going for a third muffin. Buck was pointedly ignoring the food theft.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Hen said. “It’s very… putting down roots of you.”

Buck’s mouth twitched, not quite sure how she meant that.

“You can head out a little early if you want,” Hen offered. “We’ll be able to cover the last hour.”

“Oh, I’m fine to wait here,” Harry said. “I have my books and a couple things I can work on.”

“Don’t be silly, you were nice enough to come get Buck, I can let him go early,” Hen insisted. “Captain’s orders.”

“I mean… only if it won’t put you guys out. I wouldn’t mind having a little longer to work on the sink.” Buck shifted from foot to foot, feeling torn.

“Go, go,” Hen shooed them towards the stairs. “See you next shift Buck. Harry, you're welcome to stop by any time.”

Harry flipped the Jeep keys back to Buck as they walked down the stairs. “I don’t know how you drive around this city every day. The drivers are insane.”

“They’re insane everywhere,” Buck told him, his voice fading as they got closer to the firehouse doors. “You get used to it.”

“So… no one else knew about this development either?” Chimney asked when the other two were out of earshot.

“Nope.” Hen shook her head. “Maddie didn’t say anything about an inheritance from Bobby?”

“As far as I know, she thought he was renting too.”

“Eddie, he didn’t tell you anything about it?”

Eddie shook his head. “He just told me he found a place and he’d need a few extra days to get movers.”

“I wonder why Athena didn’t mention the inheritance, or that Harry’s staying with Buck,” Hen mused. “Karen and I had dinner with her last week.”

“She probably assumed you knew?” Chim suggested.

“Yeah, I guess. Anyone else catch that Jee and Robby have their own rooms, and there’s a guest room?”

[vinylfoxbooks]

February 3 - Exam | @into-the-jeggyverse | wc: 409 CW: Injury, not detailed but talked about

When James broke their wrist, Regulus was the first to arrive at the infirmary, shockingly enough. 

Now, James had no doubt that he would show up, they know that he cares about them, as much as he refuses to admit it. But the fact that he was the first is what’s shocking. 

James had expected Sirius and Remus to be the first -- only excluding Pete because he was the one that helps James here -- since they were with them when their bones snapped, but they had to deal with the aftermath of everything so it makes since that they were a little delayed.

What doesn’t make sense is how fucking fast Regulus managed to get up here. He had just been complaining to James about how he was tired and was planning to spend the rest of his day cooped up in his dorm all the way down in Slytherin to sleep off the exhaustion coming from his post-exam sleepless week. Meaning not only was he all the way down in Slytherin and still managed to hear the news nearly as soon as it happened, but he also managed to rush all the way to the medical wing while exhausted and probably just roused before any of the people that were actually in the situation or nearby. 

James adores their boyfriend and his magic ability to just be somewhere so long as it means he gets to yell at James for being stupid -- lovingly, James knows that he’s doing it because that’s how he knows to care and they adore him for it. 

But here Regulus is, sitting on the edge of the bed next to James, holding their non-broken hand while Poppy takes a look at the injury and gently scolding him -- much to Poppy and Pete’s amusement. He’s still doing so when Sirius and Remus finally manage to stumble into the medical wing. 

“How the fuck are you here already?” Sirius asks when he finally walks up to James’ bed and sees his younger brother, pointing at the younger boy with an accusatory finger. 

Regulus doesn’t answer, and Sirius stares at him for a while before moving on and going to ask James about how they’re doing. 

James suspects that Regulus’ quick arrival has something to do with a good relationship with Madam Pomfrey when she shoos everyone away so she can work her -- literal -- magic on James’ wrist. Everyone except for Regulus, who's allowed to stay.

[megumiluvv]

Choso has noticed these little things with you lately. Just simple things, like how you clean his apartment while Yuji naps, or how you take naps on his couch on particularly boring days. He finds himself subconsciously leaving a blanket out on the couch before he leaves for work, or stacking the pile of dishes in the sink so it’d be easier to manage.

He comes home after a rough day, working one of his umpteen jobs where many customers (who aren’t always right, he finds) yell at him for hours, and sees that you’re asleep on the couch, the dishwasher is going, and dinner has been cooked. Though nothing regarding the dinner has been actually eaten, maybe you were waiting for him to come home? He sets his things down, trying to be quiet and let you sleep, but his keys fall and wake you up with a start.

“Who’s there?” You sit up, sleepiness evident in your voice.

“It’s just me, don’t worry.”

“Gah, I fell asleep,” you mumble and get off the couch, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders.

“That’s alright. Yuji still asleep?”

“Yeah, gotta wake him up…”

“I’ll do it,” Choso says.

“No, you look like you had a rough day, and if I sit down again, I’ll go back to sleep.”

“Didn’t know my couch was that comfortable.”

You laugh and go to wake Yuji, while Choso warms up the food. Yuji clings to you when you exit the boy’s bedroom, Choso can tell he’s been asleep for a while. The kid perks up when he sees food, though, and hops from your arms to the dinner table.

Another little thing Choso has noticed: you always walk certain paths to get somewhere in his apartment. Like taking the left side of the hall to get to Yuji’s room, or going behind the couch to get to the bathroom. Round the corner quickly and dodge the ends of the kitchen island by curling your body the other way. However, sometimes you miss and hit your side, making Yuji giggle and eliciting a groan of pain from yourself.

You sit down, rubbing your side that’s sure to bruise tomorrow, and poke Yuji’s nose playfully. The boy giggles and shoos your hand away, then takes a bite of his food. Choso sits with you two and eats quietly, just observing.

When did this all start to feel so normal? You’re just his neighbor, but you feel like part of the family now. You’ve also gotten used to when Sukuna visits, even combatting the witty remarks with some of your own.

“Choso, chooosoooo, anyone there?” You tease and get his attention.

“Hm?”

“Are ya tired or somethin’? You’ve barely touched your food.”

“Ah, sorry about that.”

“No, it’s alright, just wanna check on you is all.”

“Thank you. I’m alright, just had a long day at work.”

“I see. Go get some sleep, I’ll put Yuji to bed and lock the door on my way out.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got this. Take care of yourself, Choso.” You smile and place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. Why are you so perfect?

Yuji watches as Choso goes to bed and looks up at you. “He looks at you like how Megumi looks at pretty flowers.”

You would’ve choked on your food if you didn’t swallow two seconds before the boy spoke. “What does that mean, Yu?”

“I dunno, maybe he thinks you’re pretty. I think you are. I’m gonna go put on my pajamas.”

And just like that, the boy disappears, leaving you alone to process the words he said. You eventually snap out of it and clean up, tucking Yuji into bed and making sure he’s asleep before going next door to your apartment. What did Yuji mean by that? Is there a chance he likes you too? You never noticed anything out of the ordinary, so what little thing did Yuji notice?

Masterlist

Taglist (ask to join anytime): @samaraxmorgan @cherriee-ee @auor4 @chaotic-ish @meowsannie

@mediokerrv @flooftoof @dazaisfavgf @mysteriaqueen

[ddejavvu]

Reader kicking the guys out the dorm for alone time w James potter but she’s on her period so fluff 💙

James thinks he's getting lucky when you shoo Sirius and Remus out. That's normally what it means when you kindly ask Remus to study in the library instead of his bed, and when you chase after Sirius with a pillow in your hand ready to smother him if he doesn't find somewhere else to be.

When you shut the door behind him you rush for his bed, and he's eager to catch you as you straddle his hips. But instead of sucking at his neck like a leech, you throw your head down onto his shoulder, muffling a frustrated scream into his shirt.

"Woah! Darling," James steadies your head with his hand at the back of your neck, squeezing gently at it to coax you out of his shoulder, "What's the matter?"

"I started my period," You whine with no hesitation, because if there's one thing you've learned over the course of dating James, it's that he's not going to be silly about your body.

"Oh, my love," James's soft crooning is music to your ears, and you let his large hand stroke gentle patterns into your hair.

"I'm sorry," He hums, relaxing his tense muscles as you melt against him. It's not the most comfortable position for him; his neck is bent strangely and his back is already beginning to ache from sagging, but you seem like it's the first comfort you've been granted all day, and he won't take it away from you.

"Just sleep," He murmurs as your nose presses tightly into his neck, "And when you wake up, we'll raid Moony's chocolate stash."

[fizzyapplecandy]

Ateez as Supernatural Tropes

Other members

The one with the white feather

Angel Hongjoong x detective reader

Genres and warnings: angel Hongjoong, detective reader, crime scenes, blood, guns mentioned, minors dni, angst, mentions of death, somewhat happy ending, strangers to maybe lovers, mature language (if i missed something, feel free to correct me)

Word count: 3.2k

A single white feather changes the course of your life.

"Good morning detective."

"Morning Yeosang, how's it going?"

"As you can see." The forensic inspector gestured around him. "It's been a messy day."

You scanned the area around Yeosang, noting how bloody it was. The person who died in the early morning hours was doomed from the second that the sharp knife touched her throat.

"I see... Do we have any details?"

"I've already spoken to the other detectives, we found her ID in her wallet. There doesn't appear to be anything stolen."

You hummed, nodding along to his story when you noticed something not far away from the woman's body.

A feather. One single white feather was next to her. Immaculate, despite the blood surrounding it.

"And what is that?"

Yeosang followed where you were pointing, shrugging his shoulders.

"It was there when we got here. It doesn't appear to have anything to do with the case. I mean, it's just a feather, I'm not sure what bird it's from, but it was just... There."

"You don't plan on picking it up?" You questioned, and Yeosang almost seemed offended.

"Hey, I thought we were past you doubting my skills. The feather isn't relevant, Y/N, but I'll pick it up. Don't worry."

Maybe he was right. You were known as the strict one in your department, but there was no need to doubt him. He's proven himself many times before, and you'd be devastated if your friendship took a blow because of work.

Just as you were about to respond, a flash of white somewhere behind him made you stop. It was fleeting, almost non-existent, but you saw it. Yeosang noticed your silence, trying to get your attention. You shook your head, gathering yourself again.

"Sorry, what? I don't know what's going on, this is just not my morning."

"Hey, I get it. Come, the others want to give you the details. I've got to finish up here."

.

.

"I swear to God, if this case beats my ass I'm quitting."

"We both know you won't do that."

Namjoon, the head detective of your department commented off handedly, sipping on his lukewarm coffee.

"Yeah, I know I won't, but I'm just saying."

"You've said it many times before, and here we are. We both know you love this job more than anything."

You sighed, finishing the last sentence on your report.

The murder case from two days ago was in full investigation, but you didn't have a single clue about what happened. The crime scene was basically spotless, if you count out the amount of blood.

One thing that kept you awake at night was the singular feather found next to the body. It was unusual, and you pestered Yeosang to test it.

No dna was found, it was from an unfamiliar species, and there was nothing tying it to the woman.

Your fellow detectives, as well as Namjoon, told you it was pointless to dwell on it, but you couldn't stop.

The other thing on your mind was the figure that appeared fleetingly in front of you. Yeosang told you it was your lack of sleep that jumbled your mind, but you knew what you saw.

Well, you didn't exactly, but there was something.

"Okay, I'm done. I need to get out of this office before I fall asleep on my desk. Again."

The head detective chuckled, shooing you away.

"Off you go. I need my best employee to be well rested. Lots of bad guys to catch."

"You're funny, you know? Bye now."

Waving to the other officers still in the office, you made your way outside to your car.

With a heavy sigh, you turned on the engine and made your way home. You lived in a small house in the outskirts of town, and you loved it.

There was no noise, no neighbours, no distractions. It was pure heaven for you, but the road towards your house was a little creepy. You had to get past a wooded area, and sometimes the paranoia from your job got to you.

Tonight was one of those nights, where everything seemed suspicious to you. Fortunately, there was no traffic, and you were almost out of the woods when you noticed him.

There, in the middle of the road, stood a man dressed in white. He wasn't moving, no. He was staring straight at your car.

"Come on now, move along." You whispered, tightening your grip on the steering wheel.

The man gave no sign of moving, staying rooted in his spot.

"Oh for the love of... Hey! Move it!" You yelled out of your window, but to no avail. Your car came to a stop, almost too close to the person.

Now you got a better look at him, and he was surprisingly handsome. His hair was blonde, almost white, and his clothes were pristine.

"Are you deaf? You have to get off the street."

The man's expression changed from stoic to amazed in a second. He opened his mouth, and his voice was as angelic as his face.

"You... You can see me? You can really see me?"

"Of course? You're standing in the middle of the road! Everybody can see you!"

He shook his head, quickly approaching your side. You instinctively reached for the gun in your holster, but he only gripped the glass of the window, his smile never faltering.

"I knew you noticed me back then! Oh wow... You really are special."

"What the hell? Okay, either you move or I get out of the car and make you."

At this point you were bluffing a bit, hoping the stranger would just go his way. The situation was getting too weird, even for a crime investigator like you.

As if he realised he was doing something wrong, the man panicked, mouth going slack.

"Oh no. No, no, no."

Sensing his distress, you tried going at him with a softer approach.

"Hey, are you okay?"

"No, no. I gotta go. It was so lovely meeting you finally, and I'm sorry you won't remember me."

Your confused expression made him even more sad.

"What?"

"Goodbye, Y/N."

"Wait, how do you know my-"

In a flash, the man was gone, and you were in a daze. After shaking your head, it was like everything went back to normal.

Funny, you could have sworn you just talked to somebody.

Oh well, maybe the stress was finally getting to you.

"I need a drink. Or maybe six."

.

.

There was this creepy feeling following you the whole next day. As if you were meant to remember something, but you just couldn't. The case you were working on wasn't making it any easier.

"This is starting to become ridiculous." You muttered, sifting through the papers.

"No leads?" San, a fellow detective, asked while passing you a cup of hot coffee.

"None. It's like someone put her there and just vanished."

San sighed, looking over your shoulder at the documents. There was Yeosang's forensic report, which gave you the cause of death, but other than that, nothing.

"The motherfucker is skilled. Maybe he's done this before?" He asked, making you wonder as well.

Suddenly, as if you were possessed, you reached for a pen and found a piece of paper at the bottom of the pile.

There, you circled one word.

"Brother?" San questioned, his eyebrows scrunching up.

"Yeah?" You replied, almost in a daze.

Then, it came to you.

"Her brother! Of course! Their grandfather died recently, and the family business was inherited by her."

"But wasn't he at a hotel or something? We have the receptionist's statement."

You let out a forced laugh, glancing up at San.

"The man is known for bribing people, you don't think he could have done it to that poor man working minimum wage as well?"

"Good thinking. Want to pay him a visit?"

Standing up and gathering your things, you smiled at San.

"Hell yes."

"Let me go get my things."

Before he walked out, he stopped at the doorway.

"Hey, Y/N? How did you know?"

"What?" You asked, confused.

"Well, you just... Went for it? Was it a feeling?"

You stood there, now realizing what happened in the last few minutes.

"I don't... I don't know, to be honest."

San nodded, shrugging his shoulders.

"Oh well... You have killer intuition."

.

.

"I knew you'd get it."

"Did you now?" You chuckled, clinking your glass against Yeosang's.

"Of course! You're the best detective I've ever met! And I'm not biased because you're my friend, I'm just stating the facts."

There were moments in life where you were thankful to have Yeosang as your friend, and this was one of them.

You successfully closed the case after confronting the victim's brother. The receptionist was easy to crack, and everything went smoothly afterwards. There was just one thing bugging you.

"It's a shame we don't know anything about the feather."

"What feather?"

Your hand stopped midway while lifting your drink, and you looked at Yeosang wide-eyed. His expression was the epitome of confusion.

"What do you mean 'what feather'? The one we found, completely unrelated to the case?"

"Y/N, I'm sorry, but there was nothing except for blood. You were there, you know that."

Silence fell over you, and your brain couldn't accept what he was saying. Was he messing with you?

Sensing your unease, he reached over to place your glass back on the table.

"Maybe you've had too much whiskey."

"This is my second glass."

"Yeah, well, maybe you're just too tired. Why don't I take you home now?"

You nodded, seemingly in a daze again. Yeosang led you out the bar and into his car, helping you buckle up. The ride home was quiet, with him trying to take your mind off the last conversation.

"And here we are. Get some sleep, okay? We'll talk tomorrow."

"Yeah... Yeah, I'll do that. Thank you, Sangie."

Without a second thought, you reached over to place a kiss on his cheek, exiting the car afterwards.

The image of the feather flashed in your mind again, and you couldn't stop thinking about it. You didn't even notice yourself unlocking your door and taking off your shoes.

Maybe you'd have been in a daze until you reached your bedroom, if it weren't for the fact that a man was standing in your living room.

"You're home!"

"What the hell?!"

Reaching for your waist, you pulled out your little handgun and pointed it at the stranger. His eyes widened, hands immediately going in the air.

"Hey now, why would you do that? I know you don't remember me, but there's no need to get so violent."

Your hands started shaking. Where have you seen him before? He was so eerily familiar.

That's when you noticed the white feathers scattered around the floor.

The same as the one heavy on your mind.

"Who are you? How did you get inside?" You asked, taking a few steps forward. The man still hasn't moved, but he now put his hands down.

"I'm Hongjoong. You don't know me as well as I know you, but I've been around for some time."

"Okay, Hongjoong. How exactly do you know me?"

He smiled. "Easy, I'm your guardian angel. I mean, I'm an angel, period, but I've come to like you a bit too much."

You gasped. "Are you on drugs? You definitely are, there's no way a sane person would say these things!"

"You don't believe me? Fine, I expected it."

Without another word, Hongjoong turned his back to you and spread out his arms.

That's when a pair of snow white wings sprang from his shoulders, knocking over a lamp on your coffee table.

"See? Don't they look cool?"

There wasn't one single credible explanation for what you were seeing, so you just... Sat down on the floor. Your gun was still clutched tightly in your hands, not yet ready to let your guard down. Hongjoong's eyes widened, a panicked expression taking over.

"Oh heavens! Are you okay? I can help you if you let me."

"N-No, no. Just... Stay where you are."

He surprisingly listened to you, staying rooted in his spot. His wings were still present, the white feathers shining in the dim light of your living room lamp.

"So... Angel?" You asked, knowing how ridiculous it sounded.

"Yep. I'm not really your guardian, but I took it upon myself to watch over you."

"Why is that?"

He sighed, sitting down on the floor a few feet from you.

"Well... I was once present to guide an unfortunate person to heaven. I saw you then, and I don't know... We can sense when people are in trouble, and you seem like a magnet for it. Part of the job, I suppose."

"Tell me about it." You huffed.

"After bumping into you again a second time, I decided to linger around. Why do you think you feel so safe when going home? I calm you down."

Your eyebrows scrunched up, wondering what we meant. It came to you then. Sometimes when you drive home, you feel like someone wrapped a blanket around your shoulders. It's fleeting, but it calms your nerves.

"That's you? I thought I was imagining it."

"All me." Hongjoong smiled, shrugging his shoulders.

"But why are you here? Last time... Wait."

You realized then. "I saw you! On the road! It was you!"

"Yes, it was. I had to erase it from your memory, it's forbidden for angels to show themselves around humans."

"What about now? You're still here, I'm looking at you."

He smiled, albeit a bit sad.

"I know that as well. I thought it wouldn't come to this, but... Once you see my feather, your fate has been sealed."

It's when you realize what he meant that it really hit you.

"I'm going to die, aren't I?"

Hongjoong only nodded. Silence overcame you again.

There was an angel in your house, telling you your death was close. This wasn't the evening you wanted to have, not in the slightest.

"So, how's that going to go? Are you here to, I don't know, help me?" You asked finally, looking straight into his eyes.

"I can't tell you that, but I promise I'll be there. I'm not planning on leaving you hanging. Besides, it will be nice to have a friend to teach you the ropes once you get here. Sorry, that might have been a bit insensitive."

"You think? Holy hell, I can't believe this."

You placed the gun back into your holster, standing up and walking into your kitchen. Hongjoong trailed after you, eager to have your attention.

"It's nice where I'm from, you know? I have a lot of friends, you'll get along just fine. And we've already decided what your job will be. Let me tell you, they don't let just anybody rank this high from the start."

"Will you please stop talking about my death like it's nothing?! I'm trying so hard not to have a breakdown right now, but you're not helping!" You yelled finally, your emotions taking over.

Hongjoong nodded, looking sad again. It kind of made you feel bad. He was clearly here to help you, and yeah it sucked to hear those things from him, but at least you won't be alone.

You knew your job came with a lot of risk, and that you'd end up hurt in action. It never occurred to you that you might... Die.

"I'm sorry, Hongjoong. I know you mean well, but it's a lot to take. I'm basically going to live the rest of however long my life is in fear. You really can't tell me when it will happen?"

He shook his head, taking a seat on a stool by the kitchen island.

"No, I'm not allowed. The only thing I can say... And I'm doing this because I really like you, is that you will die doing what you love, all the while protecting important people in your life. It's just who you are."

Well, that kind of made you a bit more relaxed. At least you know it is work related. That kind of made sense.

"And you'll be there?"

"Of course. I won't let you do this alone. You may not know me that well, yet, but I do know you."

You snorted a laugh, busying yourself with making some tea for the both of you. Do angels even drink tea?

"Oh really? What's my favourite colour?"

"Easy, red. You mostly wear black, but the few pieces you wear out are always red. Your nails are red, when you take the time to paint them."

You huffed. "Okay, that wasn't a tough question. Hmm... What's my least favourite movie and why?"

He stayed silent for a moment, and you thought you won, but he surprised you again.

"Twilight. The second one especially. You watch it when you want to laugh, because you always make fun of the acting. And you find it really cringe. However, you watch it when you feel down. It gives you a reason to laugh."

"Hongjoong..."

You handed him a cup, and when he reached over to take it, your fingers brushed. The touch was brief, but it sent a shock through your whole body. It was like a sting, but a pleasant one. He smiled afterwards, nodding like it confirmed something he thought about.

"What was that?" You whispered, too stunned to speak.

"Something... Magical. I know you felt it, you wouldn't be looking like that if you didn't. But that's not something you have to worry about now. Do you have any more questions? I'll try to answer them if I can."

It dawned on you suddenly.

"Oh God! Yeosang! I don't talk to my parents, I didn't even think about them, but him! He'll be devastated."

"He'll be fine. Believe me. He'll be sad, but somebody will be his shoulder to cry on. Maybe you even know it yourself." A knowing smile formed on his face, and you nodded enthusiastically.

"San? Oh my... Does it take me dying for them to finally confess to each other? A bunch of whimps."

Hongjoong chuckled, and you couldn't help but laugh along with him.

"At least something good will come from it."

He stopped, standing up to approach you.

"Y/N... I'm really sorry for barging in on you like this. It wasn't my intention. I just... You were always so close, but so far away at the same time. Don't hold it against me."

You looked at him, noting how sincere he sounded. It was like it pained him to be away from you, but it didn't make it easier that you had to die soon.

"I... I can't really think right now, I'm still in shock, but... It will be nice to have someone next to me. You know, once I pass. Maybe you're just the thing I needed."

His hand was on the island, and you couldn't help but reach for it again. Your fingers touched, the sparks going up your arm. Neither of you moved, and you just let the feeling sink in.

"It's... Strange. How I don't feel as scared as I thought I would."

"I'm here. I'm here to make it all easier. I will be next to you, as long as you let me."

Your eyes met again, and this time you smiled, the unease gone.

"I think I'll keep you for a while."

.

.

[shepherdsheart]

Forgotten Child

DpxDc

Bruce would admit that he wasn’t near a perfect man. In all truth he was far from it really.

He had made hundreds of mistakes through his life and he had hoped he had learned something from them all but there was one mistake that stood out more than anything else.

The box in his hands had been proof of such, everything in it entailed just how badly he had failed. Failed as a man, failed as a person but most of all how he failed as a father.

It all started a year before he welcomed Dick into his life. It was one of his biggest regrets but also one of his biggest blessings as he stared at the new born baby boy in his arms. Soft blue wrapped around the little boy like tight arms as he held the sleeping baby close.

He had drilled that moment into his memories as he held the soft little bundle. It would be his first and his last memory of the boy in his arms. He knew the moment the pregnancy was announced that he wouldn’t be able to keep the babe. His life as Batman was to dangerous for a baby and as such he had made the decision to hand his baby to someone else.

Nobody but a trusted few would ever know of the young babe, no one would know Batman or Bruce Wayne had a son.

It had taken time and research but he had picked the perfect family. They would take care of his little star, he would be their son and not his. He would grow up safe and protect as Daniel Thomas Marshal.

Or at least he thought so.

Bruce didn’t give up contact with Daniel, each year he would send the boy anonymous gifts for his birthday and the holidays just as the elusive Uncle B. And as the boy grew they often exchanged letters.

His boy was smart, the top of his class and he was ohh so brilliant. He often drew pictures for Bruce where then man would store each with the letters in a box for sage keeping. Things had gone that way for years and Danny and he talked about many things. Bruce talked about life and Danny liked to talk about stars and the things he learned at school.

It had all been going so well till it all fell apart.

Jason had died and Bruce fell apart, losing himself in his grief for his lost child. Somewhere along the line after Jason’s death Bruce had stopped responding to the letters young Danny sent. He couldn’t bear to read them while he grieved Jason and at one point he must have told Alfred to just store them in Daniels letter box in instead of bringing them to him.

Somehow he had forgotten, he had forgotten the letters of messy cursive and doodles of stars and galaxy’s. Stories of school or life in the farm where he was being raised out in Wisconsin.

It was only because of his children that he remembered. A normal day of roughhousing and being shooed away by Alfred to take their antics elsewhere while he cleaned.

The kids had decided to take their games to the halls between there room and Damian and Jason to pick a locked door of a spare room that was never used and always locked. The others would never think to check the room as it was never opened. 

The boys weren’t expecting to find a old but well cared for nursery. The walls a soft blue, the The ceilings dark blue with plastic stars in the patters of constellations. A crib in one corner with space themed decor and a small bed in the middle of the room obviously for when the crib was outgrown.

On the far wall was multiple shelves with a few old toys along with books and many other small items. Then there were the picture frames scattered about the shelves and other furniture in the room. All had one thing in common, a boy with soft black hair and ice blue eyes but each photo the boy was more grown.

At first they thought it was Bruce but the photos were to new and Bruce didn’t have ice blue eyes. The boy was in a picture with his parents, a blond woman with blue eyes and a Black haired man with green eyes. Those weren’t Bruce’s parents so who were they and who was the child that was in each photo.

Before they could snoop any further the door had been opened and a Stern Alfred shooed them away.

It didn’t take long for the boys to question Bruce about the room he had long ago forgotten about. Bruce didn’t say a word as he had rushed over to the room that he had long sense abandoned before he closed himself inside.

There Bruce had cried, he had forgotten one of his children and he cried as he looked at the photos.

He had spent hours in that room before a wooden box to the side on a Dresser caught his attention. He knew exactly what that box contained and he dreaded opening it.

When he found the courage to lift the lid he was greeted by hundreds of letters. A portion opened but most were untouched, never opened to be read.

He’d spend the next few weeks slowly going through the letters. Danny wasn’t sure why he hadn’t responded but the boy wrote that even though he didn’t get a response he hoped the letters were reaching him.

He learned soon after Jason’s death when Danny was 10 that the Marshals had died leaving Danny to the State only to be adopted by a family called the Fentons a year later.

After that Danny’s letters became less detailed and more vague about his life but instead asking questions Bruce would never answer. The boy avoided talking about his home life and manly talked about school and his 2 new friends or he’d ask about Bruce, how he was doing? If he was ok? And so on. Somehow Danny never gave up writing to Bruce.

That was until the last letter, sent over a year ago in handwriting Bruce didn’t recognize. Jasmine, Danny’s adopted sister had written that dated letter over a year ago.

Over a year ago Danny had been killed, killed in an accident in the Fentons Lab. No body left to be buried only the address of an empty grave.



Notes

(Danny is 11 years younger than Dick, 4 years younger than Jason, 2 years younger than Tim, 4 years older than Damian)

Damian - 11

Danny - 15

Tim - 17

Jason - 19

Dick - 26

(Danny is Phantom but when he died he decided he didn’t want to deal with an abusive Jack and Maddie anymore so he continued on as phantom only being Danny with his friends and in the realms when he was safe with Allies)

[gianna-z-xdx]

!Kyle Garrick! x !reader! cw: pure fluff comfort

The rain drummed steadily against the windows, soft and rhythmic, like nature’s lullaby. You were curled up on the couch, a heavy blanket draped over your legs, a half-finished cup of tea growing cold on the table beside you. The storm outside had been brewing since early afternoon, and now, as the sky darkened into a heavy navy, the clouds let loose their full weight.

You didn’t mind the rain. It was soothing in its own way. But what made this moment especially perfect was the man quietly moving around the kitchen — Kyle Garrick, known to most as Gaz. To you, he was just Kyle.

He had insisted on making dinner tonight, shooing you out of the kitchen with a mock sternness and a kiss to your forehead.

"Sit down and relax," he said. "You’ve had a long week. Let me take care of you tonight."

You watched him from the couch, his silhouette cast in warm golden light from the hanging lamps above the stove. He moved with the practiced ease of someone who’d done this a hundred times — chopping, stirring, humming under his breath.

It still surprised you sometimes, how gentle he could be.

You knew Kyle as the fierce, sharp-minded sergeant who could command a battlefield with calm authority. But here, in the quiet of your shared flat, he was softer. He was the man who remembered how you took your tea, who warmed your side of the bed before you got in, who kissed the top of your head when you had a bad day and held you like he’d never let go.

"Smells good," you said softly, hugging a throw pillow to your chest.

He looked up with a grin, a small smudge of sauce on his cheek.

"Don’t get your hopes up too high," he teased. "Could still be a disaster."

"You’ve never made a bad meal in your life."

He chuckled, setting down the wooden spoon and wiping his hands on a dish towel. “That’s because I bribe you with kisses when it’s awful. Keeps your reviews kind.”

"Mm. You’re not wrong."

You tilted your head back against the couch cushions and sighed. Your body ached — not painfully, just tired. Bone-deep tired. But it was the kind of tired that being next to Kyle made easier. Somehow, his presence was its own kind of balm. You didn’t need to speak all the time. Just being close to him was enough.

“Alright,” he said a few minutes later, carrying over two plates. “Dinner’s served.”

He settled next to you, his thigh warm against yours. The meal was simple — creamy pasta with grilled vegetables and chicken — but it tasted like something out of a dream. Rich, comforting, and full of flavor.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, eating slowly, grateful.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For all of this.”

Kyle turned his head slightly, brushing a kiss against your temple.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “I want to do this for you.”

You set your plate aside and shifted, curling into his side. His arm moved instinctively, pulling you closer until your head rested against his chest. The soft cotton of his t-shirt was warm against your cheek, and you could hear the steady beat of his heart.

Safe. That’s how he made you feel.

"You ever think about what it would be like if we just… disappeared for a while?" you asked after a long pause. "No missions. No danger. Just… us. Somewhere quiet. Maybe a little house by the sea."

His hand stroked your arm gently, thoughtful.

"Yeah," he said softly. "I think about it more than I probably should."

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed as you pictured it.

"You’d fish every morning. I’d make us breakfast. We’d have a garden."

"A big bed with too many pillows," he added, voice low and fond. "And a dog. Something big and lazy. Sleeps by the fire."

"A mastiff," you said immediately, and he laughed.

"Of course you’d pick the biggest dog."

"I need someone to keep up with you, Sergeant."

He pulled you tighter, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I’d like that,” he murmured. “Someday. When all this is over.”

You didn’t reply right away, just listened to the sound of the rain and the quiet beating of his heart beneath your ear. For a long time, there was only silence — but it wasn’t empty. It was full of every unspoken feeling that passed between you and Kyle like invisible threads, tying you to one another.

After a while, you whispered, “Promise me we’ll make it there. That we’ll get our little house by the sea.”

He was quiet for a moment, and then he said, with absolute certainty, “I promise.”

And you believed him.

Because Kyle Garrick had never broken a promise to you before. Not when he said he’d come home. Not when he said he’d call. Not when he said he loved you.

The rain kept falling, the night deepening, but in that small living room, on that overstuffed couch wrapped in each other’s warmth, the world felt far away.

And for once — in a life full of danger, shadows, and uncertainty — you felt like everything was going to be okay.

Because Kyle was here.

And he always would be.

holy crackers, two in one day?! lucky you😌 off topic i made this for my friends becuse they asked for gaz + pure fluff

[goodlucktai]

hold the world to its best (4/?)

rottmnt word count: 2k pairing: raph & OC, raph & leo title borrowed from light by sleeping at last part of the archer au

(prev) (next)

x

April comes through for them, as always, with some of her younger cousin’s old baby clothes. 

All of the turtles were much smaller than human kids in their earlier years. Splinter described them as small enough to fit in his palm even after their mutation. Once they each hit their initial growth spurts, they seemed to grow twice as fast to make up for their slow start, but Gio isn’t quite there yet. He’s still, as Mikey puts it, all of two apples tall. 

So the toddler hoodie that April pulls over his head immediately falls past his knees, and she has to roll up the sleeves that trail over his hands, and it’s adorable. So many pictures. Gio might never forgive them for this when he’s himself again. 

Gio loves the big pocket in the middle. It’s where his ladybug lives, and where Leo constantly sneaks in a treat or two with the sleight of hand that Gio is endlessly impressed by. It’s also a convenient place to hide his hands when he gets nervous, which is still more often than Raph would like. 

But the kid is coming out of his shell more and more, trailing along behind his brothers like a duckling that got slightly bolder every time it wasn’t shooed away. He reminds Raph of a much younger Leo, who wanted to be a part of everything all the time and hated to be excluded in any way for any reason. 

Somewhere along the line, Raph got the idea that Leo outgrew that, but it turns out he never really did. He just got better at acting like nothing his brothers did could ever bother him, and being alone was super enjoyable, actually. Restful, even. 

Gio at this age isn’t fooling anybody, wearing his heart on his sleeve for everyone to see. And what his heart told them loud and clear was that he wanted to be wherever his brothers were, doing whatever they were doing. Unlike when they were all kids together, when it was sometimes annoying to have a baby brother tagging along and demanding to be involved in everything Raph ever did, Gio couldn’t bother them if he tried. 

If anything, they’re probably more annoying than he is. No child anywhere has taken more selfies with their overbearing big siblings than Giorgio Hamato, and definitely couldn’t have been as good-tempered about it even if they had. 

The first time he dared to reach up and tug on the hem of Raph’s shirt, signing a hopeful ‘help?’ when he had Raph’s attention—wanting to be included in the table Raph was setting for lunch, apparently, even though it was barely enough job for one turtle, let alone one and a half—Raph reached down and scooped him right up, passing every plate and cup and piece of silverware to Gio for him to place instead. 

There was a space for him here already, they didn’t have to make one. 

Mikey currently has custody of Gio in the kitchen, supervising as the little spotted turtle presses cookie cutters into an absurd amount of chocolate chip dough rolled out to perfect even flatness. Mikey sneaks him a bite every so often like it’s some big secret, like it isn’t obvious they’re in there eating as much of the cookie dough as they’re cutting out, but Gio loves every second of the attention and soaks it up like a sun-starved plant. 

When the cookies are in the oven and Gio has been gently dusted free of flour and held up to the kitchen sink so he could wash his hands, Leo appears like clockwork.

“Hey, Georgie-Porgie,” he says. “You’ve been a busy little bee today. Do you have a minute to spare for your favorite second-youngest brother?” 

It’s as good as a rhetorical question, because Gio doesn’t have to fully understand what Leo is saying to simply nod along with him. Mikey is less than graceful about surrendering the kid, because he’s never had a little brother to carry around before and he’s loving every second of it, but Leo and Gio don’t go far. 

Leo sits them at the table, himself in the chair and Gio on the tabletop. His first order of business is poking one of the spots on Gio’s cheek because it always makes him smile. Then he pulls a small tube from his pocket, unscrewing the cap.

“This is a type of medicine,” he says, letting Gio hold it. “It’s a gel that we put on scars—on ouches when they leave a mark on us. Raphie—” Leo casts around for him, and waves him over. Raph gets up from where he and Donnie were both pretending not to watch from the sofa and parks himself in the chair next to Leo’s instead, and Leo says, “Raphie has some, too. On his eye, and his shoulder.” 

Gio’s dark eyes follow where Leo points. He doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t put the tube down to sign anything. As an afterthought, Leo scoots his chair back from the table and rolls up the left leg of his joggers, revealing the vivid scarring around his knee. 

Raph has figured out where this is going. Gio usually keeps his hands closed into fists or tucked out of sight completely, but practicing sign language made it impossible to keep that up, and Raph saw what must have Leo so disquieted; the pale scars on Gio’s gray-green palms that shouldn’t be there. 

“See?” Leo says, and waits for Gio’s nod. “Has anyone put medicine on your hands before?” This time Gio shakes his head. Leo, who became a criminally good actor when no one was looking, doesn’t let his expression change at all. “Can we try it out this once? If you don’t like it, we’ll stop.” 

Donnie has stopped typing on his laptop, and Mikey has stopped wiping down the kitchen counters. Raph watches Gio come to a decision none of the rest of them are privy to and then hold out his little hands, palms up, eyes down. 

For such a small gesture, it feels impossibly daring. It feels like a trust too big for any one person to hold. It probably feels to Leo the way Gio resting his head on Raph’s shoulder that first night had felt to him. 

But Leo, who knows a thing or two about being brave when brave is the last thing you feel, scoops those offered hands up and kisses each tiny palm with a silly mwah! sound. It wasn’t what Gio was expecting and surprises him into a shy smile. 

Leo doesn’t make a big deal out of it. He squeezes some ointment out briskly and massages it into Gio’s scars with his thumbs, explaining what he’s doing as he goes. His tone has been calm and breezy since they sat down at the table together, and Gio is following his cue. Gio isn’t going to get upset if no one else is. 

He still takes his hands away as soon they’re finished, but not as quickly as he might have a day ago. 

“You’re a much better patient than anyone else in this family,” Leo tells Gio, so serious it loops back around into playful. “Donnie would have taken a bite at me by now.”

“Perhaps,” Donnie intones flatly from the living room. 

“That’s why you get a treat, Jorgito,” Leo goes on, lifting Gio down from the table before reaching into his own pocket for a frankly ridiculous handful of wrapped chocolate truffles. He pokes them into Gio’s hoodie pouch one by one while Gio watches with starry eyes. “Don’t share any with Dondon, you earned these fair and square. But go make him open all of them for you. Doctor’s orders!” 

Gio takes off at a run, and the evil eye Donnie is giving Leo dissolves into his usual neutral expression by the time Gio has clambered gracelessly up onto the sofa beside him, signing ‘candy’ and ‘please’ like the earnest little angel he is. 

Leo makes tracks back to the infirmary, because if he’s going to be upset about something it’s going to happen where no one else can see. 

“He better not eat more than three of those before dinner, Dee! I know where you sleep!” Mikey singsongs in a bright tone that manages to sound like a direct threat of bodily harm, swinging around the kitchen island to plop into the chair Leo vacated. “That spell he’s under is so strange,” Mikey goes on in a quieter tone. “It turned him back into a baby, but he kept all his scars from his older years?”

Raph can follow that logic, because it’s the only thing that makes sense, right? But Raph had a front-row seat to Leo’s little pop-up clinic, and he had watched Leo rub a careful thumb over a spot on Gio’s arm that they had had to stitch up after a fight with the Foot Clan three months ago. It left a small scar that Leo had treated regularly with the same tube of gel sitting on the table in front of him now. 

That scar on Gio’s arm isn’t there anymore.

And Raph abruptly understands why little Gio hides his hands when he gets nervous. It’s the first thing he always does. He thinks of his older brother, who rarely leaves the lair without his gloves, who still crosses his arms when tensions are high, as if he never fully outgrew that particular knee-jerk reaction that was taught to him when he was very small.

It’s an understanding he’s poorly equipped for. What does he do with it? That sweet little boy in the next room isn’t really here. It isn’t actually possible to rescue him from whoever left those angry, raised marks on his hands, or do anything that will make any sort of difference. In a few days, he’ll be himself again, their Gio, strong and steady and unflinching in face of monsters and the actual apocalypse, and he won’t remember anything Raph tells him today, even if Raph managed to think of the right thing to say. 

“God dammit,” he mutters to himself at the table.

“Swear jar,” Donnie and Mikey chime instantly. 

Raph literally can’t deal with them at the moment. He stands up and announces that he’s taking a nap before dinner, and unless your name starts with a G, don’t bother him. Gio blinks at Raph, and then up at Donnie, and signs ‘C’. Donnie corrects his handshape, saying, “No, ‘G’. He means you. You’re the favorite. You have unimaginable power.”

Leo slips into Raph’s bedroom moments after Raph has buried himself beneath his weighted blanket. He sits on the edge of the mattress, the springs dipping slightly beneath his insubstantial weight. How someone as big and bright as a supernova can manage to seem so small at times is one of the universe’s worst jokes. 

Anxiety thrums in the back of Raph’s mind, never really going away, only making itself small and quiet when Raph manages to distract himself with other things. Now it’s spilling out of the box he put it in, stretching to fill more than its fair share of the space. 

Raphael was a child at the same time Giorgio was. It wasn’t Raph’s responsibility to protect him. He didn’t even know Gio existed back then, and they were an entire dimension apart. So why does it still feel like Raph failed him?

“I’m sorry,” Leo finally says. “I should have kept it to myself.” 

“No you shouldn’t have,” Raph replies immediately, because the root of ninety-percent of Leo’s issues is that he keeps them all to himself. One of these days Raph is going to convince him that there will never be a problem that belongs to his little brothers that doesn’t also belong to Raph. It won’t be today, but one day. “I just—I don’t know if it’s better or worse that I don’t know exactly what happened to him. And he’s never going to tell us, is he?”

Leo taps his fist against Raph’s shell, gathering his thoughts. Out of the entire family, he knows Gio best, if only because of all the late nights they sit up together, talking until night terrors are made small, until the dragging weight of insomnia isn’t quite so bruising. 

“I think living through it once was enough,” he says. “You know?”

Raph does know. He’s never really talked about the Krang parasite that dug into his head, about what it wanted him to do to the people he loved most in the world. About what he almost did to the brother sitting next to him right now. About the fragile shape of Leo’s neck in a stranglehold and the knowledge he lives with now of how easy it would be to snap it in his hand.

The thought of speaking any of those thoughts out loud, of possibly speaking something horrible into existence, makes Raph’s stomach turn sharply. He buries his face in his pillow and breathes in for five and out for five. He does it again, hearing Leo’s taps on his shell keep the count with him. 

Put this way, he understands why Gio would never say a word. Living through it once was more than enough. 

“I just wish none of it had happened,” Raph says. It sounds childish and he instantly feels stupid for saying it. But Leo curls up a bit, sinking down until his head comes to a rest on Raph’s shoulder.

“Me, too,” he says quietly. It takes the sting out of Raph’s self-recrimination immediately, because nothing Leo wishes for could ever be stupid. 

He doesn’t know how long they sit there together for, but at some point the sound of his little brother’s steady breathing beside him, and the oscillating fan ticking back and forth in the corner, and the indistinct laughter from the living room pool together and lull him into a dreamless sleep. 

When he wakes up, Raph feels as if he’d been hit by a truck and also dragged behind it for a couple of miles, groggy and disoriented. But the anxiety is back to its usual low simmer instead of the bubbling, boiling over state it was in earlier. Leo’s spot on the bed is empty, and Mikey is talking to someone right outside the bedroom door. 

He has about two seconds to establish these facts before his door is slammed open and Michelangelo bellows, “RAPHIE! WAKEY-WAKEY!” 

Oh my god I’m going to have to kill him, Raph thinks grimly, refusing to lift his face from his pillow. If he doesn’t react, maybe they’ll go away. Historically, it has never been true, but there’s a first time for everything.  

“Before you shoot the messenger,” Mikey goes on sweetly, knowing exactly where the line is that he can’t cross—a line that, for him, admittedly stretches out farther than anyone else’s but still has its limits, “I have a special delivery.”

Raph peeks out with one eye to find Mikey holding Gio out to him at full arms’ length. Gio is dangling in his grip agreeably, but now that Raph is awake and looking at him, he starts to squirm insistently, pawing at the hands holding him up, trying to get to Raph. 

It works better than a bomb going off in waking Raph the rest of the way up. He pushes himself upright on one arm and reaches out for the kid with the other, cradling Gio against his chest once he has him.

“A Georgie? Just for me? Exactly what I always wanted,” he says playfully, nuzzling the top of that spotted head and earning a sound halfway between a toddler’s giggle and a turtle’s pleased trill. He looks up at Mikey, lingering in the doorway with a cheesy grin on his face, and adds through gritted teeth, “Does your name start with a ‘G’?”

“Food in ten!” the brat says cheerfully, before shooting off without bothering to close the door behind him. 

“Ugh,” Raph says, letting his head fall back onto his pillow. He’s careful not to squish Gio under his plastron, the baby turtle tucked safely under his arm instead and seemingly content with the state of things. He mirrors Raph, folding his arms and tucking his chin in them, all wide eyes and white spots and sweet little face. 

It’s not the worst way to be woken up, Raph admits to himself grudgingly. 

And then Gio whispers, “Hi, Raphie.”

His voice is small and soft, almost inaudible over the sound of the fan. Raph picks his head up fast and stares down at him, uncertain if he actually heard that, or if part of his brain is still asleep and just making stuff up. 

Gio gazes back. He’s waiting to see what Raph will do, but he doesn’t look afraid. He looks like he knows how safe he is. Tiny and trusting, willing to reach out his hands again even though he’d been hurt before. 

We don’t deserve you, Raph thinks, but his older brother would hate to know Raph thought that even once. We’re lucky to have you, he thinks next, which his older brother still wouldn’t like, but would have to live with, because it’s true. 

“Hi, Georgie,” Raph whispers back.